And the words had to be right, exactly. He couldn't content himself with anything less. The whole dissertation--every page, every sentence, must be logic-grounded, solidly-documented, overwhelming evidence to prove his hypothesized explanation of the fall of Knossos. He finished it, finally ... came home again ... turned in the first draft.... Then came that day in The Director's office. That ugly day, the last Burke was to spend in his own time and place. The argument; the tempers, rising. The Director--face flushed, jaw outthrust: "You young whelp, how dare you contradict Sir Arthur Evans? Would you set yourself up on a level with Hogarth? Pendlebury? Wace?" And then, the final knife-thrust: "Very well; have it your way. But so far as I'm concerned, I'll not accept this dissertation, now or ever. And so long as I'm here, you'll receive no doctorate, let alone a recommendation of any sort!" Exit The Director. Forever. Then, The Girl: "But Dion! Why did you have to be so stubborn? You could at least have kept your opinions to yourself till later. Now--well, how much of a field is there for an archaeologist with only an M. A. degree? You might as well forget Crete right now. And for my part, I must admit the idea of being the wife of an instructor in some second-rate college, at four thousand a year hardly appeals to me." Exit The Girl. Forever. The Research Professor, finally: "Damn it, Burke, I just don't dare to back you on it! Old Ape-Jaw's got the president's ear. If I even let it be known I designed that detector, I'll be operating this laboratory on a negative budget next biennium." Exit The Professor. Forever. In spirit, at least. In body, though, he still might have his uses. * * * * * Burke held his voice carefully level. "In other words, then, you won't even let me use your name as supporting authority for my statement that the ruins at Knossos still show radiation traces?" The Professor: "I'm sorry, Dion." "But the time inverter--" "Are you completely insane, boy? I built that thing with university funds. If anyone should find out about it, and that I didn't have proper authorization for it--well, all I've got to say is that I'm going to junk it first thing in the morning, before The Director has a chance to snoop around." What happens to a man when he plunges into that deep a pit? How many blows can he take before he cracks? Burke didn't even recognize that it was raining when he stepped out into the street. Dully, he tramped through the gathering dusk. Block after block, mile after mile, hardly aware that his clothes clung to his body, soaked, or that water sloshed in and out of his shoes with every step. Slowly, then, his thoughts began to sort themselves into some sort of order. A little at a time, conclusions took form and gave strength. When it came right down to it, he didn't give a hang whether he ever achieved a Ph. D. degree or not. So to hell with The Director!