Free Nature's Shift by Brian Stableford Page B

sabbatical leave, and provide immediate cover for all my teaching obligations. Given that one normally has to apply for sabbatical leave a year in advance, the dean of the faculty could have protested, but he didn’t raise a murmur. I suspected, but didn’t dare ask, that he’d already been contacted by the Hive, which had let him know that Rosalind would be greatly obliged if no obstacles appeared in my path, and that anything necessary to clear potential obstacles would be made available on request.
    There is no one in the world more tractable than a university dean who has just been assured that any and all expenses will be met without question.
    Since Rowland had raised the possibility spontaneously, I hesitated briefly over the matter of taking a lab assistant with me. Given that I really did intend to do some significant research while I was in a uniquely useful environment, an extra pair of hands would have been very useful, and I would undoubtedly have had my pick of the departmental research students had I cared to exploit that resource. No aspiring doctoral candidate would turn down the chance of a field trip to Rowland Usher’s Orinoco redoubt, even if it delayed their thesis submission; as an item on a CV, it would be job-application gold. Indeed, even after I had decided to go alone, as soon as the news of my imminent departure for Venezuela got around, explicit requests were made that were practically pleas, and I felt bad about turning them down—and not because at least one of them had an implicit offer of sexual favors thrown into the attempted bargain as a makeweight.
    I had to keep reminding myself that my primary purpose in making the trip was to make sure that Rowland was safe and sane, and that he would long remain so. I owed it to him not to clutter up the mission with too many potential distractions. Besides which, Rosalind might not have approved.
    Inevitably, once I’d called Rowland to give him the provisional details of my itinerary, and had started packing for my departure, Rosalind called.
    â€œThank you, Peter,” she said. “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”
    I could have told her that I was doing it for Rowland, not for her, but it would have been dreadfully impolite, and perhaps not entirely honest. In reality, I was doing it for myself. What I said instead was: “I’m not going to be able to furnish you with full and regular reports from the Orinoco delta. If Rowland doesn’t want me to call, I won’t.”
    â€œI know that,” she said. “I trust you to do everything possible to make sure that he’s all right.”
    â€œYou knew perfectly well that he was alive, when you talked to me in Eden, didn’t you?” I said, to make sure that she didn’t get off too lightly. “You must have some kind of spy-eye in the vicinity of his redoubt, if not actually inside.”
    â€œI knew that he was alive,” she confirmed. “I’m sorry if I accidentally implied that there was a possibility that he wasn’t.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t happen to know what the secret is that he’s so determined to keep under wraps until he’s ready to whip the curtain away, would you?”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” she said. “Nor am I expecting you to tell me what it is, once he’s confided it to you. I just want to know that he’s safe and sane—and I’m convinced that a few weeks and months in your company will increase the probability of his remaining safe and sane considerably.”
    I figured that I had built up a considerable balance of moral credit by now, and that Rosalind was as well-disposed to me at that moment as she’d ever been, or ever would be, so I screwed up my courage and asked the question.
    â€œWhy did Magdalen kill herself?” I asked, coming straight out with it because there as no way of approaching it subtly—although I didn’t