…A Dangerous Thing by Bill Crider Read Free Book Online

abled."   That was it.
    Because of the steps outside the building, it would be next to impossible for a person in, say, a wheelchair to get inside.   If the person did get inside, the absence of an elevator meant that he (or she) would never be able to get above the first floor under his (or her) own power.
    Burns had solved the problem on previous occasions in two different ways.   One girl on crutches had been carried to the third floor by two football players, one of them carrying her from the first floor to the second, where the other took over and carried her the rest of the way.   She hadn't weighed much, and Burns had convinced the football players that it was a good way to stay in shape during the off season.
    For wheelchair students, Burns had simply taught the required classes in the math building, which, being much newer, was equipped with ramps and elevators and was accessible to everyone.
    Now Dr. Partridge wanted to make Main equally accessible.   Rumor (and Burns believed this one) had it that Franklin Miller had turned ghostly pale when told the cost of an elevator.   It could not be installed in the proposed shaft, which would have eliminated both Burns's office and the History lounge.   It would have to be installed on the outside of the building.   And no one was sure the outside would hold up to the stress that an elevator would place on it.   The entire building would somehow have to be reinforced.   So far the plan to build an elevator had therefore been stalled in Miller's office, though that would probably not be the end of things if Dr. Partridge had her way.
    Burns stood at the top of the stair until he caught his breath and then went to his office.   There was no use talking to Holt now.   It was nearly time for Holt's class to begin.   The talk could wait until later.   It was Tuesday, and since Burns and Holt both had evening classes, they could talk at four-thirty.
    Burns could spend the time until then grading his developmental papers.   It wasn't a job he expected to enjoy.
     
    . . . and then Ill play basketball for like the rockets or
    bulls make a buncha money then maybe make movies or be on
    tv , like a lot of ballplayers they go on tv and make money
    when they retire and get put up on a pedal-stool by there
    fans that's why Im am in radio and tv so Ill have a trade
    when I get out of sports except that if Im am in radio and
    tv I wont reely be out of sports for all intensive purposes
    but . . . .
     
    Burns put the paper down, laid his red pen down on top of it, and rubbed his eyes.   If you looked at it in a certain way there was an almost Joycean quality to "put up on a pedal-stool" and "for all intensive purposes."   It was too bad he couldn't look at it that way.
    He looked up at the ceiling instead.   The acoustical tiles were still stained darkly with God knows what.   Pigeon shit, for one thing.   Probably dead pigeons, as well, considering the campaign to poison them that had been initiated in the fall semester.   Mal Tomlin had sworn that no one would come to Burns's rescue if the ceiling ever fell in on him.
    Burns looked down at the papers again and considered picking up his pen.   Then he looked at his watch.
    Twenty minutes until five.   Time to talk to Holt.   He didn't look forward to that, but anything would be better at the moment than reading more papers.  
    Burns left his own office and ran the maze of other offices and small classrooms that composed the front part of the third floor.   There was no one there at that hour.   Clem Nelson and Miss Darling had long since gone home, and the three virtually anonymous men known to all as Larry, Darryl, and Darryl were gone as well.   They came to campus, taught their classes, kept their office hours and disappeared.   Some of the other faculty members complained that the three didn't carry their share of the load, but Burns liked them.   At least they didn't cause him any trouble.
    Holt's office