good. The
content is execrable."
He stared grimly down at Ross, who was sprawled comfortably in an armchair
in Steen's study.
"Before you make your usual insolent reply," Steen went on, "let me warn
you that the moment you do your case goes before the Senatus. I want to
speak to you, Ross, and this time you'll listen."
"Of course I'll listen, sir."
Steen waved the essay in the air. "Your essay cleverly hints at a
perverted relationship between the Principal and the Chancellor, thinly
disguised as two Breton peasants. What you have done here is an evil
thing, a reckless thing, because it can please nobody, but must disgust
and antagonize anyone able to understand it -- as you knew very well,
Ross, I would. Yet to use this revolting document against you would
inevitably be most unpleasant for all concerned, while you would be
free to insist innocently that there was no double meaning, far less a
triple meaning."
He stood over Ross and fixed him with his eyes. "To use talent for such
ends is apparently your purpose in life, Ross, but it is not the reason
you are here. You are supported here at Government expense, and this
means you must ultimately bow to authority."
He sat down opposite Ross.
"Despite your relative caution, it would be very easy at this moment,
before you further express your unedifying personality, to kick you
out. You would then be in an unenviable position, Ross. You have no rich
father or mother or patron. Without a degree, your undoubted linguistic
talents would have very little market value. In other fields you are
totally untrained."
When he paused, Fletcher said: "I am aware of all that, sir. One thing
I should make clear; your opinion of me is flattering compared with my
own of myself."
What he said was true in many ways and at several levels, and there was
no doubting his sincerity.
Steen couldn't doubt it and was put off his stroke. "Well . . . well,
Ross. If that is the case, perhaps you . . . Mr. Ross, please tell me
one thing. Have you ever had psychiatric treatment?"
Fletcher smiled. "No, but I've studied psychology. I have some idea why
I act as I do."
"Well . . . well . . . " Steen was totally at a loss, having started by
going tooth and nail, in his academic way, for a student who needed a
swift kick in the pants, then suddenly got the idea that psychosis might
be involved and then . . . "I don't know," he said. "Good afternoon,
Mr. Ross."
Anyway, Fletcher thought, he had won a "Mister."
Catching Anita after her lecture, he said firmly: "This way."
She hung back. "Considering you broke into my bed- room last night and
hit me . . . "
"That was Ross, Anita."
She shrugged impatiently. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. This is just another
of your dirty schemes -- "
"I can prove I'm Fletcher, if you let me."
"I can see you're Ross."
"Ross too, of course. But he isn't here at the moment. He's sulking.
What I mean is, I can prove that part of me is Fletcher."
"How?"
"Remember the waiting room in the psychology department? You told me
you fancied yourself as Mata Hari."
That caught her. She paused, frowned.
"I said I liked your voice. You said 'Just my voice? I thought I had
rather nice legs.' You asked if I was a misogynist . . . "
"All right, I'll talk to you. Maybe I can help. I know several
psychiatrists."
That again. Fletcher was unmoved. "Insanity isn't involved. I don't
think I'm Napoleon Bonaparte, I know I'm John Fletcher. And so will you,
if you let me talk to you."
"Where do you want to go?"
"Somewhere quiet."
"In the Union? You must be joking."
"No, it's easy." He led her to a locker-room which proved to be
deserted. "Fletcher, poor sucker that he was, was always amazingly good
at unimportant things like
content is execrable."
He stared grimly down at Ross, who was sprawled comfortably in an armchair
in Steen's study.
"Before you make your usual insolent reply," Steen went on, "let me warn
you that the moment you do your case goes before the Senatus. I want to
speak to you, Ross, and this time you'll listen."
"Of course I'll listen, sir."
Steen waved the essay in the air. "Your essay cleverly hints at a
perverted relationship between the Principal and the Chancellor, thinly
disguised as two Breton peasants. What you have done here is an evil
thing, a reckless thing, because it can please nobody, but must disgust
and antagonize anyone able to understand it -- as you knew very well,
Ross, I would. Yet to use this revolting document against you would
inevitably be most unpleasant for all concerned, while you would be
free to insist innocently that there was no double meaning, far less a
triple meaning."
He stood over Ross and fixed him with his eyes. "To use talent for such
ends is apparently your purpose in life, Ross, but it is not the reason
you are here. You are supported here at Government expense, and this
means you must ultimately bow to authority."
He sat down opposite Ross.
"Despite your relative caution, it would be very easy at this moment,
before you further express your unedifying personality, to kick you
out. You would then be in an unenviable position, Ross. You have no rich
father or mother or patron. Without a degree, your undoubted linguistic
talents would have very little market value. In other fields you are
totally untrained."
When he paused, Fletcher said: "I am aware of all that, sir. One thing
I should make clear; your opinion of me is flattering compared with my
own of myself."
What he said was true in many ways and at several levels, and there was
no doubting his sincerity.
Steen couldn't doubt it and was put off his stroke. "Well . . . well,
Ross. If that is the case, perhaps you . . . Mr. Ross, please tell me
one thing. Have you ever had psychiatric treatment?"
Fletcher smiled. "No, but I've studied psychology. I have some idea why
I act as I do."
"Well . . . well . . . " Steen was totally at a loss, having started by
going tooth and nail, in his academic way, for a student who needed a
swift kick in the pants, then suddenly got the idea that psychosis might
be involved and then . . . "I don't know," he said. "Good afternoon,
Mr. Ross."
Anyway, Fletcher thought, he had won a "Mister."
Catching Anita after her lecture, he said firmly: "This way."
She hung back. "Considering you broke into my bed- room last night and
hit me . . . "
"That was Ross, Anita."
She shrugged impatiently. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. This is just another
of your dirty schemes -- "
"I can prove I'm Fletcher, if you let me."
"I can see you're Ross."
"Ross too, of course. But he isn't here at the moment. He's sulking.
What I mean is, I can prove that part of me is Fletcher."
"How?"
"Remember the waiting room in the psychology department? You told me
you fancied yourself as Mata Hari."
That caught her. She paused, frowned.
"I said I liked your voice. You said 'Just my voice? I thought I had
rather nice legs.' You asked if I was a misogynist . . . "
"All right, I'll talk to you. Maybe I can help. I know several
psychiatrists."
That again. Fletcher was unmoved. "Insanity isn't involved. I don't
think I'm Napoleon Bonaparte, I know I'm John Fletcher. And so will you,
if you let me talk to you."
"Where do you want to go?"
"Somewhere quiet."
"In the Union? You must be joking."
"No, it's easy." He led her to a locker-room which proved to be
deserted. "Fletcher, poor sucker that he was, was always amazingly good
at unimportant things like
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