IX

'PROFESSOR Welch. Professor Welch, please.'

Dixon huddled himself further into the periodical he was reading and unobtrusively made his Martian-invader face. To him, it was a serious offence to pronounce that name in public, even when there was no chance of its bearer being thereby conjured up; Welch was known to be taking the whole day off, as distinct from days like yesterday (the day of their conversation about Dixon's job) when Welch merely took the early and late morning and the afternoon off. Dixon wished that the porter, a very bad man, would stop bawling that particular name and go away before his eye fell on Dixon and marked him down as a Welch-surrogate. But it was no use; in a moment he felt the approach of the porter down the length of the Common Room towards his chair, and had to look up.

The porter wore an olive-green uniform of military cut, and a peaked cap which didn't suit him. He was a long-faced, high-shouldered man with hairs growing out of his nose, and his age was hard to estimate. His expression, which rarely altered, couldn't be expected to at the sight of Dixon. Still approaching, he said huskily: 'Oh, Mr Jackson.'

Dixon wished he had the courage to twist energetically about in his chair in search of this quite new and unknown character. 'Yes, Maconochie?' he said helpfully.

'Oh, Mr Jackson, there's someone on the telephone for Professor Welch, but I can't seem to find him. Would you take the call for him, please? You're the only person in the History Department I can find,' he explained.

'Yes, all right,' Dixon said. 'Can I take it in here?'

'Thank you, Mr Jackson. No, the telephone in here goes on to the public exchange. The lady wanting the Professor's on the College switchboard. I'll switch her through to the Registrar's Clerk's room. He won't mind you taking it in there.'

A lady? It must be either Mrs Welch or some poor half-crazed creature connected with the arts. Mrs Welch would be better, in that her message would be comprehensible, but worse in that she might have found out about the sheet, or even the table. Why couldn't they leave him alone? Why couldn't every single one of them without any exception whatsoever just go right away from where he was and leave him alone?

Luckily, the Registrar's Clerk, another very bad man, wasn't in his room. Dixon picked up the phone and said: 'Dixon here.'

'Intermediate Geology, that's right, yes,' a voice said comfortably. 'Who's that?' another said. A buzzing followed, terminated by an eardrum-cracking click. When Dixon had got hold of the receiver again and put it to his other ear, he heard the second voice say: 'Is that Mr Jackson?'

'Dixon here.'

'Who?' It was a vaguely familiar voice, but not Mrs Welch's; it sounded like an adolescent girl's.

'Dixon. I'm taking the message for Professor Welch.'

'Oh, Mr Dixon, of course.' There was a noise which might have been a smothered snort of laughter. 'I might have guessed it'd be you. This is Christine Callaghan.'

'Oh, hallo, er, how are you?' The apparent deliquescence of the bowel that recognition brought on was only momentary; he knew he could deal with her voice creditably enough while the rest of her remained, presumably, in London.

'I'm fine, thanks. How are you? I hope you've had no more trouble with your bedclothes?'

Dixon laughed. 'No, I'm glad to say that's all blown over; touch wood.'

'Oh, good… Look, is there any way of getting hold of Professor Welch, do you know? Isn't he anywhere in the University?'

'He hasn't been in all the morning, I'm afraid. He's almost certain to be at home now. Or have you tried there?'

'Oh, how annoying. Perhaps you can tell me, though: do you know if he's expecting Bertrand down?'

'Well, yes, as it happens I do know that Bertrand's coming down at the week-end. Margaret Peel told me.' Dixon's equanimity had departed; evidently this girl didn't know she'd been junked by Bertrand, at least as far as the Summer Ball was concerned. Answering her questions about Bertrand was going to be tricky.

'Who told you?' Her voice had sharpened a little.

'You know, Margaret Peel. The girl who was staying with the Welches when you came down that time.'

'Oh yes, I see… Did she happen to mention whether Bertrand will be going to your Summer Ball affair?'

Dixon thought quickly; no questions about Bertrand's possible partner must be asked. 'No, I'm afraid not. But everybody else'll be going, anyway.' Why didn't she get hold of Bertrand and ask him?

'I see… But he is definitely coming down?'

'Apparently.'

She must have sensed his puzzlement, because she now said: 'I expect you're wondering why I don't ask Bertrand himself. Well, you see, he's often rather a difficult chap to get hold of. At the moment he's just sort of gone off, nobody knows where. He likes to come and go when he feels like it, hates being tied down and all that. Do you see?'

'Yes, of course.' Dixon bunched his free hand and waggled its first two fingers.

'So I thought I'd see if his father knew where he was or anything. The whole point is, what I really wanted to know is this. My Uncle, Mr Gore-Urquhart, got back from Paris sooner than he expected, and he's got an invitation from your Principal to the Summer Ball thing. He doesn't really know whether to come or not. Well, I could persuade him to come if Bertrand and I were going, and then Bertrand and he could get to know each other, and Bertrand wants that. But I must know soon, because it's the day after tomorrow and Uncle would want to know in good time, where he's to spend the week-end, I mean. So… well, it's rather a mix-up, I'm afraid.'

'Can't Mrs Welch throw any light on the matter?'

There was a pause. 'I've not actually been on to her.'

'Well, she's bound to know more about it than I do, isn't she? … Hallo?'

'I'm still here… Listen, keep this quiet, won't you? but I'd like not to get on to her if I can find out any other way. I… we didn't hit it off too well when I stayed. I don't want to have to, well, discuss Bertrand with her over the phone. I think she thinks I'm… Never mind; but you see what I mean?'

'I do indeed. I don't hit it off too well with the lady either, as a matter of fact. Now I've got a suggestion. I'll ring up the Welches for you now and get the Professor to ring you. If he's not there I'll leave a message or something. Anyway I'll see to it, somehow or other, that Mrs Welch doesn't get involved. If it's no good I'll ring you back myself and tell you. Will that do, now?'

'Oh, that'd be lovely, thanks so much. What a marvellous idea. Here's my number; it's the place I work at, so I shan't be there after five-thirty. Ready?'

While he took it down, Dixon assured himself several times that Mrs Welch couldn't have found out about the sheet or the table, or Margaret would surely have warned him. How nice this girl was being to him, he thought. 'Right, I've got that,' he said finally.

'It's damn good of you to do this for me,' the girl said with animation. 'But doesn't it make me out a bit of a fool, you taking all this trouble just to save me…?'

'Not in the least. I know exactly what these things are like.' None better, he told himself.

'Well, I am grateful, really. I just couldn't face…'

A sort of Morse signal fell between these sentences, and then a rushing noise supervened. A woman's voice said: 'Your second three minutes are up, caller. Do you require a further three minutes?'

Before Dixon could speak, Christine Callaghan had said: 'Yes, please, leave me through, will you?'

The rushing noise stopped. 'Hallo?' Dixon said.

'I'm still here.'

'Look, isn't this costing you a packet?'

'Not me; only the shop.' She gave one of her laughs, the non-silver-bells sort. Over the phone its cacophony was more noticeable.