I shook hands with Dr. Cole, who leaned forward but didn’t get up. “And this is Dr. Hart.” A guy about seven feet tall wound out of his armchair with lots of cane work. He didn’t weigh a hundred and thirty pounds.
“A pleasure to have you here, Dr. Fairley,” said Dr. Hart.
Dr. Cole didn’t even turn around. “Sam,” he said to Hurlbet. “Is this young man with us?” I thought he wondered if I was on the staff, but Hurlbet’s answer made me see they had a code going.
“He’s all right,” said Hurlbet.
“Thank God!” said Dr. Cole. “I really didn’t feel like a floor show this morning. Besides, I let everybody out for a romp.” He fed a piece of bread to a fat dog. Dr. Hart sat down again. Hurlbet and I went around and used chairs alongside the fire. The old men with the canes were sitting facing directly into the fire.
“Did you like yesterday’s performance? It started slowly, but how about the finish? How about that nonsense on “The Mathematics of Life-from-not-life’?” Dr. Cole’s feet were hidden in a swirl of animals. The mice piled themselves up in mounds that kept toppling when the dogs nuzzled them. The rabbits hopped around, absentmindedly bumping into the chairs and other rabbits and mice and dogs. But there was no squeaking or barking. Just a lot of scuffling. Suddenly one of the dogs separated his back legs and raised his tail. In a flash Dr. Hart snatched a big glass ashtray off a table and caught the droppings. He moved like an outfielder. But his face squeezed with pain, and I knew his sudden movement hurt. Still, he was proud he had made the play. He put the ashtray back on the table with a professional flourish.
“Dr. Hart, I’ve never seen you in better form,” said Hurlbet, “but let me tell you something funny.” He turned to Dr. Cole. “You made a little trouble for me. The space people want a rush proposal for research based on your ‘Mathematics of Life-from-not-life.’ “
“See, Cole, I’ve warned you and warned you and warned you.” Dr. Hart leaned over to give Dr. Cole’s cane a sharp rap with the tip of his cane. The nearest-animals were startled. Two mounds of white mice fell. Dr. Cole tapped back with his cane.
“Your jokes have gotten us in trouble at last. You’ve lost your dignity, sir. We are Nobel men, after all!” And Dr. Hart returned Dr. Cole’s tap.
“The trouble with you, Hart”—another sharp tap, cane tip against cane tip—”is that you’ve no feel for show business.”
“That’s just cheap!” said Dr. Hart, and he gave Dr. Cole’s cane a good sharp crack. “Cheap! Both of us!” Now the tapping was continuous, with canes scraping back and forth in battle, never getting off the floor. Only the tips in action. I looked over at Hurlbet to see how he was taking all this. He was wearing that sad smile of his, but he was relaxed. So I sat back.
“What would you rather have us do?” asked Dr. Cole with a long sigh. “Look here, Hart. I’m seventy-six and you’re sixty-nine. Do you think we’ve got another Nobel Prize in us?” The cane tapping stopped. “What bothers you the most? Please tell me!”
Without looking around, Dr. Hart put his cane over his shoulder and jabbed it at the colored liquid bubbling in the big glass tubes. “That fake stage set,” he said.
“Don’t you think it’s pretty?” asked Dr. Cole.
“It’s a fake, it just bubbles around and around. It’s a damn lie.” Dr. Hart was yelling. “The same with the animals. They’re just pets. Not one of them has served science.”
“All right,” said Dr. Cole. “Do you know of a home for old Nobel Prize winners?”
“Very funny, Dr. Cole. Very funny. Have you no sense of form?” He banged his cane tip down on his partner’s. A good whack this time. “No dignity?”
That was the ball game, right there! Cole returned the whack, and the two old men went at it, never leaving their armchairs. Crack! Crack! Crack! Hurlbet didn’t move a muscle even when it really got bad. By now the canes were flashing through the air. Wham! Wham! The two old men started to have trouble breathing. Dr. Hart had the reach, but Dr. Cole was pretty cute at that, catching Hart a couple of good ones up near the hand. They never touched each other—the whole fight was with canes. A flurry, then things slowed down. They were puffing. Finally Cole dropped his cane arm to his side and closed his eyes. He put a hand over his left side. Hart kept his cane at the ready. Cole had probably played possum before. In a minute Hart dropped his arm also. The two old men just sat there, pooped. With his eyes still closed, Cole turned his head toward Hurlbet.
“They are too fat,” said Dr. Cole, pushing his cane under a mouse hill, “too fat to serve science.” And he threw the rest of the bread at the animals. “When’s the next floor show, Hurlbet? How about doing the whole thing in blackface? Sort of research in Mississippi riverboat style. A period piece.”
“God!” said Dr. Hart.
“Oh, Hart,” said Cole. “I’m sorry.” His cane touched Hart’s cane very softly—a kiss. Hart just sat there. The two canes lay on the floor quietly, one tip lying over the other.
“The chairman of the board is flying out here next week,” said Hurlbet.
“What does he like?” asked Cole. “Does he like smells?” Hart shook his head. “No class, eh? Well, I guess you’re right. Something new. Let me think. Come on, Hart. What’ll we give him?”
Hart shook his head. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. No words.
“How about another technical paper—you know, the stuff these young government consultants put out. How’s this? “The Arithmetic of Animal Claustrophobia.’ I’ll tell you what we’ll do for the chairman of the board. Oh, boy, he’ll love it. We’ll put all the animals in the cages, but the cages will have shades on them. No light. We’ll open the cages, and of course the animals will stagger out. Then I’ll read a few paragraphs from “The Arithmetic of Animal Claustrophobia.’ How’s that for dignity, Hart?” Dr. Hart’s hands were clenching and unclenching. Hurlbet broke in as he got to his feet.
“Gentlemen. Dr. Fairley has an appointment crosstown.” Cole shook hands sitting down. Hart got up, but he had to push his cane right down between his feet to make it.
“Delighted to meet you, Dr. Fairley,” said Hart. “Please excuse us. We’re old men, you know.” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t even look him in the eye.
We went out and up the hall. At a bulletin board, Hurlbet stopped. “Hey, look at this,” he said. I glanced along to where I could read a thumbtacked memorandum. It said:
TILL FURTHER NOTICE NO MORE THAN 10 MINUTES WILL BE PERMITTED FOR COFFEE BREAKS. THIS APPLIES TO ALL RESEARCH PERSONNEL.
Signed: Dr. Hurlbet
Dr. Hurlbet took my arm, sighed, and we went back to his office. I didn’t say a word as he helped me on with my coat.
“Some edict, eh?” said Hurlbet. I carefully fitted my scarf around my neck. “But that’s what it’s come to. The mass approach. No coffee and discovery-making talk for these peasants. They wouldn’t know what to do with it.” He grabbed my arm. “The Russians have done it again.”
“And what does that mean?” My coat was on by now. It was warm in there, but when Hurlbet pulled a statement like that, I was a goner.
“What’s our biggest effort—research effort, I mean?” he asked.
“The moon shot?” I was guessing, but it had a Washington in-the-know ring to it.
“Right,” said Hurlbet. “That means that all the science graduates for the next four years must be dragged into the program. It’s that big. You know what I think? I think the Russians aren’t ever going for the moon. While we’re going broke on the moon shot they’ll pick up three dozen more small countries.”
“Are you sure—dead sure?” I asked.