Adrian Fielding looked around the Executive Dean’s office. The signs might be quite subtle but if one knew what to look for it was clear that it was tastefully decorated to demonstrate authority. The bookcase, lined with examples of the university’s publications and reference books, was a deep mahogany. The large desk supported a computer, a pair of neatly stacked in and out trays and some print outs. Major John Willis, senior staff member in charge of university discipline, had ensured the leather covered chairs in front of the desk were discretely lower than his own so visitors would find themselves at the subtle disadvantage of looking up at him.
One day, Fielding thought, one day. But for the moment, he had to rely on others in authority. “If it were just the fact that he struck me, it wouldn’t matter so much, but there’s a principle at stake here. This is a precedent for anyone on campus to assault people. And if he’d hit me an inch further back it would have shattered my ear drum.”
“Adrian, take this in context. Students get into fights. I get people with bloody noses and black eyes every week and I have two options. I can bring them in here – both of them, usually – and give them a good talking to or I can hand things over to the police. The university doesn’t do that lightly. It almost always results in a story in the Echo and part of my job is to prevent that kind of story.” The Dean paused. “You weren’t injured, he didn’t draw blood and you aren’t bruised. You hadn’t been drinking, had you?”
“Of course not. I told you, it was lunch time.”
“So here we have a situation in which two junior members of staff come to blows. How do you think that would look in the papers?”
Fielding walked over to the window. “I never came to blows. I told you, I was just standing in the canteen when he came up and struck me. In front of a room full of witnesses. You can’t imagine how embarrassing it was. Everyone was laughing.”
“And imagine the embarrassment – for you and all of us – if this story were to be published.” Willis walked over and stood next to the younger man. “Least said, soonest mended, old chap. That’s what I think.”
“But he can’t just get away with it. I’ve a right to expect you to stand by me. Something has to be done. If the university won’t discipline him I’ll have go to the police.”
“I couldn’t stop you, Adrian.” Willis turned and looked gravely at his companion, “But I really wouldn’t advise it. You have a good deal of potential and you don’t want to let an episode like this get out of hand. Apart from anything else, I couldn’t do anything without first speaking to Corby and getting his side of the story. Then the two of you could come in here, he apologises and we forget it ever happened. Why don’t you just wait a day or two and think about it?”
“And if I don’t? What if I drive straight down to Canning Place and make a report?”
“As I said, it’s your decision. You’ve a reputation as a sensible fellow and you should think really carefully before doing something like that.”
“Is that a threat?” Fielding’s voice was unsteady.
“Not at all. You just have to think about the consequences of your actions; understand the impact on how people see you. In the end, you do what you think best.”
“I see.” Fielding paused. “Well I’m not going to let him get away with it. Perhaps I won’t go to the police, but somehow, somewhere, he has to be taught a lesson.”
He turned abruptly. As he left the room, the door began to slam behind him but he turned and closed it carefully as he stepped into the corridor. He clenched his fist and drew his arm back then punched the palm of his left hand. The corridor was empty; the walls lined with photographs of sports teams from the nineteen fifties and sixties. He moved towards the staircase then hesitated and set off in the opposite direction until he came to a door with the label ‘Donna Ballard – Deputy Director Finance’. He knocked, opened the door a little and looked into the room.
“Can I scrounge a cup of coffee?” he asked. “I’ve just come from that pompous ass, Willis, and I need one badly.”
“Not good then?” Donna removed her glasses and looked up from her computer. She was about thirty. She wore a cream shirt with a string of pearls round her neck and she gave Fielding a thin-lipped smile.
“The man is a complete hypocrite.” Fielding walked into the room. “Nothing short of a fraud. Look at these photos in the hall. He behaves as if this were Oxford or Cambridge not some jumped up technical college.”
“Calm down. Calm down.” Donna stood up and walked to the wall unit beside the window where a jug of coffee stood on the hotplate of a filter machine. The office was a half size replica of the Dean’s. “You know, if this were Oxford or Cambridge they wouldn’t have to be so sensitive about its reputation. Now tell me what happened.”
“Don’t try to defend him. Willis’s got no guts for action. In the long run, that’s far worse than a few newspaper reports. He’s refusing to punish Corby and he’s set a precedent that permanently undermines the discipline on campus.”
“Come on. Don’t exaggerate. I don’t think anyone’ll go copying Corby and, in any case, I think he’ll soon be in far more trouble than he’d have got into for slapping you around.”
“Don’t think a slap is less serious than a punch. He must have known that it would leave less of a mark but it was still assault. But what do you mean? How’s Corby in trouble?”
“He seems to have created some sort of virus.” She handed Fielding a cup of coffee.
“A virus? Are you sure?” Now there was a turn of events.
“We can’t be absolutely sure, but the evidence looks quite damning.” She sat down in an armchair next to the coffee table and gestured to Fielding to join her. “This all came up yesterday morning when one of the Finance Officers got an e-mail from Professor Rosete in the Arts department. It had an attached spreadsheet with a copy of a capital expenditure authorisation.”
“And this involves Corby?”
“It certainly seems to. The spreadsheet had a macro that tried to access one of Corby’s old computers. Of course the computer was no longer on the network so the macro failed with an error. Fortunately, the girl who received it was quite cautious and called the help desk so the whole thing was investigated.” She pursed her lips severely. “And they traced it back to Corby. The original e-mail to Rosete had her address on it – that’s why she got the reply – but she never sent it, so they checked the network address of the machine it was sent from. Corby.”
“What did the macro do?”
“It was a program to copy files from Corby’s machines to whoever opened the spreadsheet. They went down to Rosete’s server and it looks as if it was infected when the e-mail was opened. The machines in the department had been behaving strangely ever since. The web-cams had been activated and the disks had been loaded with hidden files.”
“What was in the files?” If Corby had been infecting machines with a virus...
“We don’t know. When the technicians started to investigate, they somehow managed to delete them. The machine became unstable and when they got it going again the data was lost.”
“So the evidence against Corby’s gone?” How disappointing. How very disappointing.
“Not all of it. There’s still the original macro virus. We have copies of it and a trace back to the machine where it originated. It was on Corby’s network segment. It’s gone now, of course, but security are trying to get hold of someone to help them put a dossier together so they can take it down to the police.” She drank the last of her coffee and stood up.
“They need a computing expert?” Almost too good to be true. “I’d happily give them a hand. We can’t have the university implicated in writing viruses.”
“That’s very kind. I’ll give security a call. When can you go down and see them?”
No comments:
Post a Comment