The Parsifal Mosaic Read Free

meal. He had been about to head back to his hotel for a shower and a change of clothes when an accommodating taxi drove down C Street, the sun bouncing off its windows and obscuring any occupants. It stopped at the curb in front of him—at the behest of his signal, Michaelhad assumed. Instead, a passenger carrying an attaché case stepped out quickly, a harried man late for an appointment, fumbling for his billfold. At first neither Havelock nor the passenger recognized each other; Michael’s thoughts were on a restaurant, the other’s on paying the driver.
    “Havelock?” the passenger inquired suddenly, adjusting his glasses. “It
is
you, isn’t it, Michael?”
    “Harry? Harry Lewis?”
    “You’ve got it. How are you, M.H.?”
    Lewis was one of the few people he ever saw—and he rarely saw Harry—who called him by his initials. It was a minor legacy from graduate school, where he and Lewis had been classmates at Princeton. Michael had gone into government, Lewis into academia. Dr. Harry Lewis was chairman of the political science department at a small, prestigious university in New England, traveling down to D.C. now and then for consultation chores at State. They had run into each other several times when both were in Washington.
    “Fine. Still picking up per diems, Harry?”
    “A lot fewer than before. Someone taught you people how to read evaluation reports from our more esoteric graduate schools.”
    “Good Christ, I’m being replaced by a beard in blue jeans with funny cigarettes.”
    The bespectacled professor was stunned. “You’re kidding. You’re
out
? I thought you were in for life!”
    “The opposite, Harry. Life began between five and seven minutes ago when I wrote out my final signature. And in a couple of hours I’m going to be faced with the first dinner check in years I can’t take out of contingency funds.”
    “What are you going to do, Michael?”
    “No thoughts. Don’t want any for a while.”
    The academician paused, taking his change from the taxi driver, then spoke rapidly. “Listen, I’m late for upstairs, but I’m in town overnight. Since I’m on per diem, let me pay for the dinner. Where are you staying? I may have an idea.”
    No government per diem in the civilized world could have paid for the dinner that night two months and five days ago, but Harry Lewis did have an idea. They had been friends once; they became friends again, and Havelock found it easier to talk with a person who was at least vaguely aware of the work he had done for the government rather thanwith someone who knew nothing about it. It was always difficult to explain that something could not be explained; Lewis understood. One thing led to another, which in turn led to Harry’s idea.
    “Have you ever given any thought to getting back to a campus?”
    Michael smiled. “How would ‘constantly’ sound?”
    “I know, I know,” Lewis pressed, inferring sarcasm. “You fellows—‘spooks,’ I assume, is the term—get all kinds of offers from the multinationals at damn good money, I’m aware of that. But, M.H., you were one of the best. Your dissertation was picked up by a dozen university presses; you even had your own seminars. Your academic record coupled with your years at State—most of which I realize you can’t go into specifically—could make you very attractive to a university administration. We’re always saying, ‘Let’s find someone who’s been there, not Just a theoretician.’ Damn it, Michael, I think you’re
it
. Now, I know the money’s not—”
    “Harry, you misunderstood. I meant it. I
constantly
think about getting back.”
    It was Harry Lewis’s turn to smile. “Then I’ve got another idea.”
    A week later Havelock had flown to Boston and driven from there to the brick-and-ivy-and-white-birch campus on the outskirts of Concord, New Hampshire. He spent four days with Harry Lewis and his wife, wandering around, attending various lectures and seminars, and meeting