It was on a clear autumn morn during the early days of this century that young Mortimer Heathcliffe first looked upon the wondrous college that was to be his new home. Stern school masters scrutinized students who gathered for the first-day assembly — boys who were to become men, girls who were to become women, a few men who were to become women, and a lot of men and women who were to become Certified Cisco Network Professionals.

For this was Brainbaum Gulley Community College, September 2001.

“The college experience now is very different than it was a generation ago,” said the headmaster, a wise and ponderous old fellow of 32 who wore the traditional academic raiment of denim slacks and a Hooter's T-shirt. “Less sentimental, more pragmatic. I think you'll find we're well equipped for what more and more students are coming here to do, which is to learn a few software applications and get on with their lives. So just fill out those health slips we're handing out, and ya won't have to see my smilin' face again.”

Mortimer sat among the assembly, his university cap bearing the college's initial “B,” his cheeks red with cold and youthful anticipation, and his pager alerting him to an e-mail by playing a tiny, beeping version of “The Chicken Dance.” He raised a timid hand, and all turned as the headmaster pointed to him.

“Sir,” Mortimer said, “what is your most cherished memory from all your days at Brainbaum — the recollection that most causes your crusty exterior to give way to sentimental reminiscence?”

“That one time that everybody filled out their health slips,” the headmaster said, after staring at Mortimer for a curiously long time. “Come on. Chop chop.”

Mortimer rushed to class after the assembly, but his new classmates were already there when he arrived — several lads who were getting technical certificates, a few retirees who would spend every session calling the teacher a “punk” and saying he “never would have survived Bataan,” and one obligatory ex-con.

“This is a certification class in Microsoft Excel,” said the instructor, a fearsome old gent of 27.

Mortimer decided to call him Mr. Chips, since the teacher's name was, in fact, Chip.

“If you need to reach me, I'm part-time here, same as most of the untenured instructors. Most of the week, I'm a systems analyst for a corporation that manufactures cheese sauce ... uh, yes?” He looked to Mortimer, who once again had his hand up.

“When can we expect to read Aristotle's `Poetics'?”

Old Chips nodded sagaciously, then abruptly ended class. What a world would soon open up to Mortimer here! A world of scholarship and discovery, a world in which you'd write a number in a little box in the Excel program, and it would change all the other numbers in all the other little boxes in the Excel program!

In the hall after class, he turned to the shy, prim young girl who had sat next to him, and said, “I say, I think perhaps old Chips might have a few tricks up his sleeve.”

“Look, you're a cute kid,” the girl said, blowing her nose in a paper towel. “But I'm 42, and I've got three teenage kids. I just want to learn spreadsheets.”

She walked away, and Mortimer turned to old Chips himself.

“Oh, sir,” Mortimer said. “Do you think that I might someday outgrow this terribly awkward time and, as they say, get on with my chums?”

“Listen,” Mr. Chips said. “Do you know what a paradigm is?”

“From the Greek para, alongside of; and deigma, to show. An archetype that reflects how a system operates, sir.”

“... Yeah. Anyway, college sort of has a new one. You getting the picture?”

“I think I am, sir. I shall try to adjust. Good day, Mr. Chips.”

But as Mortimer started leaving, old Chips put a kindly hand on his shoulder and uttered a few words — words that would carry Mortimer through the rest of his golden college days:

“Adjust, don't adjust. Who cares? You're out of here in six months.”