Attitudes. W. Ross Winterowd

ever get out of him is ‘Hrumph, hrumph.’”

      “Now, Mel,” conciliated Jerry Gelb, “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Warren. Not a bit of it. I just think we should talk to him about the situation. That’s all. I’m on his side, of course. You know that.”

      “ . . . but just wait until you see my article in Critical Inquiry. Alvin, my glass is empty. . . .”

      The galaxies in Professor Adam Adam’s living room were rearranging themselves. The cluster of bodies around pulsar Kate Reese was diminishing, the center of gravity shifting toward the constellation formed by Mel, Bobby, Jerry, and Bridget.

      Assistant Professor Merrill Woodsman and his companion, Mrs. Bertha Bankopf, joined the growing circle around Bobby and Mel.

      “Mrs. Druse,” said Jerry Gelb, “I don’t think you know Merry Woodsman.”

      “I’m happy to meet you, Mary,” said Bobby.

      “The name is Merrill,” corrected Woodsman firmly, and he limp-wristedly shook hands.

      “ . . . Warren? I want to talk to him. . . . some more falafel. . . .”

      “And this is Bertha Bankopf,” said Merry, presenting a young woman who looked as though she had carefully planned to be the world’s most stylish schoolteacher: gray flannel suit, white blouse accented by a frilly red bow at the neck, sensible, though feminine, oxfords.

      “So happy to meet you,” gushed Bertha. “Of course, I’ve known Mel ever since I came to the university, and I’ve wanted to meet his better half.”

      “If we could drag you away for a minute, Bertha and I would like to talk to you.” Merry took Bobby’s arm and led her out of the living room and into the bedroom, Bertha following closely.

      “Uh, this is a bit delicate,” explained Merry, “but I’m sure you’ll understand. “Word has been passed down from the top at the university that no one is supposed to approach you about . . . uh, you know . . . about funding. It’s being said that you’re President Newburn’s private property, his new Ophir.”

      “And,” said Bertha, “we wouldn’t want the president or anyone in the department to know that we’re talking to you about this. . . .”

      “About what?” asked Bobby.

      “Bertha and I want to conduct a study, an important piece of work. You see, we believe that literature could be very powerful medicine for a sick society. In a nutshell, we want to give inner city delinquents and addicts intensive courses in literature—everything from Chaucer to Ashbery—to see if it will influence their behavior for the better. We need funds to set the project up, to hire teachers, to assemble and analyze our data.”

      “For two hundred and fifty thousand, we could get under way,” Bertha interjected.