P.S. You're supposed to bring four dozen cookies to the Parents'
Day Reception the Saturday after.
"Rather confused-sounding," he said, "but I clearly perceive the keen
bludgeon of Mrs. Gunnison. She looked particularly sloppy today."
Tansy laughed. "Still, we have been pretty antisocial these last weeks.
I believe I'll ask them over for bridge tomorrow night. It's short
notice, but they're usually free Wednesdays. And the Sawtelles."
"Do we have to? That henpecker?"
Tansy laughed. "I don't know how you would ever manage to get along
without me--" She stopped short. "I'm afraid you'll have to endure
Evelyn. After all, Hervey's the other important man in your department,
and it's expected that you see something of each other socially. To
make two tables, I'll invite the Carrs."
"Three fearful females," said Norman. "If they represent the average
run of professors' wives, I was lucky to get you."
"I sometimes have similar thoughts about professors' wives' husbands,"
said Tansy.
Then as they smoked over the coffee, she said hesitantly, "Norm, I said
I didn't want to talk about last night. But now there's something I
want to tell you."
He nodded.
"I didn't tell you last night, Norm, but when we burned those ...
things, I was terribly frightened. I felt that we were ripping holes
in walls that it had taken me years to build, and that now there was
nothing to keep out the--"
He said nothing, sat very still.
"Oh, it's hard to explain, but ever since I began to ... play with
those things, I've been conscious of pressures from outside. Things
trying to push their way in and get at us. And I've had to press them
back, fight back at them with my--It's like that test of strength men
sometimes make, trying to force each other's hand to the table. But
that wasn't what I was starting to say.
"I went to bed feeling miserable and scared. The pressure from outside
kept tightening around me, and I couldn't resist it, because we'd
burned those things. And then suddenly, as I lay in the dark, about an
hour after I went to bed, I got the most abrupt tremendous feeling of
relief. The pressure vanished, as if I'd bobbed up to the surface after
almost drowning. And I knew then ... that I'd gotten over my craziness.
That's why I'm so happy."
It was hard for Norman not to tell Tansy what he was thinking. Here
was one more coincidence, but it knocked the others into a cocked hat.
At about the same time as he had burned the last charm, experiencing a
sensation of fear, Tansy had felt a great relief. That would teach him
to build theories on coincidences!
"For I was crazy in a way, dear," she was saying. "There aren't many
people who would have taken it as you did."
He said, "You weren't crazy--which is a relative term, anyway,
applicable to anyone. You were just fooled by the cussedness of things."
"Cussedness?"
"Yes. The way nails sometimes insist on bending when you hammer, as if
they were trying to. Or the way machinery refuses to work. Matter's
funny stuff. In large aggregates, it obeys natural law, but when you
get down to the individual atom or electron, it's largely a matter of
chance or whim--" This conversation was not taking the direction he
wanted it to, and he was thankful when Totem jumped up onto the table,
creating a diversion.
It turned out to be the pleasantest evening they had spent together in
ages.
But next morning he wished he had not gotten started on that
"cussedness of things" notion. It stuck in his mind. He found himself
puzzling over the merest trifle--in the precise position of that
idiotic cement dragon. Yesterday he remembered thinking that it was
exactly in the middle of the descending roof ridge. But now he saw
that it was obviously two thirds of the way down, quite near the
architrave topping the huge and useless Gothic gateway set between
Estrey and Morton. Even a social scientist ought to have better powers
of observation than that!
The jangle of the phone coincided with the nine-o'clock buzzer.
"Professor Saylor?" Thompson's voice was apologetic. "I'm sorry to
bother you again, but I just got another inquiry from one of the
trustees. Concerning an informal address you were supposed to have
delivered at about the same time as that ... er ... party. The topic
was 'What's Wrong With College Education?'"
"Well, what about it? Are you implying that there's nothing wrong with
college education, or that the topic is taboo?"
"Oh, no, no, no. But the trustee seemed to think that you were making
a criticism of Hempnell."
"Of small colleges of the same type as Hempnell, yes. Of Hempnell,
specifically, no."
"Well, he seemed to fear it might have a detrimental effect on
enrollment for next year. Spoke of several friends of his with children
of college age as having heard your address and being unfavorably
impressed."
"Then they were supersensitive."
"He also seemed to think you had made a slighting reference to
President Pollard's ... er ... political activities."
"I'm sorry but I have to get along to a class now."
"Very well," said Thompson. He sounded hurt.
* * * * *
Gracine Pollard was absent from "Primitive Societies," Norman noted
with an inward grin, wondering if it had become too much for her warped
sense of propriety. But even the daughters of college presidents ought
to be told a few home truths now and then.
