Stoner

"Then," Stoner said reasonably, "I'll wait for a couple of weeks. There are a few things I need to clear up--some work I need to do."

"I don't advise it, you understand," Jamison said. "I don't advise it at all."

"Of course," Stoner said. "And, Doctor--you won't mention this to anyone, will you?"

"No," Jamison said and added with a little warmth, "of course not." He suggested a few revisions of the diet he had earlier given him, prescribed more pills, and set a date for his entrance into the hospital.

Stoner felt nothing at all; it was as if what the doctor told him were a minor annoyance, an obstacle he would have somehow to work around in order to get done what he had to do. It occurred to him that it was rather late in the year for this to be happening; Lomax might have some difficulty in finding a replacement. The pill he had taken in the doctor's office made him a little light-headed, and he found the sensation oddly pleasurable. His sense of time was displaced; he found himself standing in the long parqueted first-floor corridor of Jesse Hall. A low hum, like the distant thrumming of birds' wings, was in his ears; in the shadowed corridor a sourceless light seemed to glow and dim, pulsating like the beat of his heart; and his flesh, intimately aware of every move he made, tingled as he stepped forward with deliberate care into the mingled light and dark.

He stood at the stairs that led up to the second floor; the steps were marble, and in their precise centers were gentle troughs worn smooth by decades of footsteps going up and down. They had been almost new when--how many years ago?--he had first stood here and looked up, as he looked now, and wondered where they would lead him. He thought of time and of its gentle flowing. He put one foot carefully in the first smooth depression and lifted himself up.

Then he was in Gordon Finch's outer office. The girl said, "Dean Finch was about to leave . . ." He nodded absently, smiled at her, and went into Finch's office.

"Gordon," he said cordially, the smile still on his face. "I won't keep you long."

Finch returned the smile reflexively; his eyes were tired. "Sure, Bill, sit down."

"I won't keep you long," he said again; he felt a curious power come into his voice. "The fact is, I've changed my mind --about retiring, I mean. I know it's awkward; sorry to be so late letting you know, but--well, I think it's best all around. I'm quitting at the end of this semester."

Finch's face floated before him, round in its amazement. "What the hell," he said. "Has anyone been putting the screws on you?"

"Nothing like that," Stoner said. "It's my own decision. It's just that--I've discovered there are some things I'd like to do." He added reasonably, "And I do need a little rest."

Finch was annoyed, and Stoner knew that he had cause to be. He thought he heard himself murmur another apology; he felt the smile remain foolishly on his face.

"Well," Finch said, "I guess it's not too late. I can start the papers through tomorrow. I suppose you know all you need to know about your annuity income, insurance, and things like that?"

"Oh, yes," Stoner said. "I've thought of all that. It's all right."

Finch looked at his watch. "I'm kind of late, Bill. Drop by in a day or so and we'll clear up the details. In the meantime-- well, I suppose Lomax ought to know. I'll call him tonight." He grinned. "I'm afraid you've succeeded in pleasing him."

"Yes," Stoner said. "I'm afraid I have."

There was much to do in the two weeks that remained before he was to go into the hospital, but he decided that he would be able to do it. He canceled his classes for the next two days and called into conference all those students for whom he had the responsibility of directing independent research, theses, and dissertations. He wrote detailed instructions that would guide them to the completion of the work they had begun and left carbon copies of these instructions in Lomax's mailbox. He soothed those who were thrown into a panic by what they considered his desertion of them and reassured those who were fearful of committing themselves to a new adviser. He found that the pills he had been taking reduced the clarity of his intelligence as they relieved the pain; so in the daytime, when he talked to students, and in the evening, when he read the deluge of half-completed papers, theses, and dissertations, he took them only when the pain became so intense that it forced his attention away from his work.

Two days after his declaration of retirement, in the middle of a busy afternoon, he got a telephone call from Gordon Finch.

"Bill? Gordon. Look--there's a small problem I think I ought to talk to you about."

"Yes?" he said impatiently.

"It's Lomax. He can't get it through his head that you aren't doing this on his account."

"It doesn't matter," Stoner said. "Let him think what he wants."

"Wait--that isn't all. He's making plans to go through with the dinner and everything. He says he gave his word."