"Exhibit A, star of the show. Can't have you run down by one of these motorized Chicago cowboys or mugged and rolled on State Street?"
"I don't like being kept in custody." He avoided my gaze as he walked beside me, his hands deep in his pockets.
"Take it easy, Charlie. The old man is on edge. This convention means a lot to him. His reputation is at stake."
"I didn't know you were so close to him," I taunted, recalling all the times Burt had complained about the professor's narrowness and pushing.
"I'm not close to him." He looked at me defiantly. "But he's put his whole life into this.
He's no Freud or Jung or Pavlov or Watson, but he's doing something important and I respect his dedication—
maybe even more because he's just an ordinary man trying to do a great man's work, while the great men are all busy making bombs."
"I'd like to hear you call him ordinary to his face."
"It doesn't matter what he thinks of himself. Sure he's egotistic, so what? It takes that kind of ego to make a man attempt a thing like this.
I've seen enough of men like him to know that mixed in with that pompousness and self-assertion is a goddamned good measure of uncertainty and fear."
"And phoniness and shallowness," I added. "I see them now as they really are, phonies. I suspected it of Nemur.
He always seemed frightened of something. But Strauss surprised me."
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