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leaking shit? (The metaphor was his.) Actually, he asked those things as second thoughts. His first was, “What’s in it for me?” Huey had heard the question as rhetorical.
    â€œGovernments are shaped by pretenses, my boy. Noble pretenses.” Now Manning leaned over Peace’s desk. “If you studied something practical, if you didn’t bury that fair-haired head of yours in the airy-fairy land of ‘literature’ [slowing up so as to pronounce every letter], you’d see what I mean. America announced ambitions like liberty, equality, all that glorious crap, so we could try to live up to them. But set the bottom line as the goal of the country, and what do we become? A nation of pork bellies.” He pointed to the window. “And there it is now, fat and sassy, rolling down the hill.”
    â€œYou and Livi ought to get together. She hates the college as much as you do.”
    â€œIn a heartbeat. Will you keep the kids?”
    By now Bollovate had directed his royal progress toward the Old Pen—professors in the New Pen moaned and sighed—and had limited his possibilities to three pathways, a choice of one of three departments at which to make his announcement.
    But just as History and Social Anthropology were working themselves into a tizzy, he swung the iron belly toward Englishand American Literature and entered. The department members coagulated about him like rock star groupies. He scanned his surroundings, as if calculating square footage.
    â€œProfessor Porterfield?” he asked the crowd. They pointed to a closed door. He did not bother to knock. “Professor Porterfield?” Manning shook his head. “Professor Porterfield?”—addressing the right man at last.
    Peace stood. Manning edged toward escape.
    â€œI’m pleased to tell you,” said Bollovate, “that the trustees have decided not to close the college just yet. You know how much the place means to us all. [Manning coughed.] But given the empty state of the endowment, we cannot survive beyond the end of term unless we can turn things around in a hurry. So we voted to use the remaining weeks to ask the faculty to come up with a new curriculum. Something bold and different [two more coughs from Manning]. Attract more paying undergraduates, more grants, more alumni gifts. [He frowned as if sincerely.] Of course, it also has to be intellectually worthwhile [three of Manning’s loudest coughs]. If the faculty can produce a curriculum like that, we might stay open indefinitely.”
    â€œAren’t we at capacity right now?” Peace asked.
    â€œTechnically, yes,” said Bollovate. “Depends on how you define capacity. The board sees the college as a growth industry. We figure we can take four to five hundred more undergraduates without straining the system.”
    â€œHow will you house and feed them?” Peace asked.
    â€œLeave those concerns to us bean counters,” Bollovate chortled. He reached up and clasped Peace by the shoulders. “Think big, Professor!”
    Peace said nothing but wondered if it were possible to raise the numbers and hold the standards. Yet the prospect of a new curriculum intrigued him.
    â€œWe still have time to save our asses,” said Bollovate.
    â€œThat’s great, Mr. Bollovate,” said Peace. “But what does this have to do with me?”
    â€œWe want you to chair the new curriculum committee.”
    â€œMe?”—a squint mixing surprise with suspicion. “But there are so many better people. People who have more experience. Like Professor Manning here”—who suddenly was not here, but halfway out the door, smiling sadly with his back turned.
    â€œYou’re the one the trustees want,” said Bollovate. “And you’re the right man for the job. Everyone says so. They say you have ideals. Do you have ideals, Professor?”
    â€œOh, does he ever!” said Manning,