Yesterday's lecture had had a markedly stimulating effect. Several
students had abruptly chosen related subjects for their term papers,
and the fraternity president had decided to capitalize on his
yesterday's discomfiture by writing a humorous article on the primitive
significance of fraternity initiations for the Hempnell _Buffoon_.
They had a very brisk session. It put Norman in a good humor which
lasted until after his three-o'clock class that afternoon, when he
happened to meet the Sawtelles, in front of Morton Hall.
"I had lunch today with Henrietta ... I mean, Mrs. Pollard," Mrs.
Sawtelle announced with the air of one who has just visited royalty.
"Oh say, Norman--" Hervey began, excitedly, thrusting forward his brief
case.
"We had a very interesting chat," his wife continued, sweeping on as if
her husband had not spoken. "We talked about you, too, Norman. It seems
Gracine has been misinterpreting some of the things you've been saying
in your class. She's such a sensitive girl."
"Dumb Bunny, you mean," Norman corrected mentally. He murmured, "Oh?"
with some show of politeness.
"Dear Henrietta was a little puzzled as just how to handle it, though
of course she's a very tolerant, cosmopolitan soul. I just mentioned it
because I thought you'd want to know. After all, it is very important
that no one gets any wrong impressions about the department. Don't you
agree with me, Hervey?" she ended sharply.
"What, dear? Oh, yes, yes. Say, Norman, I want to tell you about
that thesis I showed you yesterday. The most amazing thing! Its main
arguments are almost exactly the same as those in your book! An amazing
case of independent investigators arriving at the same conclusions.
Why, it's like Darwin and Wallace, or--"
"You didn't tell _me_ anything about this, dear," said Mrs.
Sawtelle, as if he had cheated her.
"Wait a minute," said Norman.
He hated to make an explanation in Mrs. Sawtelle's presence, but it had
to be done.
"Sorry, Hervey, to have to substitute a rather sordid story for an
interesting case of independent investigation. It happened when I
was an instructor here--1929, my first year. A graduate student
named Cunningham got hold of my ideas--I was friendly with him--and
incorporated them into his doctor's thesis. My work in superstition and
neurosis was just a side line then, and so I didn't happen to read his
thesis until after he'd gotten his degree."
Sawtelle blinked. His face resumed its usual worried expression. A look
of vague disappointment had come into Mrs. Sawtelle's black button
eyes, as if she would have liked to read the thesis before hearing the
explanation.
"I was very angry," Norman continued, "and intended to show him up.
But then I heard he'd died. There was some hint of suicide. He was an
unbalanced chap. How he'd hoped to get away with such an out-and-out
steal, I don't know. Anyway, I decided not to do anything about it, for
his family's sake. You see, it would have supplied a strong reason for
thinking he _had_ committed suicide."
Mrs. Sawtelle looked incredulous.
"But, Norman," Sawtelle commented anxiously, "was that really wise? I
mean to keep silent. Weren't you taking a chance? I mean with regard to
your academic reputation?"
Abruptly Mrs. Sawtelle's manner changed.
"Put that thing back in the stacks, Hervey, and forget about it,"
she directed curtly. Then she smiled archly at Norman. "I've been
forgetting that I have a surprise for you, Professor Saylor. Come down
to the sound booth now, and I'll show you. It won't take a minute. Come
along, Hervey."
Norman had no excuse ready, so he accompanied the Sawtelles to the
rooms of the speech department at the other end of Morton, wondering
how the speech department ever found any use for someone with as nasal
and affected a voice as Evelyn Sawtelle, even if she did happen to be a
professor's wife.
The sound booth was dim and quiet, a solid box with soundproof walls
and double windows. Mrs. Sawtelle took a disk from the cabinet, put it
on one of the three turntables, and adjusted a couple of dials.
From the amplifier came a strangely intermittent wailing or roaring,
as of wind prying at a house. It struck a less usual chord, though, in
Norman's memory.
Mrs. Sawtelle darted back and lifted the needle, hurriedly, so it
grated against the disk.
"I made a mistake," she said. "That's some modernistic music or other.
Hervey, switch on the light. Here's the record I wanted."
"It sounded awful, whatever it was," her husband observed.
Norman had identified his memory. It was of an Australian bull-roarer
a colleague had once demonstrated for him. The curved slat of wood,
whirled at the end of a cord, made exactly the same sound. The
aborigines used it in their magic making.
But now his own voice was coming out of the amplifier, and he had an
odd sense of jerking back in time.
"Surprised?" she questioned coyly. "It's that talk on civilian defense
you gave the students last week. We had a mike spotted by the speaker's
rostrum--I suppose you thought it was for amplification--and we made a
sneak recording, as we call it. We cut it down here."
