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for one of the science magazines in it. For some reason, it seemed, certain people, when placed together, produced an actual physical response—at least in one of the partners.
    Lust at first sight, he thought, and laughed.
    Before long he was totally absorbed in work, and when he glanced at his watch absentmindedly and then looked back at it again it finally registered on him that it was three o'clock. Almost five hours had gone by. He'd completely finished a first draft for an article on new advances in black hole research; his basic research was done and all he needed to do was polish up the prose and get it off in the mail to New York.
    At the front desk he returned, a little self-consciously, Fay's pleasant wave. As he backed through the front door he turned around, banging into something solid. He nearly fell forward, just catching his balance, and looked up to see the man he'd walked into doing the same thing.
    They exchanged apologies, and Mark helped gather the papers that had fallen. He saw that the other was more of a boy than a man. He had the look of a preoccupied student about him—thin almost to the point of ascetic with longish, unruly hair and a pair of rimless glasses. He looked as though parts of clothing—sweater, button-down shirt, oversize pants, overcoat—had been fastened to him with spots of glue, and not always in the right places.
    "My fault, really," the boy said to Mark. "I'm giving a final exam tomorrow and it occurred to me at lunch that I hadn't made it up yet." He pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.
    "You teach?" said Mark, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.
    The other smiled and held out a thin hand. "Tom Nolan. Associate professor, sociology department." He peered through his glasses at Mark. "You?"
    "I'm a freelance writer."
    "You're not on the staff?" Nolan replied. "I just assumed you were. You see, I still don't know anybody here outside the guy in the office next to mine—and that's only because I borrow his coffeepot." He scratched his head. "I can't remember his name half the time. They tell me I spend too much time studying the locals and not enough studying the curriculum. Oh well . . ." He began to move off, but Mark took him gently by the arm, stopping him.
    "You know a lot about Campbell Wood?"
    "About as much as anyone. Interesting bunch—but I've got to run." He pulled away from Mark and disappeared into the library.

6
     
    A nnie Burns hated her kids. Loved them, of course, but also hated them when they drove her crazy like this.
    She glanced up from her dishes again, out through the kitchen window to the backyard. "Jonathan!"
    Jonathan was pulling his running act again. He would push little Bobby to get him mad, then run around in a tight circle, just fast enough to keep his brother out of reach. Not only that, but, while running, he'd turn his face around to jeer at Bobby for not being able to get him. It was a cruel game, and the worst part about it was that her kids weren't really bad. They actually loved each other. But they'd get into these moods . . . Annie Burns was no philosopher, but she knew why people were so rotten to one another—because they couldn't help it. Being rotten was basically fun.
    "Bobby, don't pull his hair!"
    The end of the game arrived when Jonathan would finally let the younger boy catch him; then he would fall to the ground and laugh at Bobby's ineffectual blows. Sometimes things got out of hand as the furious Bobby did everything he could to hurt his bully brother—bite, kick, pull hair. "Bobby!"
    She didn't even bother to look up from the dish bin, the thing was so perfectly choreographed. She could just yell at one or the other of them periodically without having to take in the action.
    She finished drying the last glass, twist-rung out the dishrag, and put it on its rack under the counter. Now for the floor, and then dinner. Anybody who thought modern marriage was a great thing was out of his mind. She