I'm up to my neck in it."
There was an uproar outside. The doorman was saying, firmly:
"This is the Faculty Club, gentlemen; it's for members only. I don't
care if you gentlemen are the press, you simply cannot come in here."
"We're all up to our necks in it," Smith said. "Leonard, I don't care
what your motives were, you ought to have considered the effect on the
rest of us first."
"This place will be a madhouse," Handley complained. "How we're going
to get any of these students to keep their minds on their work...."
"I tell you, I don't know a confounded thing about it," Max
Pottgeiter's voice rose petulantly at the door. "Are you trying to
tell me that Professor Chalmers murdered some Arab? Ridiculous!"
* * * * *
He ate hastily and without enjoyment, and slipped through the kitchen
and out the back door, cutting between two frat-houses and circling
back to Prescott Hall. On the way, he paused momentarily and chuckled.
The reporters, unable to storm the Faculty Club, had gone off in chase
of other game and had cornered Lloyd Whitburn in front of
Administration Center. They had a jeep with a sound-camera mounted on
it, and were trying to get something for telecast.
Pages:
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47