“Years ago plenty of people thought he was a genius.”

“I remember being one of them.”

“Do you think it was that wretched accident to his face that kinked him? Or his family? His mother, do you suppose?”

“Once I would have supposed all those things, but I don’t any longer. People triumph over worse families than his could have been, and do astonishing things with ruined bodies, and I’m sick to death of people squealing about their mothers. Everybody has to have a mother, and not everybody is going to draw the Grand Prize—whatever that may be. What’s a perfect mother? We hear too much about loving mothers making homosexuals, and neglectful mothers making crooks, and commonplace mothers stifling intelligence. The whole mother business needs radical re-examination.”

“You sound as if in a minute you were going to give me a lecture about Original Sin.”

“And why not? We’ve had psychology and we’ve had sociology and we’re still just where we were, for all practical purposes. Some of the harsh old theological notions of things are every bit as good, not because they really explain anything, but because at bottom they admit they can’t explain a lot of things, so they foist them off on God, who may be cruel and incalculable but at least He takes the guilt for a lot of human misery.”

“So you think there’s no explanation for Parlabane? For his failure to live up to expectation? For what he is now?”

“You’ve lived in a university longer than I have, Clem, and you’ve seen lots of splendidly promising young people disappear into mediocrity. We put too much value on a certain kind of examination-passing brain and a ready tongue.”

“In a minute you’ll be saying that character is more important than intelligence. I know several people of splendid character who haven’t got the wits of a hen.”

“Stop telling me what I’m going to say in a minute, Clem, and take a good look at yourself: certainly one of the most brilliant men in this university and a man of international reputation, and the first time you get into a tiny moral mess with a girl you become a complete simpleton.”

“You presume on your cloth to insult me.”

“Balls! I’m not wearing my cloth; I only put on the full rig on Sundays. Have another drink.”

“You don’t suppose, do you, that this discussion is degenerating into mere whisky-talk?”

“Very likely. But before we sink below the surface, let me tell you what twenty years of the cloth, as you so old-fashionedly call it, have taught me. Intellectual endowment is a factor in a man’s fate, and so is character, and so is industry, and so is courage, but they can all go right down the drain without another factor that nobody likes to admit, and that’s sheer, bald-headed Luck.”

“I would have expected you to say God’s Saving Grace.”

“Certainly you can call it that if you like, and the way He sprinkles it around is beyond human comprehension. God’s a rum old joker, Clem, and we must never forget it.”

“He’s treated us well, wouldn’t you say, Simon? Here’s to the Rum Old Joker!”

“The Rum Old Joker! And long may he smile on us.”

The laboratories of Professor Ozias Froats looked more than anything else like the kitchens of a first-rate hotel. Clean metal tables, sinks, an array of cabinets like big refrigerators, and a few instruments that looked as if they were concerned with very accurate calculations. I cannot say what I expected; by the time I visited him the hullabaloo stirred up by Murray Brown had so coloured the public conception of his work that I would not have been surprised if I had found Ozy in the sort of surroundings one associates with the Mad Scientists in a bad movie.

“Come on in, Simon. You don’t mind if I call you Simon, do you? Call me Ozy; you always did.”

It was a name he had lifted from the joke-name of a rube undergraduate to the honoured pet-name of a first-rate footballer. In the great days when he and Boom-Boom Glazebrook were the stars of the University team the crowd used to sing arevised version of a song that had been popular years earlier—

and if he was injured in the game the cheerleaders, led by his own sweetheart, Peppy Peggy, brought him to his feet with the long, yearning cry, “Come o-o-o-o-n Ozy! Come O-O-O-O-N OZY!” But everybody knew that Ozy was a star in biology, as well as football, and a Very Big Man On Campus. What he had been doing since graduation, and a Rhodes Scholarship, only God and biologists knew, but the President had named him as another Ornament to the University. So I was glad he had not wholly forgotten me.

“Murray Brown is giving you a rough time, Ozy.”

“Yes. You saw that there was a parade outside the Legislature yesterday. People wanting education grants cut. Some of the signs read, “Get the Shit Out of Our Varsity”. That meant me. I’m Murray’s great peeve.”

“Well, do you actually work with—?”

“Sure I do. And a very good thing, too. Time somebody got to grips with it.—God, people are so stupid.”

“They don’t understand, and they’re overtaxed and scared about inflation. The universities are always an easy mark. Cut the frills away from education. Teach students a trade so they can make a living. You can’t persuade most of the public that education and making a living aren’t the same thing. And when the public sees people happily doing what they like best and getting paid for it, they are envious, and want to put a stop to it. Fire the unprofitable professors. Education and religion are two subjects on which everybody considers himself an expert; everybody does what he calls using his common sense.—I suppose your work costs a lot of money?”

“Not as much as lots of things, but quite a bit. It isn’t public money, most of it. I get grants from foundations, and the National Research Council, and so forth, but the University backs me, and pays me, and I suppose I’m a natural scapegoat for people like Brown.”

“Your work is offensive because of what you work with. Though I should think it was cheap.”

“Oh no, not at all. I’m not a night-soil man, Simon. The stuff has to be special, and it costs three dollars a bucket, and if you multiply that by a hundred to a hundred and twenty-five—and that’s the smallest test-group I can use—it’s three hundred dollars or more a day, seven days a week, just for starters.”

“A hundred buckets a day! Quite a heap.”

“If I was in cancer research you wouldn’t hear a word said. Cancer’s all the rage, you know, and has been for years. You can get any money for it.”

“I don’t suppose you could say this was related to cancer research?”

“Simon! And you a parson! That’d be a lie! I don’t know what it’s related to. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Pure science?”

“Nearly. Of course I have an idea or two, but I’m working from the known towards the unknown. I’m in a neglected field and an unpopular one because nobody really likes messing with the stuff. But sooner or later somebody had to, and it turns out to be me. I suppose you want to hear about it?”

“I’d be delighted. But I didn’t come to pry, you know. Just a friendly visit.”

“I’m glad to tell you all I can. But will you wait a few minutes; there’s somebody else coming—a girl Hollier wants to know about my work, because of something she’s doing in his line, whatever that is. Anyway, she should be here soon.”

Shortly she appeared, and it was my New Testament Greek student and the thorn in the flesh of Professor Hollier, that unexpected puritan: Miss Theotoky. A queer group we made: I was in my clerical clothes and back-to-front collar, because I had been at a committee dinner where it seemed appropriate, and Maria was looking like the Magdalen in a medieval illumination, though not so gloomy, and Ozias Froats looked like what was left of a great footballer who had been transformed into a controversial research scientist. He was still a giant and still very strong, but his hair was leaving him, and he had what seemed to be a melon concealed in the front of his trousers, when his white lab-coat revealed it. There were pleasantries, and then Ozy got down to his explanation.