Conjure Wife by Fritz Leiber Read Free Book Online Page B

that there was something odder than a coincidence involved, and that it did not reflect in any way on his own integrity of scholarship. But this seemed hardly the place.
    Yet there was no denying the incident bothered him a trifle. Why, it was years since he had even thought of that stupid business of Cunningham’s thesis. It had lain buried in the past — a hidden vulnerability, waiting for the flick of the fingernail.
    Asinine fancifulness! It could all be very well explained, to Sawtelle or anyone else, at a more suitable time.
    Sawtelle’s mind was back to habitual anxieties. “You know, we should be having our conference on the social-science program for next year. On the other hand, I suppose we should wait until —” He paused embarrassedly.
    “Until it’s decided whether you or I get the chairmanship of the department?” Norman finished for him. “I don’t see why. We’ll be working together in any case.”
    “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to suggest —”
    They were joined by some other faculty members on the steps of the dining hall. The deafening clatter of trays from the student section was subdued to a slightly fainter din as they entered the faculty sanctum.
    Conversation revolved among the old familiar topics, with an undercurrent of speculation as to what reorganizations and expansions of staff the new year might bring to Hempnell. There was some reference to the political ambitions of President Pollard — Harold Gunnison confided that a certain powerful political group was attempting to persuade him to run for governor; discreet silences here and there around the table substituted for adverse criticisiris on this possibility. Sawtelle’s Adam’s apple twitched convulsively at a chance reference to the vacant chairmanship in sociology.
    Norman managed to get a fairly interesting conversation going, with Holstrom of psychology. He was glad he would be busy with classes and conferences until four o’clock. He knew he could work half again as hard as someone like Sawtelle, but if he had to do one quarter of the worrying that man did —
    Yet the four o’clock meeting proved to be an anticlimax. He had no sooner put his hand on the door leading to Mrs. Carr’s office, when — as if that had provided the necessary stimulus — a shrill, tearful voice burst out with: “It’s all a lie! I made it up!”
    Gunnison was sitting near the window, face a trifle averted, arms folded, looking like a slightly bored, slightly embarrassed elephant. In a chair in the center of the room was huddled a delicate, fairhaired girl, tears dribbling down her fiat cheeks and hysterical sobs racking her shoulders. Mrs. Carr was trying to calm her in a fluttery way.
    “I don’t know why I did it,” the girl bleated pitifully. “I was in love with him and he wouldn’t even look at me. I was going to kill myself last night, and I thought I would do this instead, to hurt him, or —
    “Now, Margaret, you must control yourself,” Mrs. Carr admonished, her hands hovering over the girl’s shoulders.
    “Just a minute,” Norman said. “Miss Van Nice —”
    She looked around and up at him, apparently just becoming aware of his presence.
    Norman waited a little. Neither of them moved. Then he said, “Miss Van Nice, last night between the time you decided to kill yourself and the time you decided to hurt me this way, did you do something else? Did you by any chance make a phone call?”
    The girl didn’t answer, but after a few moments a blush appeared on her tear-stained face, overspread it, and flowed down under her dress. A little later even her forearms were dull read.
    Cunnison registered vague curiosity.
    Mrs. Carr looked at the girl sharply, bending toward her. For a moment Norman fancied that there was something distinctly venomous in her searching glance. But that was probably just a trick of the thick glasses, which sometimes magnified Mrs. Carr’s eyes until they looked fishlike.
    The girl did not