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hand extended and seized Curt by the throat.
***
CHAPTER FIVE
"The Collection"
Vaughan Beadles beamed at his students on the last day of the semester. The finals were over, the grades issued, the i's dotted and the t's crossed. They were a bright, resourceful bunch destined to do great things. Some in anthropology, which he taught, and some in completely unrelated fields. At six foot one with wavy dark hair, Beadles did not resemble a stereotypical university professor. More like a runner, or a boxer. He wore a wine and green Hawaiian shirt over creased Dockers and the tan of an outdoorsman.
"Why did the Mayans disappear? Basic sanitation, or the lack thereof. That's my guess."
Rob Whitfield, one of his best students, raised his hand. Beadles recognized the bookish young man in wire-rimmed glasses. "Rob?"
"What about the possibility they were conquered and absorbed into a more warlike culture, like the Toltecs?"
"If you can prove that, you'll be halfway to your Phd. And on that note, I wish you all success with your finals and I'll see you next semester."
The 126 students in Emory Lecture Hall gave him a standing ovation. Beadles was an extrovert and easy to like. He invited favorite students to go biking with him on weekends on the many bike trails in and around Creighton University, in the heart of sylvan Creighton, IL. CU was a private liberal arts school with outstanding anthropology and engineering schools.
A half dozen students gathered at the foot of the stage to speak with Beadles including two co-eds who might arouse suspicion in a less than trusting wife. Like Betty. Betty was a bombshell and she knew it. The whole faculty knew it. A gorgeous wife could be an asset or a detriment in academia depending on the character of one's colleagues. Thus far Betty had been an asset.
Beadles chatted with one of the co-eds, a brunette stunner from Wyoming. She left no doubt about her availability. Beadles waved his wedding ring in her face until she got the hint.
Ten minutes later only Whitfield remained.
"What's up, Rob?" Beadles said.
"Hey Professor, can I take a look at the collection?"
Beadles swung his backpack over his shoulder and headed up the aisle. "What collection?"
Whitfield scampered after. "Come on, Professor! Everybody knows you've taken possession of the Lost Tribe collection! There was an article in National Geo about it."
"'The Great Lost Azuma Collection.' It was never lost. Mr. Hayes knew about the collection since he was six years old. Kept it secret his whole life, a family tradition, I gather. The only reason he turned it over to Creighton was because his granddaughter came here on a basketball scholarship. She's a senior now."
"Yeah. Roberta Hayes. She's phenomenal. I've seen her play."
"Bright girl. I gave her an 'A' last year."
"Wow. You know what that means, Prof? It means you're the reason that rancher chose Creighton!"
They had left the Emory Building and walked across the quad, criss-crossed with pathways and students, shaded by centuries old oak and elm. They headed diagonally across the quad toward Merrill Hall where the collection was kept under lock and key.
The University had scheduled a press conference for next Friday, one week from today, to announce the acquisition. Beadles would formally take charge. Six years ago Beadles had written In the Footprints of Ghosts , an inquiry into the existence of a heretofore unknown tribe of the Anaszi, a loose configuration encompassing numerous Indians who roamed the Southwest prior to the Navajo and Hopi. It had been a critical and popular success and had unleashed an undertow of fear and loathing among his colleagues that flowed to this day.
Beadles recalled Sayres' Law, "Academic politics is the most vicious and bitter because the stakes are so low."
Particularly apt re: Head of Anthropology Herr Professor Joel Liggett with whom Beadles was expected to celebrate tomorrow night.
Merrill Hall was a four story red brick Victorian
***
CHAPTER FIVE
"The Collection"
Vaughan Beadles beamed at his students on the last day of the semester. The finals were over, the grades issued, the i's dotted and the t's crossed. They were a bright, resourceful bunch destined to do great things. Some in anthropology, which he taught, and some in completely unrelated fields. At six foot one with wavy dark hair, Beadles did not resemble a stereotypical university professor. More like a runner, or a boxer. He wore a wine and green Hawaiian shirt over creased Dockers and the tan of an outdoorsman.
"Why did the Mayans disappear? Basic sanitation, or the lack thereof. That's my guess."
Rob Whitfield, one of his best students, raised his hand. Beadles recognized the bookish young man in wire-rimmed glasses. "Rob?"
"What about the possibility they were conquered and absorbed into a more warlike culture, like the Toltecs?"
"If you can prove that, you'll be halfway to your Phd. And on that note, I wish you all success with your finals and I'll see you next semester."
The 126 students in Emory Lecture Hall gave him a standing ovation. Beadles was an extrovert and easy to like. He invited favorite students to go biking with him on weekends on the many bike trails in and around Creighton University, in the heart of sylvan Creighton, IL. CU was a private liberal arts school with outstanding anthropology and engineering schools.
A half dozen students gathered at the foot of the stage to speak with Beadles including two co-eds who might arouse suspicion in a less than trusting wife. Like Betty. Betty was a bombshell and she knew it. The whole faculty knew it. A gorgeous wife could be an asset or a detriment in academia depending on the character of one's colleagues. Thus far Betty had been an asset.
Beadles chatted with one of the co-eds, a brunette stunner from Wyoming. She left no doubt about her availability. Beadles waved his wedding ring in her face until she got the hint.
Ten minutes later only Whitfield remained.
"What's up, Rob?" Beadles said.
"Hey Professor, can I take a look at the collection?"
Beadles swung his backpack over his shoulder and headed up the aisle. "What collection?"
Whitfield scampered after. "Come on, Professor! Everybody knows you've taken possession of the Lost Tribe collection! There was an article in National Geo about it."
"'The Great Lost Azuma Collection.' It was never lost. Mr. Hayes knew about the collection since he was six years old. Kept it secret his whole life, a family tradition, I gather. The only reason he turned it over to Creighton was because his granddaughter came here on a basketball scholarship. She's a senior now."
"Yeah. Roberta Hayes. She's phenomenal. I've seen her play."
"Bright girl. I gave her an 'A' last year."
"Wow. You know what that means, Prof? It means you're the reason that rancher chose Creighton!"
They had left the Emory Building and walked across the quad, criss-crossed with pathways and students, shaded by centuries old oak and elm. They headed diagonally across the quad toward Merrill Hall where the collection was kept under lock and key.
The University had scheduled a press conference for next Friday, one week from today, to announce the acquisition. Beadles would formally take charge. Six years ago Beadles had written In the Footprints of Ghosts , an inquiry into the existence of a heretofore unknown tribe of the Anaszi, a loose configuration encompassing numerous Indians who roamed the Southwest prior to the Navajo and Hopi. It had been a critical and popular success and had unleashed an undertow of fear and loathing among his colleagues that flowed to this day.
Beadles recalled Sayres' Law, "Academic politics is the most vicious and bitter because the stakes are so low."
Particularly apt re: Head of Anthropology Herr Professor Joel Liggett with whom Beadles was expected to celebrate tomorrow night.
Merrill Hall was a four story red brick Victorian
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