Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005

Professor Smith snapped his fingers as he passed my desk.

“You there,” he said.

And good morning to you, too, Mr. Man, I thought as I put down my cup of coffee and followed him. He paused inside his office door and tugged his fingers through a snarl in his beard as he waited for me to seat myself at his computer. As with all the clerks who’d ever been employed by the professor, my work was done exclusively on his computer. I typed as he dictated. He read over my shoulder as I typed. That way, he’d once told me, I wouldn’t ever be tempted to change what he’d said.

“Today’s date. A memo to the dean. Regarding the pulsed Teflon plasma thruster.”

I didn’t start typing. The monitor’s desktop was a cluttery mess, strewn with dozens of tiny icons and several open applications, so I sat frozen, apparently confused and intimidated. The professor muttered “Stupid woman,” reached past me, moved his fingertips over the luminous red mouse, and opened a word-processing application. Then he dictated the announcement that I’d spent four months waiting for and described the breakthrough that I’d anticipated for weeks. Phase One of his research was complete. The virtual system worked flawlessly. The prototype could now be built.

Professor Smith told the dean that representatives from the government would soon be on campus to renew his funding. In the high six-figure range. Then he added a variation on the plea that went into every memo to the dean. Clearly, his research now merited more space. Expanding into the adjacent laboratory would be efficient, cost-effective, and something the Department of Defense would applaud. Certainly Professor Chan could be relocated to a smaller laboratory in the basement.

The dean’s reply came back immediately and electronically.

“Congratulations. No.”

Professor Smith sulked and raged, his triumph ruined by frustrated lust. I scurried from the office and celebrated by buying a twin pack of creme-filled cakes from the vending machine in the stairwell. My work was almost done.

On Tuesday, after the professor left for lunch, I copied his notes, calculations, and diagrams onto the laptop computer I carried in my faded tapestry purse. That night, from a coffeehouse that sold latte breve, chocolate eclairs, and Internet access, I sent the data to my superiors. There was vast profit to be made selling compact satellites equipped with low-power propulsion systems — the U. S. military would probably be one of our best customers. Thousands of miles away in my country, our best engineers and physicists were standing by. Our production plants were ready to go.

On Wednesday evening, after receiving confirmation that my transmitted data had been reviewed and was deemed complete, I went back to campus. I lingered in the shadows beneath a towering oak watching researchers leave the Goddard Aerospace Engineering Building. Finally, near midnight, I saw the tall, round-backed researcher I’d been waiting for. As usual, Professor Smith left the building without a briefcase. No paper for him. All of his research was on his computer and in his head.