Raymond Jones: Cubs of the Wolf

In the spring the cherry blossoms are heavy in the air over the campus of Solarian Institute of Science and Humanities. On a small slope that rims the park area, Cameron Wilder lay on his back squinting through the cloud of pink-white petals to the sky beyond. Beside him, Joyce Farquhar drew her jacket closer with an irritated gesture. It was still too cold to be sitting on the grass, but Cameron didn't seem to notice it — or anything else, Joyce thought.

”If you don't submit a subject for your thesis now,” she said, ”you'll take another full six months getting your doctorate. Sometimes I think you don't really want it!”

Cameron stirred. He shifted his squinting gaze from the sky to Joyce and finally sat up. But he was staring ahead through the trees again as he took his pipe from his pocket and began filling it slowly.

”I don't want it if it's not going to mean anything after I get it,” he said belligerently. ”I'm not going to do an investigation of some silly subject like The Transience of Venusian Immigrants in Relation to the Martian Polar Ice Cap Cycle. Solarian sociologists are the butt of enough ridicule now. Do something like that and for the rest of your life you get knocking of the knees whenever anybody inquires about the specialty you worked in and threatens to read your thesis.”

”Nobody's asking you to do anything you don't want to. But you picked the field of sociology to work in. Now I don't see why you have to act such a purist that it takes months to find a research project for your degree. Pick something — anything! — I don't care what it is. But if you don't get a degree and an appointment out of the next session I don't think we'll ever get married — not ever.”

Cameron removed his pipe from his mouth with a precise grip and considered it intently as it cupped in his hands. ”I'm glad you mentioned marriage,” he said. ”I was just about to speak of it myself.”

”Well, don't!” said Joyce. ”After three years — Three years!”

He turned to face her and smiled for the first time. He liked to lead her along occasionally just to watch her explode, but he was not always sure when he had gone too far. Joyce had a mind like a snapping, random matching calculator while he operated more on a slow, carefully shaping analogue basis, knowing things were never quite what they seemed but trying to get as close an approximation of the true picture as possible.

”Will you marry me now?” he said.

The question did not seem to startle her. ”No degree, no appointment — and no chance of getting one — we couldn't even get a license. I hope you aren't suggesting we try to get along without one, or on a forgery!”

Cameron shook his head. ”No, darling, this is a perfectly bona fide proposal, complete with license, appointment, the works — what do you say?”

”I say this spring sun is too much for you.” She touched the dark mass of his hair, warmed by the sun's rays, and put her head on his shoulder. She started to cry. ”Don't tease me like that, Cameron. It seems like we've been waiting forever — and there's still forever ahead of us. You can't do anything you want to—”

Cameron put his arms about her, not caring if the whole Institute faculty leaned out the windows to watch. ”That's why you should appreciate being about to marry such a resourceful fellow,” he said more gently. And now he dropped all banter. ”I've been thinking about how long it's been, too. That's why I decided to try to kill a couple of sparrows with one pebble.”

Joyce sat up. ”You aren't serious—?”

Cameron sucked on his pipe once more. ”Ever hear of the Markovian Nucleus?” he said thoughtfully.

Joyce slowly nodded her head. ”Oh, I think I've heard the name mentioned,” she murmured, ”but nothing more than that.”

”I've asked for that as my research project.”

”But that's clear out of the galaxy — in Transpace!”

”Yes, and obviously out of bounds for the ordinary graduate researcher. But because of the scholarship record I've been able to rack up here I took a chance on applying to the Corning Foundation for a grant. And they decided to take a chance on me after considerable and not entirely painless investigation. That's why you were followed around like a suspected Disloyalist for a month. My application included a provision for you to go along as my wife. Professor Fothergill notified me this morning that the grant had been awarded.”

”Cam—” Joyce's voice was brittle now. ”You aren't fooling me?”

He gathered her in his arms again. ”You think I would fool about something like that, darling? In a week you'll be Mrs. C. Wilder, and as soon as school is out, on your way to the Markovian Nucleus. And besides, it took me almost as much work preparing the research prospectus as the average guy spends on his whole project!”

Sometimes Joyce Farquhar wished Cameron were a good deal different than he was. But then he wouldn't have been Cameron, and she wouldn't want to marry him, she supposed. And somehow, while he fell behind on the mid-stretch, he always managed to come in at the end with the rest of the field. Or just a little bit ahead of it.

Or a good deal ahead of it. As now. It took her a few moments to realize the magnitude of the coup he had actually pulled off. For weeks she had been depressed because he refused to use some trivial, breeze research to get his degree. He could have started it as much as a year ago, and they could have been married now if he'd set himself up a real cinch.

But now they were getting married anyway — and Cameron was getting the kind of research deal that would satisfy his frantic desire for integrity in a world where it counted for little, and his wish to contribute something genuine to the sociological understanding of sentient creatures.

Their marriage, as was customary, would be a cut and dried affair. A call to the license bureau, receipt of formal sanction in the mail — she supposed Cameron had already made application — and a little party with a few of their closest friends on the campus. She wished she had lived in the days when getting married was much easier to do, and something to make a fuss about.

She stirred and sat up, loosening the jacket as the sun came from behind a puff of cloud. ”You could have told me about this a long time ago, couldn't you?” she said accusingly.

Cameron nodded. ”I could have. But I didn't want to get false hopes aroused. I didn't have much hope the deal would actually go through, myself. I think Fothergill is pretty much responsible for it.”

”Transpace—” Joyce said dreamily. ”Tell me about the Markovian Nucleus. Why is it important enough for a big research study, anyway?”

”It's a case of a leopard who changed his spots,” said Cameron. ”And nobody knows how or why. The full title of the project is A Study of the Metamorphosis of the Markovian Nucleus.”

”What happened? How are they any different from the way they used to be?”

”A hundred and fifty years ago the Markovians were the meanest, nastiest, orneriest specimens in the entire Council of Galactic Associates. The groups of worlds in one corner of their galaxy, which make up the Nucleus, controlled a military force that outweighed anything the Council could possibly bring to bear against them.