Cabot to discover his national origin. If so, it was rather clumsy, yet he was unwilling to suspect Cabot of such childish maneuvering. He answered bluntly.
âIâve never given it any thought, I suppose. My grandfather was a Norwegian who came here as a little boy in 1857. I always thought he brought the name with him. Perhaps not. He worked in the woods, and it may be that name was easier to pronounce than his own.â
âVery likely,â Cabot smiled. âI wasnât prying, Professor Timberman. As a matter of fact, weâre a good deal afield from what brought me to ask you here. I understand youâre quite close to Professor Amsterdam?â
âHeâs an old and dear friend of ours.â
Cabot nodded. âWhich means patience and understanding upon your part. Old men can be quite trying.â
âI suppose so,â Silas admitted, again knowing what he was going to say and attempting to reject it and find other words, âyet I donât think rules hold any better for the old than for the young. Weâve always found Professor Amsterdam an interesting companion. A comfortable one too, I might say.â
âYet Iâve noticed his capacity to be quite uncomfortable.â
âHe has that,â Silas answered, glad of an opportunity to smile, but still apprehensive, uncertain.
âI want you to understand that Iâm not proceeding behind his back. I called you in because I know you are a friend of his. I felt that a friend might be helpful in this situation, helpful to him, helpful to all of us. At the same time, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to talk to you. I suppose there might have been a place and a time when being a university president was a simple and an uncomplicated affair. Not today, I assure you. We are too big, Timberman, and we suffer the curse of our sizeââ
Silas sucked at his pipe and waited. Cabot suddenly broke the flow of thought and word, ruffled through the manila folder, and took out a letterhead.
âWould you read this, Professor Timberman?â handing it to Silas. It was on Ike Amsterdamâs personal stationery, handwritten in the cramped, painful scrawl of the old man, and dated a week past. It was addressed to Dr. Anthony C. Cabot, and it said.
âI am constrained to write to you, so that I may explain more precisely an action which I performed only by abstention. Last week, you issued an urgent call to the faculty of this university to enlist in a civilian defense organization for the campus, and we were further informed that a major enlistment by most of the faculty would serve as a morale factor to the entire state, where, as a whole, enlistments in civil defense have been inconsequentialâin spite of great prodding and calamity howling.
âAfter due reflection, I came to the conclusion that your request was motivated not by concern for the national good but by political expediency, and that the manner in which it was put to the members of the faculty deprived them of that most precious democratic right, the right of free choice and judgment. In other words, the implication was present that any refusal to concur with your wishes, as expressed by the department heads, could lead to reprisal of one sort or another.
âHaving come to this conclusion, I felt that only one course of action lay open to meâto refuse to participate in any manner in this civilian defense organization. I know that such a course has only symbolic value, as the contribution of one old man to such an organization would be extremely dubious; nevertheless, I had to pursue the dictates of my own conscience.
âYet I would not be telling the whole truth if I allowed my action to rest upon the aforementioned grounds alone. Neither political expediency nor bad manners are sufficient to absolve one from a patriotic duty. However, I am a scientist and a physicistâone who has given the better part of his life to a study
âIâve never given it any thought, I suppose. My grandfather was a Norwegian who came here as a little boy in 1857. I always thought he brought the name with him. Perhaps not. He worked in the woods, and it may be that name was easier to pronounce than his own.â
âVery likely,â Cabot smiled. âI wasnât prying, Professor Timberman. As a matter of fact, weâre a good deal afield from what brought me to ask you here. I understand youâre quite close to Professor Amsterdam?â
âHeâs an old and dear friend of ours.â
Cabot nodded. âWhich means patience and understanding upon your part. Old men can be quite trying.â
âI suppose so,â Silas admitted, again knowing what he was going to say and attempting to reject it and find other words, âyet I donât think rules hold any better for the old than for the young. Weâve always found Professor Amsterdam an interesting companion. A comfortable one too, I might say.â
âYet Iâve noticed his capacity to be quite uncomfortable.â
âHe has that,â Silas answered, glad of an opportunity to smile, but still apprehensive, uncertain.
âI want you to understand that Iâm not proceeding behind his back. I called you in because I know you are a friend of his. I felt that a friend might be helpful in this situation, helpful to him, helpful to all of us. At the same time, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to talk to you. I suppose there might have been a place and a time when being a university president was a simple and an uncomplicated affair. Not today, I assure you. We are too big, Timberman, and we suffer the curse of our sizeââ
Silas sucked at his pipe and waited. Cabot suddenly broke the flow of thought and word, ruffled through the manila folder, and took out a letterhead.
âWould you read this, Professor Timberman?â handing it to Silas. It was on Ike Amsterdamâs personal stationery, handwritten in the cramped, painful scrawl of the old man, and dated a week past. It was addressed to Dr. Anthony C. Cabot, and it said.
âI am constrained to write to you, so that I may explain more precisely an action which I performed only by abstention. Last week, you issued an urgent call to the faculty of this university to enlist in a civilian defense organization for the campus, and we were further informed that a major enlistment by most of the faculty would serve as a morale factor to the entire state, where, as a whole, enlistments in civil defense have been inconsequentialâin spite of great prodding and calamity howling.
âAfter due reflection, I came to the conclusion that your request was motivated not by concern for the national good but by political expediency, and that the manner in which it was put to the members of the faculty deprived them of that most precious democratic right, the right of free choice and judgment. In other words, the implication was present that any refusal to concur with your wishes, as expressed by the department heads, could lead to reprisal of one sort or another.
âHaving come to this conclusion, I felt that only one course of action lay open to meâto refuse to participate in any manner in this civilian defense organization. I know that such a course has only symbolic value, as the contribution of one old man to such an organization would be extremely dubious; nevertheless, I had to pursue the dictates of my own conscience.
âYet I would not be telling the whole truth if I allowed my action to rest upon the aforementioned grounds alone. Neither political expediency nor bad manners are sufficient to absolve one from a patriotic duty. However, I am a scientist and a physicistâone who has given the better part of his life to a study
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