"They're opening new doors at the head of the procession!" said Buck hotly, shocked by the blunt, near-sabotage talk, and now fighting it, like the good citizen he was. He'd learned the resounding phrase about opening doors in a freshman orientation program, at which a Doctor Kroner had been the impressive chief speaker.
"Slamming doors in everybody's face," said Harrison. "That's what they're doing."
"Keep your voice down," warned Doctor Roseberry.
"I don't care," said Harrison stridently, "not after what they did to the only grownup there. They gave Proteus the sack, that's what they did."
"Proteus has been dead for years," said Buck, sure Harrison was a fake.
"His son, his son, Paul," said Harrison. "So let me say, my boy, go out and make your money on the gridiron, with blood and sweat and sinew. There's honor and glory in that - a little, anyway - and you'll never hate yourself. But keep the hell away from the head of the procession, where you'll get it in the neck if you can't get a lump in your throat over the ups and downs of a bunch of factories." He attempted to rise, failed once, made it the next time. "And now, goodbye."
"Where are you going?" said Doctor Roseberry. "Stick around, stick around."
"Where? First to shut off that part of the Ithaca works for which I am responsible, and then to an island, perhaps, a cabin in the north woods, a shack in the Everglades."
"And do what?" said Buck, baffled.
"Do?" said Harrison. "Do? That's just it, my boy. All of the doors have been closed. There's nothing to do but to find a womb suitable for an adult, and crawl into it. One without machines would suit me particularly."
"What have you got against machines?" said Buck.
"They're slaves."
"Well, what the heck," said Buck. "I mean, they aren't people. They don't suffer. They don't mind working."
"No. But they compete with people."
"That's a pretty good thing, isn't it - considering what a sloppy job most people do of anything?"
"Anybody that competes with slaves becomes a slave," said Harrison thickly, and he left.
A dark man, dressed like a student, but much older-looking, set down his untouched benedictine and Pluto water on the bar, studied the faces of Roseberry and Young as though memorizing them, and followed Harrison out of the building.
"Let's go out in the lobby, where we can talk," said Roseberry, as a cycle of songs began.
"Cheer, cheer, here we are again," cried the young voices, and Young and Roseberry moved into the lobby.
"Well?" said Doctor Roseberry.
"I -"
"Doctor Roseberry, I believe?"
Roseberry looked up at the intruder, a sandy-mustached gentleman, in a violet shirt, matching boutonniere, and a gay waistcoat contrasting with his dark suit. "Yes?"
"My name is Halyard, E. J., of the State Department. And these gentlemen here are the Shah of Bratpuhr, and his interpreter, Khashdrahr Miasma. We were just leaving for the president's house, and I happened to spot you."
"Charmed," said Doctor Roseberry.
"Brahous brahouna, bouna saki," said the Shah, bowing slightly.
Halyard laughed nervously. "Guess we have a little business tomorrow morning, eh?"
"Oh," said Roseberry, "you're the one - the one for the phys. ed. finals."
"Yes, yes indeed. Haven't had a cigarette in two weeks. Will it take long?"
"No, I don't think so. Fifteen minutes ought to do the trick."
"Oh? That short a time, eh? Well, well." The tennis shoes and shorts he'd bought that afternoon wouldn't get much wear in that time.
"Oh, 'scuse me, gents," said Roseberry. "This here's Buck Young. Student just now."
"Lakki-ti Takaru?" the Shah asked Buck.
" 'Like it here?' " translated Khashdrahr.
"Yessir. Very much, sir, your highness."
"A lot different from my day," said Halyard. "By gosh, we had to get up every morning bright and early, climb the hill in all kinds of weather, and sit there and listen to some of the dullest lectures you ever heard of. And, of course, some poor fish would have to get up in front of us and talk every day of the week, and chances are he wasn't much of a speaker, and anyway no showman."
"Yes, the professional actors and the television circuits are a big improvement, sir," said Buck.
"And the exams!" said Halyard. "Pretty cute, you know, punching out the answers, and then finding out right off if you passed or flunked. Boy, believe me, we used to have to write our arms off, and then we'd have to wait weeks for a prof to grade the exams. And plenty of times they made bad mistakes on the grades."
"Yessir," said Buck politely.
"Well, I'll see one of your assistants tomorrow, eh?" said Halyard to Roseberry.
"I intend I should give you the tests personal," said Roseberry.
"Well! I guess that's an honor, with the season just beginning."
"Sure," said Roseberry. He reached into his breast pocket and produced the letter and the memo. He handed the letter to Halyard. "Here's something you should oughta read before you come."
"Fine, thanks." Halyard took it, supposing it was a list of the things he would have to do. He smiled warmly at Roseberry, who had given every indication that Halyard would be given an exceedingly simple and short series of tests. A mere fifteen minutes, he'd said. That would do it.
Halyard glanced at the letter, and couldn't imagine what it was all about at first. It was addressed to the president of Cornell, Doctor Albert Herpers, not to him. Moreover, the date on it indicated that it was five years old.
Dear Doctor Herpers: he read -
I had occasion to see the wearers of the Red and White after the Penn game in Philadelphia this Thanksgiving, and I must say I was ashamed to admit to anyone that I had ever come within fifty miles of Ithaca.
I was dining in the Club Cybernetics after the game, when the team, led by this new man, Doctor Roseberry, arrived en masse . . .
The letter went on to describe the bacchanal that followed, with particular emphasis on the crudities of Roseberry's behavior -
while, mind you, all were wearing what I, perhaps in my old-fashioned way, consider sacred, the C of the Big Red. . . .
In view of this, Doctor Herpers, I feel constrained to point out, as a loyal alumnus, that Doctor Roseberry, in his first year with the Big Red, is off to an extremely poor start. In the brief time of his incumbency, I have no doubt that the shockingly public moral turpitude of the team has made a worse name for what I was once proud to claim as my Alma Mater than a lifetime of gridiron victories can possibly offset. . .
It is my fervent hope that Roseberry will be forced to resign forthwith, or, failing that, that outraged alumni sell him to some Grade C school forthwith.
To this end, I am sending copies of this letter to the Alumni Secretary, to each of the local alumni chapters, to the Trustees, and to the Secretary of Athletics in Washington, D. C.
Very truly yours,
"Oh," said Halyard, his poise gone, suddenly looking ridiculous in the clothes that had been high fashion a moment before. "Saw this, did you?"
"Doctor Herpers thought I'd be interested."
A sickly grin framed Halyard's white teeth. "Long time ago, wasn't it, Doctor? Seems like a hundred years."
"Like yesterday."
"Ha ha. Lot of water under the dam since those days, eh?"
The Shah looked questioningly at Khashdrahr for an explanation of what made Halyard so gray suddenly. Khashdrahr shrugged.
"Over the dam," said Buck Young, filling the grim void in the conversation. "Or under the bridge."