Even worse, from the point of view of his colleagues, Tim had charisma to burn, which the rest of them most definitely lacked (“dour lab rats,” Tim called them, “paper shufflers and pea counters”), and there was a whole contingent that resented him for it. Not to mention the fact that his classes were oversubscribed while the numbers in their own courses steadily dropped. No surprise then that they were out for his blood.

The meeting that Thursday took a while to get under way because additional chairs had to be brought into the room, and Fitz, who was there with Ken, Fanchon and Charlie to lend support, was surprised to see how many people had shown up for what under normal circumstances would have been the usual dull hour featuring one prof after another droning on about the finer points of departmental business. He tried to do a quick head count but gave up when he reached fifty, distracted by Fanchon, who was squeezed in beside him, exuding her sweet vanilla scent and something else too, something more private, a whiff of perspiration from under her arms and between her legs. She was talking in a throaty confidential whisper, giving a running commentary on the professors in the enemy camp, which, as it turned out, was practically all of them. “That one. The one in the suit that is the color of a dog’s turd? He is Kellard, no? Look at him, his eyes, just look at his eyes—he is clearly what do you say, repressed? A”—and here she leaned into him and dropped her voice—“a limp dick, no?”

It was ten past the hour by the time Professor McClelland, who as chair of the Center had been responsible for hiring Tim two years back, called the meeting to order. Tim was sitting in the front row, one leg casually crossed at the knee, Dick beside him. Dick looked grim, as if he expected a fight; Tim was nonchalant, turning round in his seat to greet people with a smile or an abbreviated wave. The minute hand of the wall clock shifted forward. A pair of professors ducked in the door at the last moment. Conversation fell off.