THE SETTING SUN TINTED the sandstone College buildings a deep sienna. Doctors Wyman and Hume ambled gently past the iron gates of a fifteenth-century courtyard and into the Fellows’ Garden. Spring had touched the Garden, casting it into a riot of flower and blossom.
“So there’s to be no reprieve,” Wyman said.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Hume said.
“Were you the only one who spoke on my behalf?”
Hume nodded sadly.
“It had all been decided in advance, I’m sure of it. The Senior Tutor gave a grumble of dissatisfaction at first, but he joined the Bursar when he saw which way the wind was blowing.”
“And what of Locke? Didn’t he say anything?”
“He was all for it, I’m afraid.”
“But…” Wyman faltered. “Locke, of all people. For God’s sake, Arthur, Locke knows better than anybody that I can do my job. Why…?”
“It’s not just you, Michael,” said Hume. “All the Honorary Fellowships are being rescinded.”
“They could give me an ordinary Fellowship if they wanted to. Surely that would solve the problem.”
Hume shook his head.
“No, Michael. Locke talked about your Ph.D. and Quine, and all the rest of it. They decided that you’re a has-been.”
“That was thirty years ago. Thirty years! I was a child, Arthur, an infant!”
They sat on a bench and watched the sun fade behind the College chapel.
“Perhaps if I spoke to the Master…” began Wyman.
“If you saw him now,” said Hume, “the results would be wholly predictable. He’d sit you down with a glass of sherry, talk over old times, and show you to the door. You’d achieve nothing.”
“I see.” Wyman sighed and lit a cigarette. “I was looking forward to coming back. It wasn’t the salary, or the pension, or anything like that. I just thought I would be coming home.”
Hume smiled sadly at his friend.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly.”