SECRETLY TAKES CLAUDE FUNDS WHILE ENDORSING PETERS. By the time they get through spreading that kind of muck around, poor old Sam Peters will look like something the Mafia dragged in.”
Shandy nodded. “I hate to say it, President, but I’m afraid you could be right.”
“I’m always right,” Svenson replied with his accustomed modesty, “except when I pull a blooper, and then it’s a lulu. Damn it, Shandy, you’ve got to get us out of this. I’m not asking for myself. I don’t care if they make me look like a horse’s crupper, but if Sam Peters loses his seat in Congress to a twerp like Claude, the country’s whole damn agricultural situation could be in even worse trouble than it is now. The fate of the nation is in your hands, and what the hell are you going to do about it?”
Shandy scratched the thin spot on the back of his head. “Good question. When’s this son-of-a-bitch Claude clamoring to pollute our atmosphere?”
“Tomorrow night. This Smuth woman just sprung it on me half an hour ago. Think fast, Shandy.”
“Jesus, President!” Shandy shook his head, then obediently plunged into thought.
“As far as sabotaging Claude’s speech is concerned,” he said at last, “that would be a cinch. It’s the repercussions we have to worry about. Now, don’t start yelling. I don’t mean we can’t do it, I just mean it has to be done right. There’s also the matter of Ungley. That could be whipped up into another juicy scandal unless I go along with Ottermole and Melchett, and let it get swept under the carpet.”
“Ungh? What about Ungley?”
“Unless I’m farther off base than I think I am, Ungley was murdered somewhere in the general vicinity of the Balaclavian Society’s clubhouse sometime after eleven o’clock last night.”
Shandy explained what he’d learned so far, while Svenson sat looking like an iceberg formed of frozen gloom. At last the president heaved a sigh that blew a Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary halfway across his office, and shook his iron-gray mane.
“Ungley was one of ours, Shandy. We didn’t want him, but we can’t disclaim him. If we go along with a cover-up, the Claude bunch will be at our throats. If we make a stink, they’ll turn it into a worse one. We’ll do what’s right and the hell with ’em. Come on, let’s eat.”
They walked down to the faculty dining room in silence, Svenson glowering sideways at Shandy every few steps to make sure he was thinking. It was an enormous relief to the smaller man when they walked in and spotted Helen Shandy sitting at a table by herself, seeking surcease from her duties as assistant librarian for the Buggins Collection. Peter kissed his wife with a shade more enthusiasm than was appropriate in so public a place and took the chair beside her. Svenson flung himself into the one opposite. To everyone’s surprise, it didn’t shatter under the impact.
Helen noticed the tension and tried a spot of light conversation. “Peter, how did you make out with Mrs. Lomax? Or have I phrased the question indelicately? One never knows nowadays.”
“You haven’t or I didn’t, as the case may be. I’ll give you a full report later. What’s new at the library?”
“Poor Dr. Porble’s in grave danger of spraining his upper lip from trying not to look smug.”
“What’s he got not to be smug about?”
“According to scuttlebutt among the stacks, Dr. Porble’s tried on several occasions to join the Balaclavian Society because he thinks he ought to, and has been blackballed each time for reasons nobody can fathom. You’d think they’d positively leap at the chance to have the college librarian as a member.”
“And no reason was ever advanced for their failure to pounce?”
“None. Dr. Porble always thought Professor Ungley was keeping him out. He came in as librarian shortly before Professor Ungley retired, and found the professor had some books he’d been keeping out for ages and ages. Being a new broom,
Shandy nodded. “I hate to say it, President, but I’m afraid you could be right.”
“I’m always right,” Svenson replied with his accustomed modesty, “except when I pull a blooper, and then it’s a lulu. Damn it, Shandy, you’ve got to get us out of this. I’m not asking for myself. I don’t care if they make me look like a horse’s crupper, but if Sam Peters loses his seat in Congress to a twerp like Claude, the country’s whole damn agricultural situation could be in even worse trouble than it is now. The fate of the nation is in your hands, and what the hell are you going to do about it?”
Shandy scratched the thin spot on the back of his head. “Good question. When’s this son-of-a-bitch Claude clamoring to pollute our atmosphere?”
“Tomorrow night. This Smuth woman just sprung it on me half an hour ago. Think fast, Shandy.”
“Jesus, President!” Shandy shook his head, then obediently plunged into thought.
“As far as sabotaging Claude’s speech is concerned,” he said at last, “that would be a cinch. It’s the repercussions we have to worry about. Now, don’t start yelling. I don’t mean we can’t do it, I just mean it has to be done right. There’s also the matter of Ungley. That could be whipped up into another juicy scandal unless I go along with Ottermole and Melchett, and let it get swept under the carpet.”
“Ungh? What about Ungley?”
“Unless I’m farther off base than I think I am, Ungley was murdered somewhere in the general vicinity of the Balaclavian Society’s clubhouse sometime after eleven o’clock last night.”
Shandy explained what he’d learned so far, while Svenson sat looking like an iceberg formed of frozen gloom. At last the president heaved a sigh that blew a Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary halfway across his office, and shook his iron-gray mane.
“Ungley was one of ours, Shandy. We didn’t want him, but we can’t disclaim him. If we go along with a cover-up, the Claude bunch will be at our throats. If we make a stink, they’ll turn it into a worse one. We’ll do what’s right and the hell with ’em. Come on, let’s eat.”
They walked down to the faculty dining room in silence, Svenson glowering sideways at Shandy every few steps to make sure he was thinking. It was an enormous relief to the smaller man when they walked in and spotted Helen Shandy sitting at a table by herself, seeking surcease from her duties as assistant librarian for the Buggins Collection. Peter kissed his wife with a shade more enthusiasm than was appropriate in so public a place and took the chair beside her. Svenson flung himself into the one opposite. To everyone’s surprise, it didn’t shatter under the impact.
Helen noticed the tension and tried a spot of light conversation. “Peter, how did you make out with Mrs. Lomax? Or have I phrased the question indelicately? One never knows nowadays.”
“You haven’t or I didn’t, as the case may be. I’ll give you a full report later. What’s new at the library?”
“Poor Dr. Porble’s in grave danger of spraining his upper lip from trying not to look smug.”
“What’s he got not to be smug about?”
“According to scuttlebutt among the stacks, Dr. Porble’s tried on several occasions to join the Balaclavian Society because he thinks he ought to, and has been blackballed each time for reasons nobody can fathom. You’d think they’d positively leap at the chance to have the college librarian as a member.”
“And no reason was ever advanced for their failure to pounce?”
“None. Dr. Porble always thought Professor Ungley was keeping him out. He came in as librarian shortly before Professor Ungley retired, and found the professor had some books he’d been keeping out for ages and ages. Being a new broom,
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