It was obviously the Professor himself who answered.
He was in shirtsleeves, tieless and with age-old slippers on his stockingless feet. He evidently hadn’t bothered to shave this morning and he held a dog-earred pamphlet in his right hand, his forefinger tucked in it to mark his place. He wore thick-lensed, gold-rimmed glasses through which he blinked at Larry Woolford questioningly, without speaking. Professor Peter Voss was a man in his mid fifties, and, on the face of it, couldn’t care less right now about his physical appearance.
A weird, Larry decided immediately. He wondered at the University, one of the nation’s best, keeping on such a figure.
“Professor Voss?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.” He brought forth his identification.
The Professor blinked down at it. “I see,” he said.
