Pottgeiter started to explain; Chalmers realized, sickly, how much of
his future history he had poured into the trusting ear of the old
medievalist, the day before.

"Good Lord, man; don't you read the papers at all?" another of the
trustees asked.

"No! And I don't read inside-dope magazines, or science fiction. I
read carefully substantiated facts. And I know when I'm talking to a
sane and reasonable man. It isn't a common experience, around here."

Dacre passed a hand over his face. "Doctor Whitburn," he said, "I must
admit that I came to this meeting strongly prejudiced against you, and
I'll further admit that your own behavior here has done very little to
dispel that prejudice. But I'm beginning to get some idea of what you
have to contend with, here at Blanley, and I find that I must make a
lot of allowances. I had no idea.... Simply no idea at all."

"Look, you're getting a completely distorted picture of this, Mr.
Dacre," Fitch broke in. "It's precisely as I believed; Doctor Chalmers
is an unusually gifted precognitive percipient. You've seen,
gentlemen, how his complicated chain of precognitions about the death
of Khalid has been proven veridical; I'd stake my life that every one
of these precognitions will be similarly verified. And I'll stake my
professional reputation that the man is perfectly sane. Of course,
abnormal psychology and psychopathology aren't my subjects, but...."

"They're not my subjects, either," Whitburn retorted, "but I know a
lunatic by his ravings."