Dying on Principle Read Free

office. Indeed, he looked it – rosy-cheeked, silver-haired, everyone’s favourite uncle. But she did not ask him to buy a ticket.

2
    I knew I was doing all the right things, but the computer wouldn’t believe me. Or, more accurately, the printer wouldn’t. The printer wouldn’t do anything. It wouldn’t even go on line so I could talk to it properly.
    On the grounds that when computers go wrong it’s usually not their fault but that of the person using them, I went through my routine again. Yes, everything was connected properly. There was no reason for it not to be, since everything had been working on Friday when I left for the weekend. Yes, there was enough paper in the feed, and yes, the computer was set up for this particular printer. And no, nothing happened when I told the computer to print.
    Since I needed to print the set of material for a meeting in half an hour, I did the obvious thing: saved it on to a floppy and toddled off in search of someone else’s equipment.
    I was still a new girl on the premises: this project had started only a couple of weeks before Easter, and had been interrupted by the two-week break. Since this was only the second week back – and we’d lost Monday for May Day – I didn’t feel I knew anyone well enough to go and invade their private offices without permission.
    I slipped down from my room on the second floor to the common room on the ground. If there was anyone there, I could ask them for help or, at least, advice. It was empty, but I was tempted to linger: the daily papers were spread invitingly over the coffee tables in the middle, and someone had left open one of the French windows, letting in the sunlight and the sound of the fountain splashing in the small courtyard. The pond and fountain were no grander than many of my neighbours’, but imparted a sense of civilisation quite refreshing after the penury of William Murdock College.
    But I had work to do. I would try what ought to have been the obvious place: the computer centre. This occupied a whole new wing. One floor was given over to purpose-built rooms where a whole class could be taught at once. There were also a couple of electronics workshops, a big drop-in centre where students would work on individual projects, and a smaller room at present unoccupied but also full of computer equipment.
    Although the pressing need was to print out the stuff on my disk, it would also be sensible to report the fault on my set-up, so I looked round for a technician. There was none to be seen. Scratching at their office door, I pushed it open, half expecting to find a little coven working out their pools over morning coffee, early though it still was; but it was deserted. I scribbled a note asking for help, and then, because I had only fifteen minutes, let myself into the empy room and sat down at the nearest computer.
    I had got no further than loading my disk and waiting for the file to be formatted for the new default printer when the door was flung open and a woman’s voice yelled at me: ‘What in hell d’you think you’re doing?’
    Fighting down the temptation to ask her what the hell it looked as if I were doing, I got up, smiling politely.
    â€˜I’m Sophie Rivers,’ I said. ‘Part of the team working on computer-based teaching materials. My machine’s gone down, and I needed to print this urgently.’
    She seemed too angry to speak. She was probably about my age – mid-thirties – but her skin was quite deeply lined, especially around the eyes, as if she’d spent years glaring meanly through a haze of cigarette smoke. Her fingers were certainly stained. Her suit – women wore suits at Muntz, unless they were Sophie Rivers and allergic to them – was this season’s, and her shoes looked Italian. But it was her hair that interested me most. Some women – French ones, for instance – adopt a style so short and