not having to worry about someone else’s security.”
He rose to go. Both men were angry and bore themselves with that stiff-legged courtesy one assumes when addressing someone who is hostile, but still mannerly. “I presume,” said Lamont, “you will at least treat this conversation as confidential.”
Bronowski was on his feet, too. “Of that you may be assured,” he said coldly, and the two shook hands briefly.
Lamont did not expect to hear from Bronowski again. He then began the process of talking himself into believing it would be better to handle the translation effort on his own.
Two days later, however, Bronowski was at Lamont’s laboratory. He said, rather brusquely, “I’m leaving the city now, but I’ll be back in September. I’m taking the position here and, if you’re still interested, I’ll see what I can do about the translation problem you mentioned.”
Lamont had barely time for a surprised expression of thanks when Bronowski stalked off, apparently angrier at having given in, than at having resisted.
They became friends in time; and, in time, Lamont learned what had brought Bronowski around. The day after their discussion, Bronowski had had lunch at the Faculty Club with a group of the higher officials of the university, including, of course, the president. Bronowski had announced that he would accept the position and send in a formal letter to that effect in due time and all had expressed gratification.
The president had said, “It will be quite a feather in our cap to have the renowned translator of the Itascan Inscriptions at the university. We are honored.”
The malapropism had gone uncorrected, of course, and Bronowski’s smile, though strained, did not actually waver. Afterward, the head of the Department of Ancient History explained the president to be more of a Minnesotan than a classical scholar and since Lake Itasca was the point of origin of the mighty Mississippi, the slip of the tongue was a natural one.
But, in combination with Lamont’s sneer at the extent of his fame, Bronowski found the expression rankling.
When Lamont finally heard the story, he was amused. “Don’t go on,” he said. “I’ve been down that road, too. You said to yourself, ‘By God, I’ll do something even that knot-head will have to get straight.’ ”
“A little like that,” said Bronowski.
5
A year’s work, however, had netted them very little. Messages had finally come across; messages had come back. Nothing.
“Just guess!” Lamont had said feverishly to Bronowski. “Any wild guess at all. Try it out on them.”
“It’s exactly what I’m doing, Pete. What are you so jumpy about? I spent twelve years on the Etruscan Inscriptions. Do you expect this job to take less time?”
“Good God, Mike. We can’t take twelve years.”
“Why not? Look, Pete, it hasn’t escaped me that there’s been a change in your attitude. You’ve been impossible this last month or so. I thought we had it clear at the start that this work can’t go quickly, and that we’ve got to be patient. I thought you understood that I had my regular duties at the university, too. Look, I’ve been asking you this several times, now. Let me ask again. Why are you in such a hurry now?”
“Because I’m in a hurry,” said Lamont abruptly. “Because I want to get on with it.”
“Congratulations,” said Bronowski, dryly, “so do I. Listen, you’re not expecting an early death, are you? Your doctor hasn’t told you you’re hiding a fatal cancer?”
“No, no,” groaned Lamont.
“Well, then?”
“Never mind,” said Lamont, and he walked away hurriedly.
When he had first tried to get Bronowski to join forces with him, Lamont’s grievance had concerned only Hallam’s mean-minded obstinacy concerning the suggestion that the para-men were the more intelligent. It was in that respect and that respect only that Lamont was striving for a breakthrough. He intended nothing beyond that—at first.
But in the course of the following months, he had been subjected to endless exasperation. His requests for equipment, for technical assistance, for computer time were delayed; his request for travel funds snubbed; his views at interdepartmental meetings invariably overlooked.
The breaking point came when Henry Garrison, junior to himself in point of service and definitely so in point of ability, received an advisory appointment, rich in prestige, that, by all rights, should have gone to Lamont. It was then that Lamont’s resentment built up to the point where merely proving himself right was no longer sufficient. He yearned to smash Hallam, destroy him utterly.
The feeling was reinforced every day, almost every hour, by the unmistakable attitude of everyone else at the