The Edge of the Knife Page 5

certainly hope that you can realize that there was nothingbut the most purely coincidental connection between the event featuredin this morning's newspapers and your performance, a month ago, inModern History Four," he began.

  "I realize nothing of the sort. The death of Khalid ib'n Hussein is afact of history, unalterably set in its proper place in time-sequence.It was a fact of history a month ago no less than today."

  "So that's going to be your attitude; that your wild utterances of amonth ago have now been vindicated as fulfilled prophesies? And Isuppose you intend to exploit this--this coincidence--to the utmost.The involvement of Blanley College in a mess of sensational publicitymeans nothing to you, I presume."

  "I haven't any idea what you're talking about."

  "You mean to tell me that you didn't give this story to the localnewspaper, the _Valley Times_?" Whitburn demanded.

  "I did not. I haven't mentioned the subject to anybody connected withthe _Times_, or anybody else, for that matter. Except my attorney, amonth ago, when you were threatening to repudiate the contract yousigned with me."

  "I suppose I'm expected to take your word for that?"

  "Yes, you are. Unless you care to call me a liar in so many words." Hemoved a step closer. Lloyd Whitburn outweighed him by fifty pounds,but most of the difference was fat. Whitburn must have realized that,too.

  "No, no; if you say you haven't talked about it to the _Valley Times_,that's enough," he said hastily. "But somebody did. A reporter washere not twenty minutes ago; he refused to say who had given him thestory, but he wanted to question me about it."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I refused to make any statement whatever. I also called ColonelTighlman, the owner of the paper, and asked him, very reasonably, tosuppress the story. I thought that my own position and the importanceof Blanley College to this town entitled me to that muchconsideration." Whitburn's face became almost purple. "He ... helaughed at me!"

  "Newspaper people don't like to be told to kill stories. Not even bycollege presidents. That's only made things worse. Personally, I don'trelish the prospect of having this publicized, any more than you do. Ican assure you that I shall be most guarded if any of the _Times_reporters talk to me about it, and if I have time to get back to myclass before the end of the period, I shall ask them, as a personalfavor, not to discuss the matter outside."

  Whitburn didn't take the hint. Instead, he paced back and forth,storming about the reporter, the newspaper owner, whoever had giventhe story to the paper, and finally Chalmers himself. He was lividwith rage.

  "You certainly can't imagine that when you made those remarks in classyou actually possessed any knowledge of a thing that was still a monthin the future," he spluttered. "Why, it's ridiculous! Utterlypreposterous!"

  "Unusual, I'll admit. But the fact remains that I did. I should, ofcourse, have been more careful, and not confused future with pastevents. The students didn't understand...."

  Whitburn half-turned, stopping short.

  "My God, man! You _are_ crazy!" he cried, horrified.

  The period-bell was ringing as he left Whitburn's office; that meantthat the twenty-three students were scattering over the campus,talking like mad. He shrugged. Keeping them quiet about a thing likethis wouldn't have been possible in any case. When he entered hisoffice, Stanly Weill was waiting for him. The lawyer drew him out intothe hallway quickly.

  "For God's sake, have you been talking to the papers?" he demanded."After what I told you...."

  "No, but somebody has." He told about the call to Whitburn's office,and the latter's behavior. Weill cursed the college presidentbitterly.

  "Any time you want to get a story in the _Valley Times_, just orderFrank Tighlman not to print it. Well, if you haven't talked, don't."

  "Suppose somebody asks me?"

  "A reporter, no comment. Anybody else, none of his damn business. Andabove all, don't let anybody finagle you into making any claims aboutknowing the future. I thought we had this under control; now thatit's out in the open, what that fool Whitburn'll do is anybody'sguess."

  Leonard Fitch met him as he entered the Faculty Club, sizzling withexcitement.

  "Ed, this has done it!" he began, jubilantly. "This is one nobody canlaugh off. It's direct proof of precognition, and because of theprominence of the event, everybody will hear about it. And it simplycan't be dismissed as coincidence...."

  "Whitburn's trying to do that."

  "Whitburn's a fool if he is," another man said calmly. Turning, he sawthat the speaker was Tom Smith, one of the math professors. "I figuredthe odds against that being chance. There are a lot of variables thatmight affect it one way or another, but ten to the fifteenth power iswhat I get for a sort of median figure."

  "Did you give that story to the _Valley Times?_" he asked Fitch,suspicion rising and dragging anger up after it.

  "Of course, I did," Fitch said. "I'll admit, I had to go behind yourback and have some of my postgrads get statements from the boys inyour history class, but you wouldn't talk about it yourself...."

  Tom Smith was standing beside him. He was twenty years younger thanChalmers, he was an amateur boxer, and he had good reflexes. He caughtChalmers' arm as it was traveling back for an uppercut, and held it.

  "Take it easy, Ed; you don't want to start a slugfest in here. This isthe Faculty Club; remember?"

  "I won't, Tom; it wouldn't prove anything if I did." He turned toFitch. "I won't talk about sending your students to pump mine, but atleast you could have told me before you gave that story out."

  "I don't know what you're sore about," Fitch defended himself. "Ibelieved in you when everybody else thought you were crazy, and if Ihadn't collected signed and dated statements from your boys, there'dhave been no substantiation. It happens that extrasensory perceptionmeans as much to me as history does to you. I've believed in it eversince I read about Rhine's work, when I was a kid. I worked in ESP fora long time. Then I had a chance to get a full professorship by cominghere, and after I did, I found that I couldn't go on with it, becauseWhitburn's president here, and he's a stupid old bigot with anair-locked mind...."

  "Yes." His anger died down as Fitch spoke. "I'm glad Tom stopped mefrom making an ass of myself. I can see your side of it." Maybe thatwas the curse of the professional intellectual, an ability to seeeverybody's side of everything. He thought for a moment. "What elsedid you do, beside hand this story to the _Valley Times?_ I'd betterhear all about it."

  "I phoned the secretary of the American Institute of Psionics andParapsychology, as soon as I saw this morning's paper. With thetime-difference to the East Coast, I got him just as he reached hisoffice. He advised me to give the thing the widest possible publicity;he thought that would advance the recognition and study ofparapsychology. A case like this can't be ignored; it will demandserious study...."

  "Well, you got your publicity, all right. I'm up to my neck in it."

  There was an uproar outside. The doorman was saying, firmly:

  "This is the Faculty Club, gentlemen; it's for members only. I don'tcare if you gentlemen are the press, you simply cannot come in here."

  "We're all up to our necks in it," Smith said. "Leonard, I don't carewhat your motives were, you ought to have considered the effect on therest of us first."

  "This place will be a madhouse," Handley complained. "How we're goingto get any of these students to keep their minds on their work...."

  "I tell you, I don't know a confounded thing about it," MaxPottgeiter's voice rose petulantly at the door. "Are you trying totell me that Professor Chalmers murdered some Arab? Ridiculous!"

  * * * * *

  He ate hastily and without enjoyment, and slipped through the kitchenand out the back door, cutting between two frat-houses and circlingback to Prescott Hall. On the way, he paused momentarily and chuckled.The reporters, unable to storm the Faculty Club, had gone off in chaseof other game and had cornered Lloyd Whitburn in front ofAdministration Center. They had a jeep with a
sound-camera mounted onit, and were trying to get something for telecast. After gesticulatingangrily, Whitburn broke away from them and dashed up the steps andinto the building. A campus policeman stopped those who tried tofollow.

  His only afternoon class was American History III. He got through itsomehow, though the class wasn't able to concentrate on theReconstruction and the first election of Grover Cleveland. The hallswere