about the pages in the book and the assignment. The lecture is over.”
Fuzzy’s mouth was almost full of blood. From its ears, it sighed. “That wasn’t any too much. But if that’s all, then it’s all. You can sleep now if you want to.”
“I want to watch for a while.”
The monster puffed out its cheeks. The pressure inside was not great. “Go on, then.” It scrabbled Jeremy’s body and curled up in a sulky huddle.
The strange blood moved steadily through Jeremy’s brain. With his eyes wide and fixed, he watched himself as he would be, a slight, balding professor of philosophy.
He sat in the hall, watching the students tumbling up the steep aisles, wondering at the strange compulsion he had to look at that girl, Miss—Miss—what was it?
Oh. “Miss Patchell!”
He stared, astonished at himself. He had certainly not meant to call out her name. He clasped his hands tightly, regaining the dry stiffness which was his closest approach to dignity.
The girl came slowly down the aisle steps, her widest eyes wondering. There were books tucked under her arm, and her hair shone. “Yes, Professor?”
“I—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I know it’s the last class today, and you are no doubt meeting someone. I shan’t keep you very long… and if I do,” he added, and was again astonished at himself, “you can see Bert tomorrow.”
“Bert? Oh!” She colored prettily. “I didn’t know you knew about—how could you know?”
He shrugged. “Miss Patchell,” he said. “You’ll forgive an old—ah—middle-aged man’s rambling, I hope. There is something about you that—that—”
“Yes?” Caution, and an iota of fright in her eyes. She glanced up and back at the now empty hall.
Abruptly he pounded the table. “I will not let this go on for another instant without finding out about it. Miss Patchell, you are becoming afraid of me, and you are wrong.”
“I th-think I’d better…” she said timidly, and began backing off.
“Sit down!” he thundered. It was the first time in his entire life that he had thundered at anyone, and her shock was not one whit greater than his. She shrank back and into a front-row seat, looking a good deal smaller than she actually was, except about the eyes, which were much larger.
The professor shook his head in vexation. He rose, stepped down off the dais, and crossed to her, sitting in the next seat.
“Now be quiet and listen to me.” The shadow of a smile twitched his lips and he said, “I really don’t know what I am going to say. Listen, and be patient. It couldn’t be more important.”
He sat a while, thinking, chasing vague pictures around in his mind. He heard, or was conscious of, the rapid but slowing beat of her frightened heart.
“Miss Patchell,” he said, turning to her, his voice gentle. “I have not at any time looked into your records. Until—ah—yesterday, you were simply another face in the class, another source of quiz papers to be graded. I have not consulted the registrar’s files for information about you. And, to my almost certain knowledge, this is the first time I have spoken with you.”
“That’s right, sir,” she said quietly.
“Very good, then.” He wet his lips. “You are twenty-three years old. The house in which you were born was a two-story affair, quiet old, with a leaded bay window at the turn of the stairs. The small bedroom, or nursery, was directly over the kitchen. You could hear the clatter of dishes below you when the house was quiet. The address was 191 Bucyrus Road.”
“How—oh yes! How did you know?”
He shook his head, and then put it between his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I lived in that house, too, as a child. I don’t know how I knew that you did. There are things in here—” He rapped his head, shook it again. “I thought perhaps you could help.”
She looked at him. He was a small man, brilliant, tired, getting old swiftly. She put a hand on his arm. “I wish I could,” she said warmly. “I do wish I could.”
“Thank you, child.”
“Maybe if you told me more—”
“Perhaps. Some of it is—ugly. All of it is cloudy, long ago, barely remembered. And yet—”
“Please go on.”
“I remember,” he half-whispered, “things that happened long ago that way, and recent things I remember—twice. One memory is sharp and clear, and one is old and misty. And I remember, in the same misty way, what is happening now—and what will happen!”