Most of his own Modern History IV class had left the building and were
on their way across the campus for science classes. A few, however,
were joining groups for other classes here in Prescott Hall, and in
every group, they were the center of interest. Sometimes, when they
saw him, they would fall silent until he had passed; sometimes they
didn't, and he caught snatches of conversation.

"Oh, brother! Did Chalmers really blow his jets this time!" one voice
was saying.

"Bet he won't be around next year."

Another quartet, with their heads together, were talking more
seriously.

"Well, I'm not majoring in History, myself, but I think it's an
outrage that some people's diplomas are going to depend on grades
given by a lunatic!"

"Mine will, and I'm not going to stand for it. My old man's president
of the Alumni Association, and...."

* * * * *

That was something he had not thought of, before. It gave him an ugly
start. He was still thinking about it as he turned into the side hall
to the History Department offices and entered the cubicle he shared
with a colleague. The colleague, old Pottgeiter, Medieval History, was
emerging in a rush; short, rotund, gray-bearded, his arms full of