“I want you to head a Harvard committee to protest.” Having launched his bomb, Edward now sat back to wait for it to explode. It had evidently been an effort, for Goldberg saw the faint sweat on his forehead.

“I should have thought this was up your alley rather than mine,” Goldberg played for time.

“At this point my name would be damaging. I campaigned for Wallace myself, if you remember.”

“My dear fellow, you know very well that I will do no such thing.”

Edward got up with a gesture of some violence, stood there, as if he was going to walk out, then said very quietly, “What if the professor involved were myself, Ivan?”

“We don’t do things that way at Harvard, as you know very well. I presume this is a state university and politics naturally enter in. No, Edward, I have steadfastly refused to be involved in political matters and I don’t see why I should suddenly go back on my position now.”

“But this is not a matter of politics, Ivan.” Edward was obviously forcing himself to be patient. “You can’t evade it on those grounds. It’s a matter of freedom to think and believe and say what you believe. It’s a basic American principle which is being attacked here. It’s the opening wedge in a fight against the intellectuals as subversives not only for political reasons but because they’re intellectuals. You’re just being an ostrich,” Edward said, sitting down again abruptly, determined, it appeared, to stay and fight this out once and for all.

“The reason the intellectuals are being lumped together as subversives is that too many of them have played politics as amateurs. If they’d stuck to their last, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Goldberg deliberately became gentler and sweeter in tone and more smiling as what he said became fiercer in content.

“Very well,” Edward shouted hoarsely, his face quite red now and all pretence of reasonableness gone, “have it your own way. Say we were all crazy and wrong, you still can’t condone firing a man without a hearing. You simply can’t. For once in your life, Ivan, you are not going to escape into your ivory tower. You just can’t do it, cold fish though you may be.” Goldberg felt the smile on his own face freeze so that he seemed to be looking out of a mask. Inside it, he suffered. It was a dreadful thing to him to see a man of Edward’s intelligence reach such a pitch of passion. What he felt actually was something like love, the kind of love that makes you slap a hysteric.

“You’re driving yourself too hard, Edward,” he said gently.