Dr. It Depends

“Raymond Gardner” — Mysterious Guest Contributor

Wow! Dear reader, welcome to the next installment of the Law Weekly serial, Dr. It Depends, a Bond adventure. Marvel at this story of daring-d0.

Tick-tock. Time to go. Weaving through the maze of Slaughter, Bond slipped out the side door unnoticed. Clouds threatened a deluge overhead and kept the valley of the Forum thankfully clear of the prying eyes of tourists and alumni. Nothing stood in his way as he threw on a vest and approached the encroaching construction of the business school.

The MBA students prowled the perimeter and kept a watchful eye over their imperial expansions. So distracted were they by the engineers with their blueprints (the MBA’s did not know what to make of numbers that were not made up), that they did not notice an extra fluorescent-vested interloper knife through the crowd.

Nearly at the end of the chaos of the site that shielded him from the eagle-eyed, aspiring businesspeople, the exposed lawn gaped before him. No cover. Just then a lorry lumbered up the creatively named drive struggling beneath a load of timber and coughing up exhaust. Darting out, Bond leaped in the back.

“Blast,” he spat under his breath. The nail stabbing his foot did not compare to Goldfinger’s lasers, but it would not make his mission any easier either. He stripped off the vest, stuffed it under a pile of pine planks, and slithered out the back as it turned off at the head of the drive. Leaving his mask along with it, Bond wafted up the stairs assuming the lackadaisical attitude of the crowd.

“You there! Yes, you!”

Tensing, he coiled, ready to dispatch whatever this was or melt into the background in an instant.

“Yes?”

“Horowitz, isn’t it? I thought I recognized you there, old chap. Name’s Broughton, and they told me to expect a solicitor student, but I didn’t realize you’d already be dressing like one, by Jove.” Without giving a chance to escape, he enveloped Bond’s hand with his massive mitt. Bond would almost feel bad about what was to come. Almost.

“Ah Broughton, apologies about that; with the late reschedule they didn’t tell me they’d changed my host in the College.”

“Not to worry there, sport,” mercifully releasing his hand, Broughton stole a glance down. “I’m just glad you have some sense of numbers for a solicitor, otherwise we’d be late. But as it is we’ll just make it for finance—follow me.”

Bond breathed a sigh of relief and dove into the crowd following Broughton as he wound his way around the madness of his coffee-clutching cronies and rhapsodizing recruiters serving stemwinding sermons to the mesmerized Master’s students.

“Now at McKinsey, we only hire the most loyal, er best, of you—”

“Here you’ll work 120 hours and most of you will live!”

“PowerPoint is so much better than Word!”

“Are you worried about a lack of skills? No need to worry about that at . . .”

Evading their entreaties, the mismatched pair arrived at finance looking like a badger with a hare it had taken under its tutelage.

“Now Horowitz, I’ve got to get my papers together–this case was a bit of a doozie after all–but see if you can’t find a spot in the back. Oh, and one more thing, I know some of this may be a bit advanced relative to your solicitor training, but you’ll catch on quick,” and with that Bond was left to his own devices again. Despite their self—and only self—proclaimed proclivity for planning, the rectors had left the visitors barely a hodgepodge of seats from which to choose. Bond comported himself into some half-chair, half-desk bastard of a piece of furniture. It would kill his back but not him as he listened to the cohort quiet down from a roar to a dull hubbub.”

“. . . and this prospective didn’t brag in the interview or anything—what an idiot . . .”

“. . . can’t believe the profs are working us this hard, like this case took me a whole thirty minutes . . .”

“Reading is the worst!”

“Yeah, I nearly missed second coffee for it . . .”

Gradually the professor cajoled the class into enough quietude for him to elaborate on bonds, pandas, and left-side and right-side accounting entries. Bond glanced around and cursed internally, “Drat! How could I forget that business students don’t take notes—you imbecile!” It was all he could do to keep his notetaking inconspicuous. Thankfully the students were too focused on jousting with jargon to acknowledge a visitor, and no one noted his notetaking. As the cavalcade hungered for lunch—it had been an hour since coffee after all, and their focus on accounts slipped—Bond stuffed his notepad in his jacket and filed out after Broughton.

“Thanks again for showing me around this warren of wisdom, Broughton, but I better get back across the valley,” Bond flattered, praying he would get out unscathed.

Broughton gave him a patronizing pat on the back and sent him on his way.

Arriving back at Slaughter, Bond went straightaway to N’s pristine office.

“Any new threats from the West, Bond?” The old commander inquired curtly.

“No sir, none at all.”

Wow! Pick up the Law Weekly next week for another installment of Dr. It Depends!