Author's disclaimer: Jim, Blair and Eli Stoddard are not mine, damn it. They belong to Pet Fly and UPN. I made Charles Grey up.

Author's notes: This is my take on Eli Stoddard. He's been the bad guy in a couple of stories of late and that got me thinking. Then the good professor started talking in my ear, sorta like Henri did. I wonder who is going to sound off next?

Debunking Sandburg
By J. M. Griffin

The anthropological community is a gypsy community in that we are always traveling, always trading. Of course, what we trade is information, stories and anecdotes. Sometimes I think we are a community of bards, those ancient spinners of truth, weavers of the collective dream. Other times I think we are large bags of hot air. Which is to say there are times when the truth gets totally buried beneath the dream.

And this, perhaps, is what happened in the case of my colleague, Blair Sandburg. Perhaps, but I don't really think so. When I first met Blair I was teaching at Rainier University up in Cascade, WA. He was seventeen and, amazingly enough, already had one year in college under his belt. He sat in the front row of my introductory anthro class and it quickly became evident to me that he was the kind of student every professor delights in having.

Sandburg was thirsty for knowledge; he drank up every drop of information I presented in my class and then went on to outside sources to seek more. His papers were clear and careful, except when he got a new and crazy idea and made intuitive leaps that took my breath away. My close friend and colleague, Charles Grey, said the boy was an old soul in a young body. I came to think of Blair as my protege and, eventually, my successor, for it became obvious that he had a passion for teaching almost as great as his passion for knowledge.

He was my research assistant on several expeditions and I couldn't have asked for a better associate. When I left Rainier, shortly after Sandburg got his masters degree, it was with every intention of continuing to foster Blair in his academic career. He gave every indication of wanting the same thing. So when Blair turned down the opportunity to join me in Borneo, I was quite surprised to say the least.

Two years later, when I returned to Washington state, I started to look him up. It turned out not to be necessary. For one night about a week after my return, Charles and I were watching the Channel 4 news when Sandburg's visage flashed across the screen. We sat there shocked and silent as my star student admitted fraud, took responsibility for his improper actions, and threw his career away.

Needless to say, I did not call him.

Not right away, anyhow. I let a week pass, then a month, and then three. At odd moments during this time period, I found myself reflecting over what I remembered of Blair Sandburg, trying to make it fit with what I had heard that night on the news. It was easy to recall Blair's unique intensity, as well as his passion for research. Could it have been that he had let his passion for research about Sentinels lead him into a web of lies and deceit?

One day as I stood at my library window, watching the rain fall in windblown grey sheets, it occurred to me that Blair Sandburg might not actually be a fraud. For I suddenly remembered something Blair had once said to me on a rainy day much like this one.

"Finding a Sentinel would be like finding the holy grail!" My student had enthused. "Can you imagine, Professor, how incredible that would be?'

I realized suddenly, that while I had smiled and nodded, I had not imagined at all.

That was when I picked up the phone and called the university. Blair was no longer working there, of course, but I managed to get Jenny to give me his most recent phone number. I called the number right then and there.

A man answered the phone. I asked to speak to Blair.

"Sandburg's not here right now. Can I take a message?" The rather unfriendly voice was vaguely familiar, and held a vague note of warning in it as well.

"Well, I'm an old colleague of his and..."

"Look," now the menace in the voice was sharp and clear, "You guys need to leave him alone. What that damn editor did...

"Mr. Ellison?"

"...was wrong. Wrong, do you hear? The things that were printed...."

"Mr. Ellison!"

"What?!"

"This is Mr. Ellison, is it not? My name is Eli Stoddard."

"Oh."

"I take it Blair has mentioned me."

"Yes."

"Then you know I was once his mentor."

"So why didn't you call him sooner?" The man's voice was quiet, and, now that he wasn't shouting in anger, I could hear the undertones of sadness..

"Because I was wrong." I said softly, but distinctly.

"Fat lot of good it does to say it now." Ellison's comment was so low I could barely make it out. But I did. It made me sad and quite angry at myself for not calling sooner.

I took a deep breath. "Mr. Ellison, will you please tell Blair I called and that I have a proposition for him?"

"A proposition?"

"Yes, Mr. Ellison." I said crisply. "It's high time Sandburg gets that doctorate, and I think I can help. You will have him call me, won't you?"

"Yes. But you..."

"Good," I said, cutting the man off. "I won't do anything to hurt him, I promise you that, Mr. Ellison." I added and then I gave my phone number and hung up.

Which is why now, six months later, Blair Sandburg, anthropologist and Guide, and his lover, friend and Sentinel, James Ellison, are along on this, my third expedition to Borneo. Upon our return, Blair is scheduled to defend his new dissertation. His committee is none too happy about it, but as he never actually submitted his other thesis, there isn't anything they can do about it. My lover, Charles, has just recently been named as the new dean of Social Sciences at Rainier and I daresay Blair will be offered a position on the staff once he has his doctorate. Which will bring things full circle rather nicely, if I do say so myself.

As I said before, there are times when the truth gets totally buried beneath the dream. And then there are times when one must look at a dream and recognize it as truth. In the end, if one finds he must spin a web around that truth to keep it safe from harm, well, so be it. And who better to spin a tale than an anthropologist?

The End