I nodded, not especially sociable, but he tagged along and I had to be polite. That wasn’t to polish any apples, I was in his chemistry and physics classes, but they were snaps. I simply hadn’t the heart to rebuff a nice, lonely old geezer.
“Me too,” he went on. “I understand the cheerleaders have planned something spectacular between halves.”
“Yeah?”
He cocked his head and gave me a birdlike glance. “If you’re having any difficulty, Mr. Matuchek . . . if I can help you . . . that’s what I’m here for, you know.”
“Everything’s fine,” I lied. “Thanks anyway, sir.’
“It can’t be easy for a mature man to start in with a lot of giggling freshmen,” he said. “I remember how you helped me in that . . . ah . . . unfortunate incident last month. Believe me, Mr. Matuchek, I am grateful.”
“Oh, hell, that was nothing. I came here to get an education.” And to be with Virginia Graylock. But that’s impossible now. I saw no reason to load my troubles on him. He had an ample supply already.
Griswold sighed, perhaps feeling my withdrawal. “I often feel so useless,” he said.
“Not in the least, sir,” I answered with careful heartiness. “How on Midgard would‑oh, say alchemy, be practical without a thorough grounding in nuclear physics? You’d either get a radioactive isotope that’ could kill you, or blow up half a county.”
“Of course, of course. You understand. You know something of the world‑more than I, in all truth. But the students . . . well, I suppose it’s only natural. They want to speak a few words, make a few passes, and gets what they desire, just like that, without bothering to learn the Sanskrit grammar or the periodic table. They haven’t realized that you never get something for nothing.”
“They will. They’ll grow up.”
“Even the administration . . . this University simply doesn’t appreciate the need for physical science. Novat California, they’re getting a billion‑volt Philosopher’s Stone, but here‑” Griswold shrugged. “Excuse me. I despise self‑pity.”
We came to the stadium, and I handed over my ticket but declined the night‑seeing spectacles, having kept the witch‑sight given me in basic training. My seat was on the thirty‑yard line, between a fresh‑faced coed and an Old Grad already hollering himself raw. An animated tray went by, and I bought a hot dog and rented a crystal ball. But that wasn’t to follow the details of play. I muttered over the globe and peered into it and saw Ginny.
She was seated on the fifty, opposite side, the black cat Svartalf on her lap, her hair a shout of red against the human drabness around. That witchcraft peculiarly hers was something more old and strong than the Art in which she was so adept. Even across the field and through the cheap glass gazer, she made my heart stumble.
Tonight she was with Dr. Alan Abercrombie, assistant professor of comparative mantics, sleek, blond, handsome, the lion of the tiffins. He’d been paying her a lot of attention while I smoldered alone.
Quite alone. I think Svartalf considers my morals no better than his. I had every intention of fidelity, but when you’ve parked your broomstick in a moonlit lane and a cute bit of fluff is snuggled against you . . . those round yellow eyes glowing from a nearby tree are remarkably style‑cramping. I soon gave up and spent my evenings studying or drinking beer.
Heigh‑ho. I drew my coat tighter about me and shivered in the wind. That air smelled wrong somehow . . . probably only my bad mood, I thought, but I’d sniffed trouble in the future before now.
The Old Grad blasted my ears off as the teams trotted out into the moonlight, Trismegistus’ Gryphons and the Albertus Magnus Wyverns. The very old grads say they can’t get used to so many four‑eyed runts wearing letters. Apparently a football team was composed of dinosaurs back before the goetic age. But of course the Art is essentially intellectual and has given its own tone to sports.
This game had its interesting points. The Wyverns levitate off and their tiny quarterback turned out to be a werepelican. Dushanovitch, in condor shape, nailed him on our twenty. Andrevski is the best line werebuck in the Big Ten, and held them for two downs. In the third, Pilsudski got the ball and became a kangaroo. His footwork was beautiful as he dodged a tackle‑the guy had a Tarnkappe, but you could see the footprints advanced‑and passed to Mstislav. The Wyverns swooped low, expecting Mstislav to turn it into a raven for a field goal, but with lightning a‑crackle as he fended off their counterspells, he made it into a pig ? greased. (These were minor transformations, naturally, a quick gesture at an object already sensitized, not the great and terrible Words I was to hear before dawn.)