Vulgar Boatman by William G. Tapply Read Free Book Online Page B

hostile?”
    “I’m trying to be.”
    It was my turn to smile. “I don’t do that much trial work.”
    “It shows.” She stood up. “Well, come on. Let’s find Gil Speer.”
    Ingrid Larsen and I followed several long corridors to the far end of the building before we arrived at the computer wing. Whereas the interior of the main part of the building featured gray cinder block and beige tile, the big computer room gleamed with chrome and glass and oak paneling. A perfect reflection of contemporary educational priorities.
    A computer-generated sign on the door curtly instructed all comers to “Keep the Door Shut.” When Ingrid and I went in, I knew why. The temperature was at least five degrees cooler and twenty points drier in that room than in the rest of the school. In New England public schools, only computer types enjoy the benefits of air-conditioning. For the comfort of the machines, not the people.
    The main room was about four times the size of an ordinary classroom. Glass walls partitioned off several smaller adjacent rooms. There was a row of carrels along one wall. An enormous mainframe computer dominated one end of the room. And everywhere there were chrome desks with terminals, monitors, disk drives, and printers. The air in the room seemed alive. I was aware of an almost inaudible electronic buzz, the energy of all that machinery crackling in my brain.
    Ingrid Larsen touched my elbow and pointed across the room to a young man who was bending over the shoulder of a girl working at one of the terminals.
    “That’s Gil Speer,” she said. “The one indispensable man in this school system. He put all this together. Wrote the grant proposals, handled the bids, and designed all the programs. He also created the computer curriculum. All the work of the school is done here. Records are stored here. Student grades, attendance, transcripts, payroll, budgets, the works. Gil can make all these machines jump through hoops. He’s also a brilliant teacher.”
    Speer was singularly unimpressive to look at: short and pear-shaped, with thin, sandy hair retreating from his pink forehead. I guessed he was still in his twenties. Steel-framed half-glasses were perched low on his nose. He was wearing blue jeans and a dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. Computer geniuses evidently dressed by their own code.
    Ingrid led me over to Speer. He glanced at us, said, “Oh, hi,” and bent back to the girl he was helping.
    “Okay, see, at line seventeen. Now, in BASIC it’s one thing, but you’re using FORTRAN, so—”
    The girl looked up at him. Her smile dazzled. “I get it. I do. Don’t tell me anything else.”
    Speer patted her shoulder. “I’ll make a first-rate hacker out of you yet, Christie.”
    “I’m getting there, huh?” she said.
    “You’re getting there, kid.”
    Speer straightened up and turned to us. “What’s up?”
    “This is Mr. Coyne,” said Ingrid. “He’s interested in talking with you about Buddy Baron.”
    Speer squinted at me. “How come?”
    “Can we go someplace private?” I said.
    Speer appealed to Ingrid. “Jeez, can’t this wait?” He waved his hand around the room at the flickering monitors and the students hunched over them. “Really, Ingrid,” he said. “We’ve got about fifty things going on here.”
    “I’d appreciate it, Gil. It shouldn’t take long.”
    He shrugged. “You’re the boss.” He went over to a boy who was watching a printer clack out a long strip of paper and spoke to him. The boy listened intently, then nodded. Speer came back to us. “I put Allen in charge. He’s very advanced. Okay, Mr.—what was it?”
    “Coyne,” I said.
    “Well, okay. Come on in here.”
    I turned to Ingrid. “Thanks,” I said.
    “I’ve got to get back to my office,” she said. “Why don’t you drop in on your way out?”
    “I will if I can find my way back,” I said.
    She smiled, waved her hand, and left. Speer led me into a small