Professor Morris

Professor Morris exited the Hall and made his way down the stairs. It wasn’t easy for him. He had been overweight since childhood, and, despite the best efforts of nutritionists, a private trainer, his wife, and, even, now and then, himself . . . he remained heavy.

But he wasn’t morbidly obese. He needed to lose a lot of weight, yes, but he wasn’t any 500-pound side show attraction either. He was only, well, sixty or seventy pounds over the limit.

The strange thing was that women didn’t find him unattractive. He had never quite figured that out. It seemed perfectly logical that they should avoid him. Yet, for reasons that he didn’t pretend to understand, many women seemed to find him “cute.” He had rather frequently found himself in the arms of willowy blondes—other professors, a neighbor, graduate students.

Not his own graduate students, of course. He was no cliché. And, besides, in this day and age of sexual harassment suits, it wasn’t safe. But, other people’s graduate students, well, they were another matter entirely. He preferred sociologists.

But, truth be told, it wasn’t exactly sex he was after these days. In fact, he was reasonably faithful to his wife. No. What he wanted most from them was support. Young women, graduate students, these could be molded, positioned, trained. He could coach them ahead of conferences and then point them at his rivals, and say, “kill.” They’d do the work for him.

In fact, he had two such women prepared for today—Rosellen, who was leaving next year for study in Ireland, and Paula, the girl from the Gold Coast of Connecticut. He had primed them to attack Lester Smith Graham. Not that Lester was a particularly important target. On some level he was indifferent to the little man’s failure. But, it was always good to practice.

Which was why he was a little disappointed that Lester had behaved so strangely. Walking out like that . . .? Well, it made no sense at all, and besides, it spoiled the little drama he’d been planning. Rosellen coming in from the left flank, Ivy closing for the kill from behind.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk. He was certain that his girls would have a crack at someone else in the near future.

He came to the doors and eased out into the dying light. And so to home . . .

That was when he saw the traffic. Out in front of the Hall, on the main street that bordered the campus and the faculty-staff parking lot, was a long, slowly, crawling mass of cars . . . bumper to bumper.

What the hell?