Ridgeway slid the basket with new grounds into the coffeemaker, poured in a pot of water, and turned the machine on. He stood there, blankly staring at the machine. Finally the coffeemaker’s burps and gurgles cut through his reverie and he turned his attention to the gray and white storm lashing by just beyond the portholes. One minute he could see the boat in the slip next to his and the next only a wash of static like a bad black-and-white TV image.

He stared at the storm several minutes, then turned to the table where the binder containing his lecture materials had lain untouched since his last class. He approached the binder as one approaches a deformed child who ought to be loved but who inspires only disgust, sat down in front of the lesson plans, and opened the thick loose-leaf binder. He glanced cursorily at one page and then another before he realized he didn’t care about them any more this morning than he had any other morning since he returned from Zurich.

He continued dumbly to thumb through the yellow-ruled pages covered with clippings, scrawled notes, and citations. He had planned to talk about the origins of antiSemitism in Christian dogma this morning. But he had no energy left for dogma or anti-Semitism or for the students who seemed to tear at his mind, wanting to strip it bare of knowledge. He had no patience to face them.

The coffeemaker popped and gurgled its last drops and hissed a cloud of vapor that condensed on the portholes. Weary after a night’s half sleep, Ridgeway slammed the lecture notes closed, shoved himself away from the table, and went to the telephone hanging by the galley. He punched in the number of the philosophy department The phone buzzed in his ear.

“Philosophy, Mrs. Bradford speaking,” he heard the departmental secretary answer. Karen Bradford was a delightful woman in her forties with long elegant features and graceful movements.

“Good morning, Karen,” Ridgeway replied in his cheeriest voice. “Is David around?”

“Good morning, Seth,” Karen replied, her concern apparent even over the telephone. “How are you this morning?”

“Oh… not bad, not bad, all things considered.”

“That’s good. I believe Professor Davis is in his office. I’ll ring him for you.”

But instead of the dull clicking of the antique GTE telephone switching system, Ridgeway heard only silence. She had put him on hold. Cradling the receiver between his shoulder and chin, Ridgeway leaned over to pour a cup of the fresh coffee into the chipped and beloved mug his first squad car partner had given him for a birthday gift On one side it had his name and rank, sergeant at the time, and on the other a cartoon of two buzzards sitting on a desolate tree limb. The caption under the cartoon read: “Patience, hell! I’m going out and kill something.” Another time, another life, Ridgeway thought as the memory almost coaxed a smile from him.

The telephone began to ring again as Ridgeway sipped from the cup. He swallowed quickly as he prepared to ask Dave Davis to take yet another class for him. He tried to think of what excuse to use this time.