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Show Anting Alone pa g e 202 Why? B. 0.? Not so bad that you'd care to notice. What then? Could it have been something as superficial as his beard that was streaked with a very bright shade of yellow, so bright in fact that you sometimes wondered if it was sheer age that was turning his hair this almost hot shade of yellow - as it sometimes does in septua- and octogenarians - ; but on closer scrutiny it just turned out to be the yolk of that morning's egg (or, at least you hoped it was that morning's egg)? No, that egg yolk did not bother Sam in the slightest. He wasn't going to be asked to kiss the guy this afternoon - at least not that particular end of him. It wasn't anything to do with the man's personal hygiene. It was his past professional history that made Professor C reek of bubonic plague and botulism mixed with dead cats and raw sewage. He'd been one of Scott Meredith's hacks back in the early fifties. One of the nameless, faceless whores who stole money from unsuspecting young writers and sent them falsely flattering letters in return, with Meredith's signature forged at the bottom. Professor C was proud of his years with Meredith, and spoke fondly of himself as a youth, wanting to "get his feet wet," going to the Big Apple and wrangling this job from Meredith strictly on the merits of his sheer determination to be a part of the World of Literature. If you got Professor C drunk, sometimes he'd be willing to lie back and stroke his eggyolk thoughtfully and tell you about the time when he'd been obliged to take the train clear out to Meredith's mansion one night to deliver some late photocopies - ("Ahh, yes. The technology of photocopying has progressed by leaps and bounds, Edwine," he'd quietly marvel, with a touch of sadness in his face. |
