"I figured you would," Finch said and leaned back in his chair. "Not me. I have three years to go and I'm getting out. I think sometimes about what I've missed, the places I haven't been to, and—hell, Bill, life's too short. Why don't you get out too? Think of all the time—"
"I wouldn't know what to do with it," Stoner said. "I've never learned."
"Well, hell," Finch said. "This day and age, sixty-five's pretty young. There's time to learn things that—"
"It's Lomax, isn't it? He's putting the squeeze on you."
Finch grinned. "Sure. What did you expect?"
Stoner was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You tell Lomax that I wouldn't talk to you about it. Tell him that I've become so cantankerous and ornery in my old age that you can't do a thing with me. That he's going to have to do it himself."
Finch laughed and shook his head. "By God, I will. After all these years, maybe you two old bastards will unbend a little."
But the confrontation did not take place at once, and when it did—in the middle of the second semester, in March—it did not take the form that Stoner expected. Once again he was requested to appear at the dean's office; a time was specified, and urgency was hinted.
Stoner came in a few minutes late. Lomax was already there; he sat stiffly in front of Finch's desk; there was an empty chair beside him. Stoner walked slowly across the room and sat down. He turned his head and looked at Lomax; Lomax stared imperturbably in front of him, one eyebrow lifted in a general disdain.
Finch stared at both of them for several moments, a little smile of amusement on his face.
"Well," he said, "we all know the matter before us. It is that of Professor Stoner's retirement." He sketched the regulations —voluntary retirement was possible at sixty-five; under this option, Stoner could if he wished retire either at the end of the current academic year, or at the end of either semester of the following year. Or he could, if it were agreed upon by the chairman of the department, the dean of the college, and the professor concerned, extend his retirement age to sixty-seven, at which time retirement was mandatory. Unless, of course, the person concerned were given a Distinguished Professorship and awarded a Chair, in which event—
"A most remote likelihood, I believe we can agree," Lomax said dryly.
Stoner nodded to Finch. "Most remote."
"I frankly believe," Lomax said to Finch, "it would be in the best interests of the department and college if Professor Stoner would take advantage of his opportunity to retire. There are certain curricular and personnel changes that I have long contemplated, which this retirement would make possible."
Stoner said to Finch, "I have no wish to retire before I have to, merely to accommodate a whim of Professor Lomax."
Finch turned to Lomax. Lomax said, "I'm sure that there is a great deal that Professor Stoner has not considered. He would have the leisure to do some of the writing that his"—he paused delicately—"his dedication to teaching has prevented him from doing. Surely the academic community would be edified if the fruit of his long experience were—"
Stoner interrupted, "I have no desire to begin a literary career at this stage in my life."
Lomax, without moving from his chair, seemed to bow to Finch. "I'm sure our colleague is too modest. Within two years I myself will be forced by regulations to vacate the chairmanship of the department. I certainly intend to put my declining years to good use; indeed, I look forward to the leisure of my retirement."
Stoner said, "I hope to remain a member of the department, at least until that auspicious occasion."
Lomax was silent for a moment. Then he said contemplatively to Finch, 'It has occurred to me several times during the past few years that Professor Stoner's efforts on behalf of the University have perhaps not been fully appreciated. It has occurred to me that a promotion to full professor might be a fitting climax to his retirement year. A dinner in honor of the occasion—a fitting ceremony. It should be most gratifying. Though it is late in the year, and though most of the promotions have already been declared, I am sure that, if I insisted, a promotion might be arranged for next year, in commemoration of an auspicious retirement."
Suddenly the game that he had been playing with Lomax— and, in a curious way, enjoying—seemed trivial and mean. A tiredness came over him. He looked directly at Lomax and said wearily, "Holly, after all these years, I thought you knew me better than that. I've never cared a damn for what you thought you could 'give' me, or what you thought you could 'do' to me, or whatever." He paused; he was, indeed, more tired than he had thought. He continued with an effort, "That isn't the point; it has never been the point. You're a good man, I suppose; certainly you're a good teacher. But in some ways you're an ignorant son-of-a-bitch." He paused again. "I don't know what you hoped for. But I won't retire—not at the end of this year, nor the end of the next." He got up slowly and stood for a moment, gathering his strength. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm a little tired. I'll leave you to discuss whatever it is you have to discuss."
He knew that it would not end there, but he did not care. When, at the last general faculty meeting of the year, Lomax, in his departmental report to the faculty, announced the retirement at the end of the next year of Professor William Stoner, Stoner got to his feet and informed the faculty that Professor Lomax was in error, that the retirement would not be effective until two years after the time that Lomax had announced. At the beginning of the fall semester the new president of the University invited Stoner to his home for afternoon tea and spoke expansively of the years of his service, of the well-earned rest, of the gratitude they all felt; Stoner put on his most crochety manner, called the president "young man," and pretended not to hear, so that at last the young man ended by shouting in the most placatory tone he could manage.
But his efforts, meager as they were, tired him more than he had expected, so that by Christmas vacation he was nearly exhausted. He told himself that he was, indeed, getting old, and that he would have to let up if he were to do a good job the rest of the year. During the ten days of Christmas vacation he rested, as if he might hoard his strength; and when he returned for the last weeks of the semester he worked with a vigor and energy that surprised him. The issue of his retirement seemed settled, and he did not bother to think of it again.
Late in February the tiredness came over him again, and he could not seem to shake it off; he spent a great deal of his time at home and did much of his paper work propped on the day bed in his little back room. In March he became aware of a dull general pain in his legs and arms; he told himself that he was tired, that he would be better when the warm spring days came, that he needed rest. By April the pain had become localized in the lower part of his body; occasionally he missed a class, and he found that it took most of his strength merely to walk from class to class. In early May the pain became intense, and he could no longer think of it as a minor nuisance. He made an appointment with a doctor at the University infirmary.
There were tests and examinations and questions, the import of which Stoner only vaguely understood. He was given a special diet, some pills for the pain, and was told to come back at the beginning of the next week for consultation, when the results of the tests would be completed and put together. He felt better, though the tiredness remained.
His doctor was a young man named Jamison, who had explained to Stoner that he was working for the University for a few years before he went into private practice. He had a pink, round face, wore rimless glasses, and had a kind of nervous awkwardness of manner that Stoner trusted.
Stoner was a few minutes early for his appointment, but the receptionist told him to go right in. He went down the long narrow hall of the infirmary to the little cubicle where Jamison had his office.