All was quiet in the music department when Giancarlo finally made his way down the corridor to his office. Every door on the hall was closed, and the stale, hot air trapped inside had a musty scent, like old books. The first thing he did upon entering his office was throw open the window to let in some fresh air. With no cross ventilation, it helped only a little, but it was better than nothing, and in any event, he wasn’t planning to stay there long. And so Giancarlo settled in at his desk, turned on the computer, and set about searching the Web to see what news of interest there was to be had from across the Atlantic.

Later, at the appointed hour, Giancarlo shut down his computer and ambled across the campus to meet Henry Sheffield at the café in the student union. There both men ordered simple tossed salads for lunch, Sheffield because he was trying to trim off some extra pounds, Giancarlo because there was nothing else in particular on the menu that appealed to his finicky palate.The two took their trays and found a table by the window.

Giancarlo cast his eye about the largely empty room. During the fall or spring, the café was ordinarily quite crowded during the lunch hour, and tables by the window were at a premium. Save for a handful of summer students and one or two faculty members, none of whom he recognized, the café was largely empty now. He turned and looked out the window to the quad, where, not surprisingly, several students were lounging on the grass, enjoying the gorgeous day, while a few others tossed around a Frisbee. Giancarlo watched them for a time with envious eyes. They all seemed so carefree. He tried to think back and remember a time when he himself had been so, but none came to mind.

“Gee, you’re a cheap date, Giancarlo,” said Sheffield, bringing him back to the present. He opened a little packet of diet ranch dressing and squeezed it out across the top of his lettuce and tomatoes. It covered very little, and with a look of consternation, he tossed the empty pack into the top of the salad’s plastic container. “Are you sure that’s all you’re going to have?” he added. “They make a decent egg salad sandwich here, you know.”

This last remark he made with a sly grin, for he knew Giancarlo well.

As he pondered with indifference the packet of Italian dressing for his own salad, Giancarlo caught the mischievous gleam in his friend’s eye. He put the unopened packet aside and gave a grunt.

“Henry,” he said soberly, “I think you already know that I am not going to even dignify that last comment with a response.”