“Just what,” said Melissa, “do you mean by giving my office to that matinée-faced moron upstairs?”
“Oh, he’s not a moron. He’s a meteorologist. It’s the science of the weather—storms and the climate and—and things. It’s very important work. He said.”
“Never mind what he said. Answer my question. Why did you give him my office?”
“Oh, that,” said Professor Sley-Mynick. “The president! T. Ballard Bestwyck. He’s the president of the whole university. He talks to rich people—face to face—and they often give him some of their money. That’s very vital. He wrote a letter. To me—personally. It said that the moron—I mean, the meteorologist—was to have an office in this building. I’ll find it. The letter. It’s right here. Isn’t it?” He burrowed busily among the papers on his desk.
“I don’t care a
