The Bog Sword Poul Anderson For a moment I hesitated, suddenly I half afraid. Sunlight played in the crowns of trees along this quiet residential street and spilled warmth across me. A neighboring lawn lay newly mown, not yet raked, and a breeze bore me the scent. In a few hours Jane would be through work and bring Myrtis home with her from day care. Next month we'd vacation by the sea. Just planning it was joyous. Did I really want to risk any of that?
I'd been warned, I'd signed the waiver, but it was still possible to turn away. No. I straightened my shoulders, strode up the walk to the porch of the big old house, mounted the steps, and rang the bell.
Rennie himself opened the door. "How do you do, Mr. Larsen," he said. "Welcome. Please come in." His formal courtesy had struck me a little strange at first, something out of another, more gracious age, coming as it did from an explorer on the frontiers of reality; but it had helped me trust him. Well, of course he was quite old by now. He led me to a living room lined with full bookcases and offered me a seat. A smile made further creases in his face. "Let me suggest we relax a bit first and get slightly better acquainted. If you don't think the hour is too early, would you care for a glass of wine?"
"Why—" I realized that I would. "Yes, thank you." His tall form moved off. "Uh, can I help?"
"No, no. I like to play host. Take your ease. Smoke if you wish. I'll be right back."
Not even a maid? I wondered. And him a full professor.
For a moment I thought that it fit the pattern. An emeritus should have the use of more university facilities than just the library, if he was still doing research. Certainly people throughout academe did who pushed ideas more controversial than his—sometimes harmful or downright crazy. Besides being a good teacher, Rennie had done respected studies of brain electrochemistry. But soon after he commenced on his psychophysics, he moved that work to his home, where it had continued ever since. I suspected pressure quietly applied. Not only did most scientists look askance at it, but a few of his subjects reported findings that didn't sit well with true believers in several creeds, especially political. And, of course, any administration would be afraid of legal liability. Thus far the dangers had been subtle, and nobody who suffered had sued, but you never knew.
Widower. He's got to have a housekeeper who comes in and maybe cooks most of his dinners, at least. And he does apparently have friends in town, and sees the children and grandchildren once in a while. But otherwise a lonely man. Also in his work. Yes, very much so in his work. Nobody else has ever managed to replicate his experiments with any consistency, no peer-reviewed professional journal has accepted any paper of his for decades, and he wants no part of the crank publications.
. . .
