Probably away on a fund-raising campaign,
Michael thought—or building barricades in preparation for the spring
campaign of the SDS. Not that it mattered. Anything the President would
say about one of his most illustrious alumni wouldn’t be worth peanuts.
The same thing was true of the Vice-President. Michael only needed him
as a source of references.
“I’m afraid there are very few of Mr. Randolph’s former
professors available,” the Vice-President explained winsomely. “Now
although I was not myself in residence at the time, I have followed Mr.
Randolph’s career with interest, and I might say…”
He recapitulated Randolph’s public career, which Michael
could have recited from memory, for ten minutes before Michael could
stop him.
“I want to talk to people who actually knew him,” Michael
explained.
The Vice-President hesitated, torn between irritation and
caution. How these pompous asses did love to see their names in print,
Michael thought. The man was smart enough to know that if he vexed the
biographer, his name might appear amid adjectives that would make him
writhe. The pungent style of the periodical that had commissioned the
biography was well known.
“Well, of course, this was twenty years ago,” the V.P.
said, with a slight sniff. “Most of our professors are mature men when
they are at the height of their careers; by now the majority are
retired or—hem—deceased. And, while people tend to think of the
academic profession as static, there is in actual fact—”
“A lot of job shifting,” Michael interrupted. “I know
that. I’ll do the tracking down myself. All I really need are the names
of Randolph’s professors and their current addresses, if they are
available.”
“Well, if you insist, Mr.—”
Michael insisted. When the file was produced, the
Vice-President brooded over it.
“Physics; Professor Kraus. Emeritus, now, of course; I
believe he returned to Germany or Austria. If he’s still
alive…Sociology; that would be Professor Smith, he is now at Elm
College, in the—er—Midwest somewhere.”
“Chicago,” Michael said.
“Somewhere of that sort, yes. I don’t know that he would
be of much help to you; Mr. Randolph only took one of his courses. Now
his major, naturally, was English; the chairman at that time was
Professor—”
He looked up, his eyes widening, and Michael nodded.
“Collins. He was my father. He’s dead. Ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry…. Well, then, let me see, there was Doctor
Wilkes….”
Not a single one of Randolph’s former professors was
still in residence. Michael finally escaped with a very short list.
Four of the men were still living, two in Europe and one at Harvard,
plus the unfortunate exile in the Midwest. Michael went home and wrote
letters. He couldn’t go traipsing off to Munich to interview a man who
had taught Randolph algebra twenty years ago. The man at Harvard was on
sabbatical leave.
He had begun his investigations with the academic world
not only because it was more in line with his own interests but because
he believed in the importance of that period in character formation.
Sooner or later, he would have to interview Randolph’s business
associates. Talk about a subject being outside your field; he wasn’t
even sure what Randolph’s business was. One of those massive
conglomerates that included manufacturing, investments, oil wells, and
God knows what else. But there were offices someplace in the city; if
there wasn’t a Randolph Building, it was presumably only because
Randolph hadn’t got around to constructing one. Yes, eventually he’d
have to talk to the inhabitants of the business world, but he had no
illusions about that; no one who worked for Randolph was going to tell
him anything interesting.
So the next step was the college where Randolph had
taught. It was in Pennsylvania; not a long drive, but he decided to
plan to stay overnight, since that particular episode was fairly
recent, and
Michael thought—or building barricades in preparation for the spring
campaign of the SDS. Not that it mattered. Anything the President would
say about one of his most illustrious alumni wouldn’t be worth peanuts.
The same thing was true of the Vice-President. Michael only needed him
as a source of references.
“I’m afraid there are very few of Mr. Randolph’s former
professors available,” the Vice-President explained winsomely. “Now
although I was not myself in residence at the time, I have followed Mr.
Randolph’s career with interest, and I might say…”
He recapitulated Randolph’s public career, which Michael
could have recited from memory, for ten minutes before Michael could
stop him.
“I want to talk to people who actually knew him,” Michael
explained.
The Vice-President hesitated, torn between irritation and
caution. How these pompous asses did love to see their names in print,
Michael thought. The man was smart enough to know that if he vexed the
biographer, his name might appear amid adjectives that would make him
writhe. The pungent style of the periodical that had commissioned the
biography was well known.
“Well, of course, this was twenty years ago,” the V.P.
said, with a slight sniff. “Most of our professors are mature men when
they are at the height of their careers; by now the majority are
retired or—hem—deceased. And, while people tend to think of the
academic profession as static, there is in actual fact—”
“A lot of job shifting,” Michael interrupted. “I know
that. I’ll do the tracking down myself. All I really need are the names
of Randolph’s professors and their current addresses, if they are
available.”
“Well, if you insist, Mr.—”
Michael insisted. When the file was produced, the
Vice-President brooded over it.
“Physics; Professor Kraus. Emeritus, now, of course; I
believe he returned to Germany or Austria. If he’s still
alive…Sociology; that would be Professor Smith, he is now at Elm
College, in the—er—Midwest somewhere.”
“Chicago,” Michael said.
“Somewhere of that sort, yes. I don’t know that he would
be of much help to you; Mr. Randolph only took one of his courses. Now
his major, naturally, was English; the chairman at that time was
Professor—”
He looked up, his eyes widening, and Michael nodded.
“Collins. He was my father. He’s dead. Ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry…. Well, then, let me see, there was Doctor
Wilkes….”
Not a single one of Randolph’s former professors was
still in residence. Michael finally escaped with a very short list.
Four of the men were still living, two in Europe and one at Harvard,
plus the unfortunate exile in the Midwest. Michael went home and wrote
letters. He couldn’t go traipsing off to Munich to interview a man who
had taught Randolph algebra twenty years ago. The man at Harvard was on
sabbatical leave.
He had begun his investigations with the academic world
not only because it was more in line with his own interests but because
he believed in the importance of that period in character formation.
Sooner or later, he would have to interview Randolph’s business
associates. Talk about a subject being outside your field; he wasn’t
even sure what Randolph’s business was. One of those massive
conglomerates that included manufacturing, investments, oil wells, and
God knows what else. But there were offices someplace in the city; if
there wasn’t a Randolph Building, it was presumably only because
Randolph hadn’t got around to constructing one. Yes, eventually he’d
have to talk to the inhabitants of the business world, but he had no
illusions about that; no one who worked for Randolph was going to tell
him anything interesting.
So the next step was the college where Randolph had
taught. It was in Pennsylvania; not a long drive, but he decided to
plan to stay overnight, since that particular episode was fairly
recent, and
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