Nineteen seventy-three--why, that was this year. He looked at the calendar. October 16, 1973. At very most, the Arab statesman had two and a half months to live. Would there be any possible way in which he could give a credible warning? He doubted it. Even if there were, he questioned whether he should--for that matter, whether he _could_--interfere.... * * * * * He always lunched at the Faculty Club; today was no time to call attention to himself by breaking an established routine. As he entered, trying to avoid either a furtive slink or a chip-on-shoulder swagger, the crowd in the lobby stopped talking abruptly, then began again on an obviously changed subject. The word had gotten around, apparently. Handley, the head of the Latin Department, greeted him with a distantly polite nod. Pompous old owl; regarded himself, for some reason, as a sort of unofficial Dean of the Faculty. Probably didn't want to be seen fraternizing with controversial characters. One of the younger men, with a thin face and a mop of unruly hair, advanced to meet him as he came in, as cordial as Handley was remote. "Oh, hello, Ed!" he greeted, clapping a hand on Chalmers' shoulder. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Can you have dinner with us this evening?" He was sincere. "Well, thanks, Leonard. I'd like to, but I have a lot of work. Could you give me a rain-check?" "Oh, surely. My wife was wishing you'd come around, but I know how it is. Some other evening?" "Yes, indeed." He guided Fitch toward the dining-room door and nodded toward a table. "This doesn't look too crowded; let's sit here." After lunch, he stopped in at his office. Marjorie Fenner was there, taking dictation from Pottgeiter; she nodded to him as he entered, but she had no summons to the president's office. * * * * * The summons was waiting for him, the next morning, when he entered the office after Modern History IV, a few minutes past ten. "Doctor Whitburn just phoned," Marjorie said. "He'd like to see you, as soon as you have a vacant period." "Which means right away. I shan't keep him waiting." She started to say something, swallowed it, and then asked if he needed anything typed up for General European II. "No, I have everything ready." He pocketed the pipe he had filled on entering, and went out. * * * * * The president of Blanley College sat hunched forward at his desk; he had rounded shoulders and round, pudgy fists and a round, bald head. He seemed to be expecting his visitor to stand at attention in front of him. Chalmers got the pipe out of his pocket, sat down in the desk-side chair, and snapped his lighter. "Good morning, Doctor Whitburn," he said very pleasantly. Whitburn's scowl deepened. "I hope I don't have to tell you why I wanted to see you," he began.