The reporters, unable to storm the Faculty Club, had gone off in chase
of other game and had cornered Lloyd Whitburn in front of
Administration Center. They had a jeep with a sound-camera mounted on
it, and were trying to get something for telecast. After gesticulating
angrily, Whitburn broke away from them and dashed up the steps and
into the building. A campus policeman stopped those who tried to
follow.

His only afternoon class was American History III. He got through it
somehow, though the class wasn't able to concentrate on the
Reconstruction and the first election of Grover Cleveland. The halls
were free of reporters, at least, and when it was over he hurried to
the Library, going to the faculty reading-room in the rear, where he
could smoke. There was nobody there but old Max Pottgeiter, smoking a
cigar, his head bent over a book. The Medieval History professor
looked up.

"Oh, hello, Chalmers. What the deuce is going on around here? Has
everybody gone suddenly crazy?" he asked.

"Well, they seem to think I have," he said bitterly.

"They do? Stupid of them. What's all this about some Arab being shot?
I didn't know there were any Arabs around here."

"Not here. At Basra." He told Pottgeiter what had happened.

"Well! I'm sorry to hear about that," the old man said. "I have a
friend at Southern California, Bellingham, who knew Khalid very well.
Was in the Middle East doing some research on the Byzantine Empire;