“What kind of pressures?” I asked.
He turned away. “I do not believe I am the one to be talking about it, really.”
“You are,” I said. “Really. Tell me about it.”
“Well, the university gets a lot of money from the government, you know. Grants, research contracts … ”
“I know. What of it?”
“Ordinarily, they keep their nose out of our business.”
“Which is as it should be.”
“Occasionally, though, they have something to say. When they do, we generally listen.”
“Are you trying to tell me I’ve been awarded my degree by government request?”
“In a word, yes.”
“I don’t believe you. They just don’t do things like that.”
He shrugged. Then he turned and looked at me again.
“There was a time when I would have said the same thing,” he told me, “but I know better now.”
“Why did they want it done?”
“I still have no idea.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“I was told that the reason for the request was of a confidential nature. I was also told that it was a matter of some urgency, and he waved the word ‘security’ at us. That was all that I was told.”
I stopped pacing. I jammed my hands into my pockets. I took them out again. I found a cigarette and lit it. It tasted funny. But then, they all did these days. Everything did.
“A man named Nadler” he said, “Theodore Nadler. He is with the State Department. He is the one who contacted us and suggested … the arrangements.”
“I see,” I said. “Is that who you were trying to call when I removed the means of doing it?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at his desk, crossed to it, picked up his pipe and his pouch.
“Yes,” he repeated, loading the bowl. “He asked me to get in touch with him if I caught sight of you. Since you have seen to it that I can’t do it right now, I would suggest that you call him yourself if you want further particulars.”
He put the pipe between his teeth, leaned forward and scrawled a number on a pad. He tore the sheet off and handed it to me.
I took it, glanced at the screwed-up digits, stuck it into my pocket. Wexroth lit his pipe.
“And you really don’t know what he wants of me?” I said.
He pushed his chair back into its proper position, then seated himself.
“I have no idea.”
“Well,” I said, “I feel better for having hit you, anyway. I’ll see you in court.”
I turned to go.
“I do not believe anyone has ever sought an order directing a university to rescind his degree,” he said. “It should be interesting. In the meantime, I cannot say that I am unhappy to see an end to your dronehood.”
“Save the celebration,” I said. “I haven’t finished yet.”
“You and the Flying Dutchman,” he muttered just before I slammed the door.
I had descended into an alleyway, up the block and around the corner from Merimee’s place. Minutes later I was in a taxi and headed uptown. I got out at a clothing store, went in and bought a coat. It was chilly and I had left my jacket behind. From there, I walked to the hall. I had plenty of time and I wanted to determine, if possible, whether I was being followed.
I spent almost an hour in that big room where they kept the Rhennius machine. I wondered whether my other visit there had made the morning news. No matter. I paid attention to the movements of the viewers, to the positions of the four guards-there had only been two before-to the distances to the several entrances, to everything. I could not tell whether a new grille was yet in place on the other side of one of the overhead windows. Not that it really mattered. I had no intention of trying the same trick a second time. I was after something fast and different.
Musing, I went out to locate a sandwich and a beer, the latter for the benefit of any telepaths in the neighborhood. While I was about it, I kept checking and decided that I was not, at the moment, the subject of conspicuous scrutiny. I found a place, entered, ordered, settled down to eating and thought.