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thoroughly.”
    McCall made the usual demurral, the Dean insisted and named eight o’clock. “We eat late these nights,” he said with a forced smile, and McCall turned to leave.
    A tall, slat-built, round-shouldered young man was lounging beside a desk in the outer office, smoking.
    â€œCome in, Perry,” Dean Gunther said.
    Eastman wore snake-tight Levi’s and an enormous white terrycloth pullover that sagged like a wet horse-blanket. His black hair hung to his round shoulders, and bangs just missed his eyebrows. A brass necklace dangled on his chest. He wore leather sandals over dirty bare feet.
    â€œHi, Deanie,” Eastman said. He eyed McCall from puffy slits. “What’s with the system today? We getting down to the nitty-gritty?”
    McCall stepped into the hall and shut the Dean’s door with a conscious effort at self-control. He was suddenly aware of the generation gap and the surge of aggression in the naked ape.
    He thought of President Wolfe Wade and Dean Vance and Dean Gunther and wondered how they stood it.

3
    The Sigma Alpha Phi house stood on an elm-guarded street just off campus, a squatty frame building of Victorian vintage with yellow shutters and lots of wooden embroidery and a gallery of windows rubbernecking in the sunshine. The reception room inside reminded McCall of an undersea grotto, blue lights glowing on bluish walls. There were carnivorous-looking plants in fancy tubs (did they eat only males? he wondered), feminine furniture, thick silky rugs; his nose was assailed with bath oils, perfumes, garlic from something cooking, and a not quite successful deodorizer. A slithery young woman with a bad complexion, dressed in a pajama-like East Indian lounging outfit, showed him in.
    He explained who he was and asked to see Laura Thornton’s room.
    â€œNaughty-naughty,” the girl said. “No dice, bud. We’re off-limits, according to the Great God Square in the ad building.”
    â€œYou’re all perfectly safe from me,” McCall said solemnly. “In my job sex is irrelevant.”
    â€œI’ll bet,” the girl said, looking him over. “Oh, Prissy.”
    A tall mannish girl in red bell-bottoms had drifted in to stare at him.
    The pimply girl said, “This is Mr. McCall, Prissy. He wants to see Laura’s room.”
    â€œYou know that’s impossible, Cuddles,” the tall girl said. She had no hips and almost no breasts, and McCall got a sudden overwhelming charge of sexual hostility from her. Her voice had a point to it, like an icicle. “You’ll have to leave,” she said to McCall.
    â€œOh, don’t be like that, Priss. Remember the fuzz invasion?”
    â€œI’m a kind of fuzz myself,” McCall said.
    â€œOh?” the mannish girl said, raising her unplucked eyebrows. “Then I suppose you’ve got credentials. Or something.”
    â€œI should have shown it to you right off.” McCall brought out his shield case, with its impressive special gold governor’s seal. “Will this do?”
    â€œOh, that McCall.” The tall one shrugged. “This is making waves in strange places. I suppose we have no choice.”
    â€œGoodness!” Cuddles said. “Of course not, Priss. I’ll take him up. Follow me, Mr. McCall?” And the girl led him quickly down a blue-suffused hall and up a carpeted staircase in the grand manner. “It’s this one,” she said, stopping at a closed door. “Nina’s not here just now, Mr. McCall, but I guess it’s okay. I mean Nina Hobart, Laura’s roomie.”
    â€œI’m not going to steal anything,” McCall smiled, “if that’s what’s worrying you.”
    â€œOh, I don’t mean anything like that!” She weighed him again, shrugged slightly, opened the door, and pointed. “That’s Laura’s side. Mr. McCall?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThink anything