Indiana Jones and Printing at Bass

Yale’s newest Anthropology professor typed his NetID with a winning smile. Uniprint PS1? He’d heard the legends, but didn’t buy them for a second. He’d outrun boulders. Survived a nuclear explosion. Shot a man dead to avoid fighting an honorable duel. Henry Walton “Indiana” Jones was more than a match for any printing system.

Boots on, hat cocked, he sashayed up to the library gate. One flick of his ID card—he was in.

“Professor Jones!”

He whipped around. Behind the checkout counter stood the third-most-attractive female student in his lecture course. Karen something. He tipped his hat.

“Nice to see you, Karen,” he said. “You’ve made a lovely evening lovelier still.” And, with a wink: “You can call me Henry.”

Karen looked confused, but replied with a nod. Replacing his hat, Indiana strode to the nearest printer. Behind him, Karen began to compose an email. “To the University Committee on Sexual Misconduct…”

Indiana slid his ID through the scanner. No reaction. His eyes narrowed.

“So that’s how you’re going to play this,” he said, well above library volume. “All right, then! Let’s do it again! Reverse! Upside-down! Upside-down reverse!” He struck the printer with practiced force. Students glared, but Indiana cared little for public opinion. You know who cared for public opinion? The Nazis.

Suddenly, the confirmation screen appeared. The professor stepped in for the kill, then stopped dead in his tracks.

“No documents in queue?” Indiana bellowed. “Excellent gambit, my friend! But it won’t be enough.” With a few keystrokes, he redoubled his assault, then refreshed the printer. There it was—the paper that would make his name and finally secure his tenure. “A Technical Examination of the ARC OF THE FUCKING COVENANT,” he’d called it.

The touchscreen yielded to his blows as easily as the flesh of Marion Ravenwood. More easily, in fact; years of hard labor in the Egyptian sun had left Marion’s flesh tanned and leathery. Karen, by contrast, was soft and rosy, and her bosom…

Smoke was leaking from the printer. It hissed like a cavern of serpents. Indiana gave a start, then drew his whip. His first strike rang true. Plastic shattered. The smoke became fire. Students screamed and ran for the exits. Terrified, Karen spun around.

“Get back!” Indiana shouted. “This whole place is gonna blow!” Grabbing her pert body in one arm, he turned to the exit.

Behind him, the floor caught fire, and alarms began to sound. From the mouth of Sterling Tunnel, Indiana heard the faint whirr of approaching Segways. He hurtled to the front of the room, losing Karen in his haste. Pity. A library guard sat unblinking, unmoved by the flames.

“Got any books in that—“

Indiana darted through the gate. A nearby overhead projector spun to face him and burned a clean, inch-wide hole in his head with a weapons-grade laser. His hat flew off as his body hit the floor.

The guard sighed. “That’s why we ask, you know,” he said, to nobody.

—A. Gertler