2
ward the end of our mutual training program it took only one part per million of sulfur dioxide gas in his vicinity to send him whirling into the posture of defense, cranelike on one leg, tongue out and thumb to nose, the sweat of terror on his brow.
"I have something to tell you, Professor," I said.
"So?" he asked tolerantly. And that did it. The tolerance. I had been prepared to make my point with a dignified recital and apology, but there were two ways to tell the story and I suddenly chose the second.
"You're a phony," I said with satisfaction.
"What?" he gasped.
"A phony. A fake. A hoaxer. A self-deluding crackpot. Your Functional Epistemology is a farce. Let's not go into this thing kidding ourselves."
His accent thickened a little. "Let me remind you, Mr. Norris, that you are addressing a doctor of philosophy of the University of Gottingen and a member of the faculty of the University of Basle."
"You mean a Privatdozent who teaches freshman logic. And I seem to remember that Gottingen revoked your degree."
He said slowly: "I have known all along that you were a fool, Mr. Norris. Not until now did I realize that you are also an anti-Semite. It was the Nazis who went through an illegal ceremony of revocation."
"So that makes me an anti-Semite. From a teacher of logic that's very funny."
"You are correct," he said after a long pause. "I withdraw my remark. Now, would you be good enough to amplify yours?"
"Gladly, Professor. In the first place--"
I had been winding up the rubber rat in my pocket. I yanked it out and tossed it into his lap where it scrabbled and clawed. He yelled with terror, but the yell didn't cost him a split second. Almost before it started from his throat he was standing one-legged, thumb to nose, tongue stuck out.
He thanked me coldly, I congratulated him coldly, I pocketed the rat while he shuddered and we went on with the conversation.
I told him how, eighteen months ago, Mr. Hopedale calle