She indicated the heavier, cement-based turntable for making recordings.
"We can do all sorts of things down here," she babbled on. "Mix all
sorts of sound. Music against voices. And--"
It was hard for Norman to appear even slightly pleased. He knew his
reasons were no more sensible than those of a savage afraid someone
will learn his secret name, yet all the same he disliked the idea
of Evelyn Sawtelle monkeying around with his voice. Like her dully
malicious, small-socketed eyes, it suggested a prying for hidden
weaknesses. And then that talk about mixing sounds--somehow it did not
set good with him.
What it all boiled down to was that he detested the woman.
Rather brusquely, he excused himself.
"We'll see you tonight," Evelyn called after him. It sounded like, "You
won't get rid of me."
* * * * *
Back at the office, Norman put in a good hour's work on his notes.
Then, getting up to switch on the light, his glance happened to fall on
the window.
After a few moments, he jerked away and darted to the closet, to get
his field glasses.
Evidently someone had a very obscure sense of humor to perpetrate such
a complicated practical joke.
Intently he searched the cement at the juncture of roof ridge and
clawed feet, looking for the telltale cracks. He could not spot any,
but that was not easy to do in the failing yellow light.
The cement dragon now stood at the edge of the gutter, as if about to
walk over to Morton along the architrave of the big gateway.
He lifted his glasses to the creature's head--blank and crude as an
unfinished skull. Then on an impulse, he dropped them to the row of
sculptured heads, focused on Galileo, and read the little inscription
he had not been able to make out before.
"_Eppur si muove._"
The words Galileo was supposed to have muttered after recanting before
the Inquisition his belief in the revolution of the Earth around the
Sun.
"Nevertheless, it moves."
A board creaked behind him, and he spun around.
By his desk stood a young man, waxen pale, with thick red hair. His
eyes stood out like milky marbles. One white, tendon-ridged hand
gripped a .22 target pistol.
Norman walked toward him, bearing slightly to the right.
The skimpy barrel of the gun came up.
"Hello, Jennings," said Norman. "You've been reinstated. Your grades
have been changed to straight A's."
The gun barrel slowed for an instant.
Norman lunged in.
The gun went off under his left arm, pinking the window.
The gun clunked on the floor. Jennings' skinny form went limp. As
Norman sat him down on the chair, he began to sob, convulsively.
Norman lifted the phone and asked for an on-campus number. The
connection was made quickly. "Gunnison?" he asked.
"Uh-huh, just caught me as I was leaving."
"Theodore Jennings' parents live right near the college, don't they?
You know, the chap who flunked out last semester."
"I believe they do. What's the matter?"
"Better get them over here quick. And have them bring his doctor. He
just tried to shoot me."
There was a pause. Norman visualized Gunnison's startled reaction!
Then, "Right away!"
Norman put down the phone. Jennings continued to sob agonizingly.
Norman looked at him with disgust.
* * * * *
An hour later Gunnison sat down in the same chair, and let off a sigh
of relief.
"I'm sure glad they're gone," he said. "It was awfully good of you,
Norman, not to insist on the police. Things like that give a college a
bad name."
Norman smiled wearily. "Almost anything gives a college a bad name. But
that kid was obviously crazy as a loon."
They lit up and smoked for a while in silence. Then Gunnison looked at
his watch.
"I'll have to hustle. It's almost seven, and we're due at your place at
eight."
But he lingered, ambling over to the window to inspect the bullet hole.
"I wonder if you'd mind not mentioning this to Tansy?" Norman asked. "I
don't want to worry her."
Gunnison nodded. "Good thing if we kept it to ourselves." Then he
pointed out the window. "That's one of my wife's pets," he remarked in
a jocular tone.
Norman saw that his finger was trained on the cement dragon, now coldly
revealed by the upward glare from the street lights.
"I mean," Gunnison went on, "she must have a dozen photographs of it.
Hempnell's her specialty. I believe she's got a photograph of every
architectural oddity on campus. That one's her favorite." He chuckled.
"Usually it's the husband who keeps ducking down into the darkroom, but
not in our family. And me a chemist, at that."
Norman's taut mind had unaccountably jumped to the thought of a
bull-roarer. Abruptly he realized the analogy between the recording of
a bull-roarer and the photograph of a dragon.
He clamped a lid on the fantastic questions he wanted to ask Gunnison.
"Come on!" he said. "We'd better get along!"
Gunnison started a little at the harshness of his voice.
"Can you drop me off?" asked Norman, more quietly. "My car's at home."
"Sure thing," said Gunnison.
After he had switched out the light, Norman paused for a moment,
staring back at the window. The words came back.
"_Eppur si muove._"