want to. But if this night-clock’s so dangerous, why can’t we
just smash it up ourselves?”
“No.” said
Anna. “It might have influence on innocent people as well as evil spirits. A
night-clock ties people to it like babies on umbilical cords. If you’ve been
affected by a night-clock, then you’re totally dependent on it for your spiritual
survival.”
“Well, as long
as you know what you’re talking about, we’ll leave it,” I said. “My personal
feeling is that we ought to break it up.”
As I took a
last squint through the hole, I thought I saw a slight flicker of movement. I
looked again, and I could have sworn that, through the hole, I saw a pale
shape, half-obscured behind reflected light on the turret window.
“Anna -” I
started to speak, but the shape disappeared, and there was nothing but the
silent house and that repetitive weathervane, squeaking like a pain that
wouldn’t go away.
It took us all
afternoon to find Professor Qualt. We called at his apartment in a rambling old
house just outside of New Bedford, but his landlady said that he had left
around 7:30 in the morning, with a lunchbox. He usually went to the beach, she
said, and wrote up his notes.
Unfortunately,
she didn’t know which beach, or where it was. Anna and I looked at each other
in resigned patience, climbed back in the car, and went to find him.
After seven
beaches, we saw a brightly colored umbrella amongst the grassy dunes and went
to investigate. It was Professor Qualt, asleep. He was a middle-aged man with
the muscular physique and the dense black body hair of an educated gorilla, He
was lying flat out under the umbrella with a half-empty can of beer in one
hand; the radio was playing Mozart string quartets.
He was wearing
reflecting mirror sunglasses, a voluminous pair of candy-striped bathing
trunks, and those handmade leather sandals you can buy in Key West.
Anna leaned
forward and switched off the radio. For a while. Professor Qualt remained deeply asleep, but then his nose began to twitch, his
eyes blinked open, and he sat up.
“Anna Modena,”
he said groggily, in a deep, well-modulated voice. “What in the world are you
doing here? Hey-please excuse me-I was right in the middle of -”
“Writing up
your notes?” said Anna with gentle sarcasm.
Qualt laughed.
He had a bluff, hearty laugh that reminded me of a huge, jolly, and thoroughly
objectionable quarterback I used to know. He sat up, yawned, stretched his
hairy arms, and invited us to sit down on his blanket with him.
“You want a
beer?” he asked me. It was then that I began to think he probably wasn’t such a
bad guy after all. He reached into his lunchbox and brought out a couple of
chilled cans of Old Milwaukee, as well as some crackers and Polish salami.
“I should have
paid more attention in class,” I said wryly. “Maybe I could’ve made it through
college and spent the rest of my life drinking beer on beaches.”
Anna gave me an
irritated little frown, but Qualt thought it was funny. He opened up his can of
beer and swallowed it in great gulps.
“You know
something,” said Qualt, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If only
more dropouts would stick it out, they’d earn their way through to the ultimate
dropout-the wonderful vacationland of professorship.”
Anna shook her
head. “He’s kidding you, Harry. Professor Qualt here is the most hard-working,
brilliant, and dedicated academic you’re ever likely to meet.”
Qualt laughed
again. “That doesn’t say much for the rest of them, does it?”
We sat in
silence for a moment, then Anna said quietly, “Professor, there’s something we
want to ask you about.”
“Sure. Go
ahead. As long as you don’t want me to translate 200 pages of original
16th-century Persian poetry, which is what Professor Jaminsky wanted me to do.”
“What did you
tell him?” I asked.
Qualt shrugged.
“I just said that two vitally important things were going to suffer
just smash it up ourselves?”
“No.” said
Anna. “It might have influence on innocent people as well as evil spirits. A
night-clock ties people to it like babies on umbilical cords. If you’ve been
affected by a night-clock, then you’re totally dependent on it for your spiritual
survival.”
“Well, as long
as you know what you’re talking about, we’ll leave it,” I said. “My personal
feeling is that we ought to break it up.”
As I took a
last squint through the hole, I thought I saw a slight flicker of movement. I
looked again, and I could have sworn that, through the hole, I saw a pale
shape, half-obscured behind reflected light on the turret window.
“Anna -” I
started to speak, but the shape disappeared, and there was nothing but the
silent house and that repetitive weathervane, squeaking like a pain that
wouldn’t go away.
It took us all
afternoon to find Professor Qualt. We called at his apartment in a rambling old
house just outside of New Bedford, but his landlady said that he had left
around 7:30 in the morning, with a lunchbox. He usually went to the beach, she
said, and wrote up his notes.
Unfortunately,
she didn’t know which beach, or where it was. Anna and I looked at each other
in resigned patience, climbed back in the car, and went to find him.
After seven
beaches, we saw a brightly colored umbrella amongst the grassy dunes and went
to investigate. It was Professor Qualt, asleep. He was a middle-aged man with
the muscular physique and the dense black body hair of an educated gorilla, He
was lying flat out under the umbrella with a half-empty can of beer in one
hand; the radio was playing Mozart string quartets.
He was wearing
reflecting mirror sunglasses, a voluminous pair of candy-striped bathing
trunks, and those handmade leather sandals you can buy in Key West.
Anna leaned
forward and switched off the radio. For a while. Professor Qualt remained deeply asleep, but then his nose began to twitch, his
eyes blinked open, and he sat up.
“Anna Modena,”
he said groggily, in a deep, well-modulated voice. “What in the world are you
doing here? Hey-please excuse me-I was right in the middle of -”
“Writing up
your notes?” said Anna with gentle sarcasm.
Qualt laughed.
He had a bluff, hearty laugh that reminded me of a huge, jolly, and thoroughly
objectionable quarterback I used to know. He sat up, yawned, stretched his
hairy arms, and invited us to sit down on his blanket with him.
“You want a
beer?” he asked me. It was then that I began to think he probably wasn’t such a
bad guy after all. He reached into his lunchbox and brought out a couple of
chilled cans of Old Milwaukee, as well as some crackers and Polish salami.
“I should have
paid more attention in class,” I said wryly. “Maybe I could’ve made it through
college and spent the rest of my life drinking beer on beaches.”
Anna gave me an
irritated little frown, but Qualt thought it was funny. He opened up his can of
beer and swallowed it in great gulps.
“You know
something,” said Qualt, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If only
more dropouts would stick it out, they’d earn their way through to the ultimate
dropout-the wonderful vacationland of professorship.”
Anna shook her
head. “He’s kidding you, Harry. Professor Qualt here is the most hard-working,
brilliant, and dedicated academic you’re ever likely to meet.”
Qualt laughed
again. “That doesn’t say much for the rest of them, does it?”
We sat in
silence for a moment, then Anna said quietly, “Professor, there’s something we
want to ask you about.”
“Sure. Go
ahead. As long as you don’t want me to translate 200 pages of original
16th-century Persian poetry, which is what Professor Jaminsky wanted me to do.”
“What did you
tell him?” I asked.
Qualt shrugged.
“I just said that two vitally important things were going to suffer
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