There were shadows everywhere, and the ground under his feet was
treacherous and of uncertain texture. The dreadful strident roaring,
which seemed to have gone on since eternity began, shook his very
bones. Yet it did not drown out the flat, nasty monotone of that other
voice which kept telling him to do something--he could not be sure what
except that it involved injury to himself, although he heard the voice
as plainly as if someone were talking inside his head. He tried to
struggle away from the direction in which the voice wanted him to go,
but heavy hands jerked him back. He wanted to look up over his shoulder
at something he knew would be taller than himself, but he couldn't
muster the courage. There were great rushing clouds overhead making the
shadows, and they would momentarily assume the form of gigantic faces
brooding down on him, faces with pits of darkness for eyes, and sullen,
savage lips, and great masses of hair streaming behind.
He must not do the thing the voice commanded. And yet he must. He
struggled wildly. The sound rose to a rock-shattering pandemonium. The
clouds became a black, ragged, all-engulfing torrent.
And then suddenly the bedroom became mixed up with the other picture,
and he struggled awake.
He rubbed his face, which was thick with sleep, and tried
unsuccessfully to remember what the voice had wanted him to do. He
still felt the reverberations of the sound in his ears.
Gloomy daylight seeped through the shades. The clock indicated quarter
to eight.
Tansy was still curled up, one arm out of the covers. A smile seemed to
be tickling the corners of her lips and wrinkling her nose. He slipped
out carefully. His bare foot failed to avoid a loose carpet tack.
Suppressing an angry grunt, he hobbled off.
For the first time in months he botched shaving. Twice the new blade
slid too sharply sideways, neatly removing tiny segments of skin. He
glared irritably at the scowling face in the mirror, pulled the blade
down his chin very slowly, but with a little too much pressure, and
gave himself a third nick.
By the time he got down to the kitchen, the water he had put on was
boiling. As he poured it into the coffeepot, the wobbly handle of the
saucepan came completely loose, and his bare ankles were splattered
painfully. Totem skittered away, and then slowly returned to his tin
of milk. Norman cursed, and then grinned. What had he been telling
Tansy about the cussedness of things? As if to prove the point with a
final ridiculous example, he bit his tongue while eating coffee cake.
Cussedness of things? Say rather the cussedness of the human nervous
system! Faintly he was aware of a potently disturbing emotion--remnant
of the dream?--like an unpleasant swimming shape glimpsed beneath weedy
water.
It seemed most akin to a dull seething anger, for as he hurried toward
Morton Hall, he found himself inwardly at war with the established
order of things--and particularly educational institutions. The old
sophomoric exasperation at the hypocrisies and compromises of civilized
society welled up and poured over the dams that a mature realism had
set against it. This was a great life for a man to be leading. Coddling
the immature minds of grown-up brats, and lucky to get one halfway
promising student a year. Playing bridge with a bunch of old fogies.
Catering to jittery incompetents like Hervey Sawtelle. Bowing to the
thousand and one stupid rules and traditions of a second-rate college.
And for what!
He knew he was being silly, but some perverse quirk kept him from
pushing back this intrusion of juvenile emotions.
* * * * *
Ragged clouds were moving overhead, pre-saging rain. They reminded him
of his dream. He felt the impulse to shout a childish defiance at those
faces in the sky.
An army truck rolled quietly by, recalling to his mind a little picture
Evelyn Sawtelle had scribbled on a bridge pad. He followed it with his
eyes. When he turned back, he saw Mrs. Carr.
"You've cut yourself," she said brightly, peering closely at his face.
"Yes, I have."
"How unfortunate!"
He did not try to answer. They walked together through the gate between
Morton and Estrey. He could just make out the snout of the cement
dragon poked over the Estrey gutter.
"I wanted to tell you last night how distressed I was, Professor
Saylor, about that matter of Margaret van Nice, only I didn't think it
was the right time. I'm dreadfully sorry that you had to be called in.
Such a disgusting accusation! How you must have felt!"
She seemed to misinterpret his wry grimace at this, for she went
on swiftly, "Of course, I never once dreamed that _you_
had done anything the least improper, but I thought there must
be _something_ to the girl's story. She told it in such
_detail_. Really, Professor Saylor, some of the girls that come to
Hempnell nowadays are _terrible_. Where they get such loathsome
ideas from is quite beyond me."
"Would you like to know?"
She looked up at him blankly.
"They get them," he told her concisely, "from a society which seeks
simultaneously to stimulate and inhibit one of their basic drives. They
get them, in brief, from a lot of dirty-minded adults!"
"Really, Professor Saylor! Why--"
"There are a number of girls here at Hempnell who would be a lot
healthier with real love affairs rather than imaginary ones. A fair
proportion, of course, have already made satisfactory adjustments."
He had the satisfaction of hearing her gasp as he abruptly turned into
Morton. His heart was pounding pleasantly. His lips were tight. When
he reached his office he lifted the phone and asked for an on-campus
number.
"Thompson?... Saylor. I have a couple of news items for you."
"Good, good! What are they?" Thompson replied hungrily, in the tone of
one who poises a pencil.
"First, the subject for my address to the Off-campus Mothers week
after next, 'Pre-marital Relations and the College Student.' Second,
my theatrical friends--you know the ones I mean--will be playing in
the city at the same time, and I shall invite them to be guests of the
college."
"But--" The poised pencil had obviously been dropped like a red-hot
poker.
"That's all, Thompson. Perhaps I shall have something more interesting
another time. Good-by."
He felt a stinging sensation in his hand. He had been fingering a
little obsidian knife he used for slitting envelopes. It had gashed
his finger. Blood smeared the clear volcanic glass where once, he told
himself, had been the blood of sacrifice or ritual scarification.
Clumsy--The nine-o'clock buzzer cut short his musing. He ripped a
bandage from his handkerchief.
As he hurried down the corridor, Bronstein fell into step with him.
"We're pulling for you this morning, Dr. Saylor," he murmured heartily.
"What do you mean?"
Bronstein's grin was a trifle knowing. "A girl who works in the
president's office told us they were deciding on the sociology
chairmanship. I sure hope the old buzzards show some sense for once."
Academic dignity stiffened Norman's reply. "In any case, I will be
satisfied with their decision."