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Labor in the Vineyards of Science, pushing back the Barriers of the Un—”
    “Dr. Bealls,” I interrupted. “One of your Laborers won’t be hanging around the Vineyards anymore. He’s lying on a sheet-steel table at the Denver City Morgue, so full of machine gun bullets, he’s gonna need a forklift for a—”
    “Bullets? My dear fellow, certainly no one in this department—” He keyed the intercom, which was stupid—the office door was open, secretary sitting eight feet away. “Shirley, ascertain whether Dr. Meiss is in his office or in class. Have him come immediately if he’s free.”
    She swiveled and looked right in the door. “Vaughn didn’t meet his eight-o’clock, sir, and he hasn’t called in. I mentioned it when you came in at eleven.” Score three points for Shirley.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Binh.” He purpled. “That will be all.” Rising abruptly and skirting the desk, he closed the door and hustled back. “I’m sure there’s a more reasonable explanation for this. He’s punctual, at least that can be said.”
    I made curiosity grimaces. “You feel he had some failings?”
    “My good man, you simply don’t know!” He leaned back, polishing his glasses with an edge of his jacket. “In a field already overcrowded with nitwits, mystics, and Bohemians, he is—where can I possibly begin?”
    “How about—”
    “—His disgraceful activities! My deepest frustration, as head of this department, is to be obstructed from assuring the, um, gratitude of its employees. Variant opinions, particularly in these times of economic reappraisal, betray a certain inhumility. Nor have we room for contumacious individualism. Socially Responsible Science cannot proceed in such a manner.”
    And Mac had asked where I had been! “What form did his particular contumaciousness take?”
    “He writes letters— wild, irresponsible things, absolutist, subversive! Do you know, he claims this institution would be more efficient run for profit? As if efficiency were a valid criterion in education!” He peered confidentially over the tops of his glasses. “Let me tell you—not even the department’s Trotskyites and Birchers willingly associate with him.”
    I grinned. “He was a Propertarian. A book I’m reading said they think the whole right-left political spectrum is eyewash. That might rankle your garden-variety radicals a little.”
    “As may be. He was dangerous, antisocial … some sort of Bolshevist!”
    “Bolshevist?” I hadn’t missed the sudden change of tenses. “I wonder how Mary Ross-Byrd would like that?”
    “Who? Oh, I see—just like all the others. Well, I warn you, I’m an old hand. Not a man on this faculty isn’t anxious to pull me down. Daily I withstand ridicule, plot and counterplot. I’ll cooperate fully with responsible authority—my happy duty as a grateful citizen—but I will not suffer abuse from a public servant, do you understand?”
    “Sure, Doc, I understand—that’s a mighty fine pair you’ve got.”
    “Pair? Pair of what?”
    “Noids—skip it. What else was unconventional about Meiss?”
    “Ahem … Well, he used to— tends to—confuse his proper role on the faculty. He’s completely aloof from his colleagues.”
    “You mean the Trotskyites and Birchers who wouldn’t associate with him?”
    “I mean they frequently complain he goes out of his way to make his professional undertakings vague and esoteric. They—”
    “Couldn’t understand what he was doing.”
    “I would find other words. He has no right to set himself above his peers.” He fumbled nervously through a desk drawer, glanced up at me, and thought better of it, regretfully shoved the drawer closed.
    I laughed. “Go ahead. I’m a nicotine fiend, myself.”
    He colored. “ We were speaking of Dr. Meiss!”
    I considered lighting up, myself, decided not to push things. “So we were.”
    “Yes. He seems to be more candid with his students than his colleagues, mixing in a vulgar and