igure.

"Professor Voss?" he said. "Lawrence Woolford." He brought forth his
identification.

The Professor blinked down at it. "I see," he said. "Won't you come in?"

The house was old, all right. From the outside, quite acceptable, but the
interior boasted few of the latest amenities which made all the difference
in modern existence. Larry was taken back by the fact that the phone which
he spotted in the _entrada_ hadn't even a screen--an old model for speaking
only.

The Professor noticed his glance and said dryly, "The advantages of
combining television and telephone have never seemed valid to me. In my
own home, I feel free to relax, as you can observe. Had I a screen on my
phone, it would be necessary for me to maintain the same appearance as I
must on the streets or before my classes."

Larry cleared his throat without saying anything. This was a weird one,
all right.

The living room was comfortable in a blatantly primitive way. Three or
four paintings on the walls which were probably originals, Larry decided,
and should have been in museums. Not an abstract among them. A Grant Wood,
a Marin, and that over there could only be a Grandma Moses. The sort of
things you might keep in your private den, but hardly to be seen as
culture symbols.

The chairs were large, of leather, and comfortable and probably belonged
to the period before the Second War. Peter Voss, evidently, was little
short of an exhibitionist.

The Professor took up a battered humidor. "Cigar?" he said. "Manila. Hard
to get these days."

A cigar? Good grief, the man would be offering him a chaw of tobacco next.

"Thanks, no," Larry said. "I smoke a pipe."

"I see," the Professor said, lighting his stogie. "Do you really like a
pipe? Personally, I've always thought the cigar by far the most
satisfactory method of taking tobacco."

What can you say to a question like that? Larry ignored it, as though it
was rhetorical. Actually, he smoked cigarettes in the privacy of his den.
A habit which was on the proletarian side and not consistent with his
status level.

He said, to get things under way, "Professor Voss, what is an intuitive
scientist?"

The Professor exhaled blue smoke, shook out the old-time kitchen match
with which he'd lit it, and tossed the matchstick into an ashtray.
"Intuitive scientist?"

"You once called Ernest Self a great intuitive scientist."

"Oh, Self. Yes, indeed. What is he doing these days?"

Larry said wry