The Chancellor Manuscript Read Free Page B

went dead as the Inver Brass switchboard linked up communications. Three minutes later another voice was heard; it was clear, with no distortions, as though it were down the street, not 4,000 miles away. The voice was clipped, agitated, but not without respect. Or a degree of fear.
    “This is Genesis. I was just leaving. What happened?”
    “It’s done.”
    “Thank God!”
    “The dissertation was rejected. I made it clear to the committee, quite privately of course, that it was radical nonsense. They’d be the laughingstock of the university community. They’re sensitive; they should be. They’re mediocre.”
    “I’m pleased.” There was a pause from London. “What was his reaction?”
    “What I expected. He’s right and he knows it; therefore he’s frustrated. He had no intention of stopping.”
    “Does he now?”
    “I believe so. The idea’s firmly planted. If need be, I’ll follow up indirectly, put him in touch with people. But I may not have to. He’s imaginative; more to the point, his outrage is genuine.”
    “You’re convinced this is the best way?”
    “Certainly. The alternative is for him to pursue the research and dredge up dormant issues. I wouldn’t like that to happen in Cambridge or Berkeley, would you?”
    “No. And perhaps no one will be interested in what he writes, much less publish it. I suppose we could bring that about.”
    St. Claire’s eyes narrowed briefly. “My advice is not to interfere. We’d frustrate him further, drive him back. Let things happen naturally. If he does turn it into a novel, the best we can hope for is a minor printing of a rather amateurish work. He’ll have said what he had to say, and it will turn out to be inconsequential fiction, with the usual disclaimers as to persons living or dead. Interference might raise questions; that’s not in our interest.”
    “You’re right, of course,” said the man in London. “But then you usually are, Bravo.”
    “Thank you. And good-bye, Genesis. I’ll be leaving here in a few days.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “I’m not sure. Perhaps back to Vermont. Perhaps far away. I don’t like what I see on the national landscape.”
    “All the more reason to stay in touch,” said the voice in London.
    “Perhaps. And then again, I may be too old.”
    “You can’t disappear. You know that, don’t you?”
    “Yes. Good night, Genesis.”
    St. Claire replaced the telephone without waiting for a corresponding good-bye from London. He simply did not want to listen further.
    He was swept by a sense of revulsion; it was not the first time, nor would it be the last. It was the function of Inver Brass to make decisions others could not make, to protect men and institutions from the moral indictments born of hindsight. What was right forty years ago was anathema today.
    Frightened men had whispered to other frightened men that Peter Chancellor had to be stopped. It was wrong for this obscure doctoral candidate to ask questions that had no meaning forty years later. The times were different, the circumstances altogether dissimilar.
    Yet there were certain gray areas. Accountability was not a limited doctrine. Ultimately, they were all accountable. Inver Brass was no exception. Therefore, Peter Chancellor had to be given the chance to vent his outrage, and in a way that removed him from consequence. Or catastrophe.
    St. Claire rose from the table and surveyed the papers on top of it. He had removed most of his personal effects during the past weeks. There was very little of
him
in the office now; and that was as it should be.
    Tomorrow he would be gone.
    He walked to the door. Automatically he reached for the light switch, and then he realized no lights were on. He had been standing, pacing, sitting, and thinking in shadows.
    The New York Times Book Review
, May 10, 1969, Page 3
    Reichstag!
is at once startling and perceptive, awkward and incredible. Peter Chancellor’s firstnovel would have us believe that the early