“THE TROUBLE WITH STRADDLING FENCES IS THAT SOMETIMES YOU GET SLIVERS IN YOUR CROTCH,” Jonathan Relevant boomed by way of reply.
“ ‘Swivel it a notch?’ No. That won’t do any good. The dang thing’s really busted.”
Professor Rumpkis was on his feet again, his hands no longer blocking his mouth. He looked at Dr. Umpmeyer and started to answer him. Dr. Umpmeyer ostentatiously placed both his hands over both his ears. Professor Rumpkis belched belligerently and spoke anyway. When he’d finished, he broke wind loudly, sneered ghoulishly at Dr. Umpmeyer, sat down, and covered his mouth with his hands again.
New voices carried on the discussion. Most of the faculty leaned toward the middle course suggested by Dr. Umpmeyer. A resolution calling for the Ad Hoc Faculty Committee to moderate the dispute was proposed. While it was being voted on, Jonathan Relevant looked at the three main protagonists.
Mercy Altebopper still sat with her hands over her eyes. Dr. Umpmeyer still covered his ears with his hands. And Professor Rumpkis was still concealing his belches behind the hands clasped in front of his mouth.
See no evil! Hear no evil! Speak no evil! Jonathan Relevant smiled to himself. Number One Monkey saw only that the kids were right and remained blind to the possibility of the baby going down the drain with the bath water. Number Two Monkey was all for communication—and deaf to what anybody else was saying. And Number Three Monkey believed in the rule book and wasn’t about to talk to anybody who questioned it.
The Three Wise Men? Jonathan Relevant wondered. Why not? Wisdom is always relative. Or is it just that all men are monkeys?
The vote taken and the resolution approved, a logic instructor spoke up. “If we’re going to moderate, we have to know precisely what the position of each of the factions actually is. I move that we appoint a representative to confer with each of them and report back to us.”
The motion was seconded and carried by a hand vote. A Jenssen-ite biology professor was chosen to talk to the black students. And orderly law professor was pick to establish communication with the SDS students. That left open the selection of someone to confer with the administration.
What teacher, instructor, or professor has a viable relationship with Chancellor Hardlign, or the trustees? That was the question before the meeting. There was no answer; there were no takers.
“And that’s precisely why we should be backing the students instead of trying to referee!” Mercy Altebopper peeped out from behind her hands. Her tic died hard.
“You, sir-—” A phys.-ed. instructor was on his feet and pointing at Jonathan Relevant. “Didn’t I see you with Chancellor Hardlign before? When we were rescuing him from his office?”
“I was with him,” Jonathan Relevant admitted.
“That’s our man,” the instructor told the other faculty members. “He’s been through a traumatic experience with the chancellor. If anybody can talk to him, he can.”
“But—” Jonathan Relevant tried to say.
“All in favor say ‘Aye.’ ”
“AYE!” It was unanimous.
“That’s democracy.” Jonathan Relevant sighed to himself.
“What’s that they’re saying?” Professor Umpmeyer want-ed to know.
“I’M TO TALK TO THE CHANCELLOR ABOUT THE STUDENTS.” Jonathan Relevant filled him in.
“Good idea. One of their own should talk to the students. Let them know the faculty can’t condone violence.”
“IT’S THE CHANCELLOR I’M TALKING TO!”
“It might be a balky screw. You could be right." Professor Umpmeyer took out his hearing aid and started fiddling with it again.
“And that’s one of the problems of democracy,” Jonathan Relevant decided. “Nobody really listens. And even when they're talking about the problem of nobody listening, nobody’s listening." Jonathan Relevant cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. . . . '
The knuckles of the President of the United States were also being cracked—but not in thought. His digital joints were being snapped in smoldering anger as he surveyed the dinner plate which had just been place under his nose. “Grits!” he hissed menacingly. “The roughest roughage around! With my hemorrhoids! That cook must be trying to kill me! Get him out here!”
A moment later the White House cook stood quivering before him. “You wanted to see me, Mr. President?”
“Look at this!” The President raised the plate. “Grits!” He picked it up higher. “Who put you up to this? The Kremlin?”
“Please, Mr. President. I just cooked them."
“Who ordered them?” the President demanded.
“I don’t know, Mr. President. The order came from on high. It was just passed down to me.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” the White House butler interrupted. “The grits were a very special gift.”
“From who?” the President demanded. “Chou En-lai? I demand to know who sent them!”
The butler told him.
“Strom?” The President picked up his fork. “Strom . . . well, then . . .” He shoveled a forkful of grits into his mouth.
“Excuse me, Mr. President.” The butler was at his elbow again, holding a telephone. “It’s the ambassador calling from the UN.”
“Yes?” The President took the phone. “They passed a resolution to what? . . . I see. . . . But isn’t there some— Just a minute. Hold the phone.” The President laid the receiver down on the table and turned to confront the butler, who was standing behind him with a pencil and a small pad. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the President inquired.
“My memoirs, Mr. President.”
“Your what?”
“My memoirs. I’m taking notes for them. You know, for when I write my book: My Four Years as a White House Butler. I’ve already got the contract for it.”
“That’s pretty damn opportunistic,” the President fumed. “You could be fired, you know.”
“With the domestic-help situation the way it is today? I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Mr. President. Please don’t upset yourself, sir. I’ll be very quiet. I’ll just stand back here and take my notes.”
“The least you could do is make it eight years,” the President grumbled, picking up the phone again. “All right. Go on with what you were telling me,” he said into the mouthpiece.
The President listened. Finally he hung up. “I’m going into the study,” he told the butler. “I have to make some important calls. Private calls,” he added pointedly.
“But you haven’t finished your grits yet, Mr. President,” the butler reminded him. .
The President stood, opened the flap of his jacket, and with a swift motion of his hand brushed the grits from the plate into his pocket. “Don’t tell Strom!” he cautioned the butler.
Alone in his study, the President dialed the private number of the head of the CIA. “Oswald,” he said when the buzzing was answered, “the General Assembly just passed a resolution demanding that Jonathan Relevant be turned over to the UN. Our ambassador’s feeling is that if we don’t comply, they may go so far as to apply sanctions. So I think you’d better get Relevant On a plane to New York as soon as possible.”