Shortest Day (19 page)

The three men chuckled and agreed that the technicality was too feeble to consider.

“It isn't a legal matter anyway,” said Ellery Beaver, getting down to brass tacks. “It doesn't matter who owns the ground. It's what this Nifto goon is doing to our good name. He claims the university is letting people freeze on our doorstep while we spend billions on textual problems in the poetry of ancient Greece.”

The Dean smiled ruefully. “You know, looked at in a certain way, it's true. I've often wondered why we don't give the heave-ho to half the classics department. And East Asian studies! Elementary Mongolian, my God!”

“The truth is,” said the General Counsel, “we need the advice and counsel of Hamilton Dow. If the President of this institution were on hand he'd solve the problem in jigtime.”

“I must say,” said Ellery Beaver cautiously, “I wonder at the wisdom of the Corporation in granting the President of Harvard a sabbatical. Surely, if his job means anything at all, then the ship is without a helmsman all the time he's away.”

“Foundering, you might say,” agreed the Dean. “Where the hell is Ham, anyway?”

“Up the Amazon, I gather, in a dugout canoe,” groaned the General Counsel, “a thousand miles from civilization. Wouldn't you know he'd put himself completely out of touch?”

“
However
,” said Ellery Beaver, leaning forward to make a significant point, “think about it! If Ham Dow were here, what would he do? He'd cave in. He'd agree to everything Nifto asked for. Pretty soon we'd be building a high-rise in the middle of Harvard Yard for all the homeless men, women, and children in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”

“Oh, my God, you're right,” said the Dean.

“Christ, I didn't think of that,” said the General Counsel.

“The first thing Ham would do would be to get his friends in the Corporation all excited. You know, people like Shackleton Bowditch and Julia Chamberlain. Then who knows what the hell would happen?”

“But he's away,” said the Dean. “Praise be to God for his manifold blessings. Oh, say, Ellery, why isn't your boss here? Ernest's not on sabbatical too?”

Ellery Beaver rose and stood with his back to one of the windows and arranged his face with care. His expression was half the warm smile of a kindly and compassionate man, the old friend and disciple of Ernest Henshaw, and half the grin of a wolf closing in for the kill. “Just between you and me …”

In gripping detail he divulged the sad story of the mental deterioration of his chief, while the others listened in fascinated horror. A burning question was uppermost at once. If Henshaw really was over the hill, who would take his placed?

It was apparent to the General Counsel and the Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences that Henshaw's assistant, Associate Dean Ellery Beaver, was a rising man.

PART FOUR

THE LORD OF MISRULE

Nowell, nowell, nowell
,

Nowell sing we loud!

God hath this day poor folk raised
,

And cast adown the proud!

Carol, “Masters in This Hall”

CHAPTER 24

Wassail, wassail, all over the town
,

Our cup is white and our ale is brown
.

The cup is made from the old oak tree
,

And the ale is made in Kentucky
,

So it's joy to you and a jolly wassail!

Kentucky wassail

P
almer Nifto's little plan burst full-blown on the world that evening. A bunch of Revels people were present at the beginning, after taking in a movie at the theatre on Church Street and eating a late supper together in Harvard Square.

There were six of them—Morgan and Sarah Bailey, Walt Shattuck, Arlo Field, Jeffery Peck, and Kevin Barnes. At dinner some of the cherries were still stuck in Kevin's hair.

Crowded into a booth in the WurstJiaus, relaxing over their beers, they might have had a good time if Dr. Box hadn't suddenly appeared among them. Eagerly she hauled up a chair and parked it at their table, blocking the aisle. All she wanted, she said, was a glass of tomato juice and a chance to explain the true meaning of the horn dance as an ancient hunter-gatherer ritual ensuring success in the chase.

Arlo Field didn't bother to listen. He sat gazing at Sarah—stupidly, unconsciously—until he caught her husband looking at him. At once he dropped his eyes to his beer. Dr. Box talked on and on. Walt murmured a comment now and then, gently protesting, because he knew a lot more about the old rituals than did Dr. Box. Kevin gazed at the ceiling and shook his head to make his cherries waggle, Jeffery Peck snickered, and Sarah's courtesy was sorely tested. Her baby was a lead weight inside her.

They came out of the Wursthaus to find Harvard Square jiggeting with life. People were thick on the sidewalks, crowded at the crossings. They ascended and descended the subway stairs. A fat woman in a black leather coat jerked to the secret music of her earphones, an old guy in a fur hat held up a copy of the newspaper
Spare Change
, a long-haired kid recited his poetry in front of the Harvard Coop, taxis pulled away from the sidewalk, the Peruvian band sang loudly in Spanish, and a graceful black man on Rollerblades swooped in and out among the cars on Massachusetts Avenue.

Sarah dropped a coin in front of an old man crouched in a blanket in front of the Unitarian church. He didn't pick it up. Was he asleep? Glancing back, she saw his dark hand creep out and in again.

Morgan and Sarah said good night to the others and started across the street to wait for the bus to Inman Square, but just then a large truck came out of nowhere and blocked Massachusetts Avenue. The driver leaned out the window and argued with a couple of policemen. A familiar-looking guy in dark shades was arguing too, talking a blue streak.

“Who's that?” said Sarah, looking at the man in dark glasses. “Doesn't he hang around that tent city of homeless people?”

Morgan didn't know, nor did he care. He was content to have Sarah's arm in his, to have no competition for her attention at last.