They went across to an elevator and Kudzuvine pressed the button for Floor I. As the lift shot up ten floors, according to the indicator above the door, the Bursar had the terrible idea that something had gone badly wrong with the thing and that he was about to die. But the elevator stopped and Kudzuvine spoke to a microphone and a camera in a corner of the roof. 'K.K. and Professor Bursar Guest to Executive Suite Zero,' he said. The very next moment the lift dropped-plummeted was the way the Bursar would have described it if he'd had time to think and hadn't been so alarmed-to some other floor which didn't register at all on the indicator. Again Kudzuvine spoke to the camera. The doors opened and the Bursar stepped out into a large office with an enormous glass-topped desk and some very small and heavily glassed windows. The room was almost entirely bare of furniture except for a number of green leather chairs and a huge sofa. The floor appeared to be made of marble, and there were no rugs. Behind the desk a small man who looked almost exactly like everyone else he had seen in the building and who wore a brown polo-neck sweater, dark blue glasses, white socks and moccasins and what appeared to be a rather ill-fitting wig, got up and came round to greet him.
'I am so pleased you could come,' he said in an almost reedy voice. 'I hear from Karl here your ideas most interesting and I have so much wanted to discuss the question of funding institutions of the highest learning with you. Do come and sit down.' He led the way to the green leather sofa and patted one end to indicate that that was where the Bursar was to sit.
'It is very kind of you to invite me,' the Bursar said and hoped he was about to quote the parts of the lectures he had memorized correctly. 'It is just that I feel there has been too much stress laid upon the avoidance of influential input on the part of fund-providers. As fund raisers we are not in any position to…either morally or realistically to decide the intended educational provisos of benefactors. Research should be orientated towards the social needs of industry and…'
At the far end of the sofa Edgar Hartang nodded agreement, his eyes invisible behind the blue glasses. 'I think what you say is so very right,' he said. 'My own life has, I am sorry to have to admit, been without formal education and it is perhaps for that reason I feel the need to make my little contribution to the great institutions of learning such as your famous…er…college.'
The Bursar decided he was hesitating for the name. 'Porterhouse College,' he said.
'Naturally. Porterhouse College is well known for its high standards of…' Again Hartang paused and for a moment the Bursar almost said 'Cuisine'. He couldn't for the life of him think of any other high standards Porterhouse might possess, except perhaps on the river and in sport. But Hartang was already ploughing on with platitudes and clichés about his hopes and intentions and the need to establish relationships, meaningful relations to the mutual benefit of all concerned and caring institutions like…like Porterhouse.
The Bursar sat mesmerized by it all. He had no idea what the man was talking about except that he appeared to be inclined to make a financial contribution. At least the Bursar hoped so. He couldn't be sure, but a man who could be so concerned about the fate of forests and baby octopuses to the point where he had to take extreme measures to protect himself from the murderous attentions, presumably, of Amazonian lumberjacks and Spanish fishermen, had to be amazingly philanthropic. Or mad. Some of his utterances suggested the latter, and one in particular he was never able to forget or begin to understand. It had to do with 'the need to create an ephemera of permanence'. (In fact the expression or concept or whatever it was did not simply stick in the Bursar's bemused memory, it positively lodged there and made itself so thoroughly at home that in later life the Bursar would suddenly start from his sleep and alarm his wife at three o'clock in the morning by demanding to know how in God's name ephemera could be made permanent when by definition they were precisely the opposite. Not that the Bursar's wife, who had been to Girton and was a dreadful cook, could help him. And it certainly did nothing for his peace of mind to be told the statement was a paradox. A paradox? A paradox? Of course it's a bloody paradox. I know it's a fucking paradox,' he screamed at her. 'I'm not stupid. What I want to know is what that appalling man was…what meaning he attached to the statement.' 'Perhaps he didn't mean anything in particular,' his wife said, sensibly, but the Bursar would have none of it. 'You didn't meet him,' he said. 'And I'm telling you he meant something.')
But at the time the Bursar merely sat looking attentively into the dark blue glasses and nodding occasionally while part of his mind wondered why a man as obviously rich as Edgar Hartang should wear such an obviously cheap wig. He was even more puzzled when the lunch trolley was wheeled in and he found himself obliged to eat five enormous courses of what was evidently the tycoon's idea of _ancienne cuisine_ while Hartang himself toyed with the most delicate plates of _nouvelle._ Even the wine, a very heavy Burgundy, was rather too rich for the Bursar and he glanced several times almost enviously at his host's bottle of Vichy water. But at least the clarity of Hartang's conversation improved over the meal.
'I guess you must be wondering why it is that I choose to dress in the same informal way as everyone else who works here at Transworld Television Productions.' He paused and sipped his mineral water.
'The thought had crossed my mind,' the Bursar agreed, though he was still more preoccupied with that damned wig. It was such a very obvious one.
Edgar Hartang blinked weak eyes and smiled softly. 'Okay, I'll tell you,' he said and cocked his head to one side in the process, partly dislodging the wig which tilted to the left. 'I don't choose to dress like them. I permit them to dress like me. I have always liked the polo. Most comfortable, and, of course, silk. And the colour has taste with the black blazer. I designed the buttons myself. They are embossed with the Transworld logo. You see a little tree?'
The Bursar peered at one of the tycoon's buttons and saw what looked like a small bush.
'So tasteful,' Hartang went oh. And of course the polo is of silk.'
The Bursar had already heard that. And the blazer is naturally of cashmere. White socks so clean and fresh. And for the feet the ethnically correct American moccasin shoes which are again so comfortable. I like it for myself and what is good for me is good for my staff.' Again he paused and waited for the Bursar to approve:
'What a nice touch,' said the Bursar and immediately regretted it. Edgar Hartang's vocabulary might be curiously eclectic and his accent uncertain, but it was clear that he was having difficulty distinguishing between 'nice touches' and 'soft' ones. He took off his glasses for a moment and this time the Bursar didn't think his eyes were weak.
'You think a nice touch?' Hartang asked. 'You think so?'
'I meant of course it is a delightful idea. I am sure very few men in your position would have been so considerate.'
'None of them would,' Hartang insisted. 'None.'
'None,' said the Bursar, sensing agreement was obligatory.
For a time he was left to eat in silence while the great man made some calls to Hong Kong, Buenos Aires and New York and sucked what looked like an antacid tablet. It was only when the Bursar had finished an unpleasantly sticky jam tart, which played havoc with his dentures, and was drinking his coffee that Hartang announced his intentions. 'I got to see you again next week to discuss the funding requirements. Karl will coordinate with you and the accountants. I do not involve myself in details. Only in end outcomes. Like it has been a great pleasure meeting with you. We talk about funding requirements next week.'