36 ~ PAUL M. HEDEEN
Hart hated this peevishness—ample doses of it and other kinds of petty spite he’d endured every day of his professional life since becoming chair. Enough. But he had to be careful, for out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the blood rising to Carlyle’s cheeks. Now a little menacing, Carlyle pushed: “I’m not lying.” Incredibly, with a glare, he added, “You’ll find out. Look to your mail.” Dear God, Hart thought. Carlyle’s last phrase had a Shakespearean cut to it, like Iago’s “Look to your wife.” He poured his coffee, for the moment controlling his own temptation to return a more forceful poke. He spilled, burning his finger. Damn! It was all over for Mr. Carlyle, for Hart would see to it! He’d call a mover to pack up Kapailenko’s crap. He’d tell security to confiscate the keys. By God, he’d have the youngster exiled to the visitors’ parking lots, and then beyond campus to the streets of student saloons, juke joints, and used bookshops, which to Hart’s thinking occupied the outer rim of civilization. Then he noticed his Provost watching. A sly, sideways glance and small smile showed she was pleased, and her pleasure was… What was it? Hart scarcely had to think. It was the opposite of any photograph of the atrocious, of any Adolph and Eva, JÜrgen and Hermann, Dmytro and Fortunatus—it was life.