him!"
Michael and Charles halted on the path, catching sight of the reporters at the same moment. Michael took a backward step, but Charles, out of confusion or stupidity or who knew what, grabbed his arm and held him still. Cursing out loud, Sydney bolted from her chair and started toward them, but she was too slow—the shouting, shoving, bumping hoard of journalists got to Michael first.
Charles let himself be butted and shouldered out of the way; good for nothing, he stood off by himself, looking piqued rather than concerned, as if he thought the press ought to be asking him questions. Over all the bobbing heads, Sydney saw Michael's white face, stiff with alarm. "Let me by," she kept saying, and finally the reporters let her push her way through to his side. "Stand back, will you? Get away from him! Can't you see he's been hurt?" She made her body a shield between them and the bandaged hand he was cradling against his middle. "Get back. Please, let him alone." The reporters wouldn't budge; they kept shouting their questions and taking their photographs, relentless as dogs scuffling over a bone.
Rescue came when her father rushed around the side of the house, calling, "You there, get away from that man! For God's sake, West, make them move!" Philip ran after him, and finally the crush loosened and began to give way. The reporters recognized Papa from the interviews he'd given months ago as the university's spokesman. They veered away from Michael, aware by now that they weren't going to get a story out of him, and surrounded Dr. Winter like bees swarming a new hive. Charles asserted himself at last by sidling through the crowd to stand next to him. That gave Sydney a chance to get Michael away, with Philip's help, and the three of them made an unencumbered dash for the house.
The next day, Michael's picture was on the front pages of the Herald Examiner, the Tribune, and the Times, and in every one he looked wild-eyed and dangerous. In adjacent photographs, O'Fallon, in a sober suit and tie, looked grim and aggrieved. "Lost Man in Violent Melee with Guard," read one caption; "Wild Man Attacks Keeper," blared another.
Luckily the stories accompanying the photographs were much tamer. Sydney's father simply denied all of O'Fallon's lying allegations, and the tone of the articles indicated that the authors were more inclined to believe him than the ex-janitor and habitual brawler. In the process, though, Papa was forced to disclose the full extent of Michael's socialization, his ww-wildness, so to speak—something he hadn't planned on revealing to his superiors, much less to the world at large, for a lot longer. Thanks to O'Fallon, the jig was up.
That afternoon Dr. Winter's nemesis paid a call. Chairman Slocum, according to Papa, had never liked him because he was rich and didn't have to work for a living. That made him a dilettante in Slocum's book, a reproach her father deeply resented.
The chairman stayed an hour, locked up in the study with Charles and Papa. Sydney sat in the living room and tried to read, keeping one eye on the hallway and jumping at every sound. Finally Slocum left, and a second later she went into the study.
"What happened? What did he say?"
Both men looked stricken and dazed. Her father tried to focus on the question, but the cloud of his abstraction was too thick.
Charles answered for him. "There's no more project. He's cut off our funding. We're finished."
"We get to keep him, though," Papa rallied to point out. Charles nodded glumly. "He'll be more useful to the natural historians now, but we still get to keep him. Better for him, I told Slocum. Can't keep shuffling the fellow around." He ducked his white head into his shoulders, his retreating-turtle trick.
"And we can still get an article out of him, sir. At the very least. Once they're written up, our experiments are sure to interest a few journals. Not for the nature-nurture debate anymore, maybe, but on general questions of
Michael and Charles halted on the path, catching sight of the reporters at the same moment. Michael took a backward step, but Charles, out of confusion or stupidity or who knew what, grabbed his arm and held him still. Cursing out loud, Sydney bolted from her chair and started toward them, but she was too slow—the shouting, shoving, bumping hoard of journalists got to Michael first.
Charles let himself be butted and shouldered out of the way; good for nothing, he stood off by himself, looking piqued rather than concerned, as if he thought the press ought to be asking him questions. Over all the bobbing heads, Sydney saw Michael's white face, stiff with alarm. "Let me by," she kept saying, and finally the reporters let her push her way through to his side. "Stand back, will you? Get away from him! Can't you see he's been hurt?" She made her body a shield between them and the bandaged hand he was cradling against his middle. "Get back. Please, let him alone." The reporters wouldn't budge; they kept shouting their questions and taking their photographs, relentless as dogs scuffling over a bone.
Rescue came when her father rushed around the side of the house, calling, "You there, get away from that man! For God's sake, West, make them move!" Philip ran after him, and finally the crush loosened and began to give way. The reporters recognized Papa from the interviews he'd given months ago as the university's spokesman. They veered away from Michael, aware by now that they weren't going to get a story out of him, and surrounded Dr. Winter like bees swarming a new hive. Charles asserted himself at last by sidling through the crowd to stand next to him. That gave Sydney a chance to get Michael away, with Philip's help, and the three of them made an unencumbered dash for the house.
The next day, Michael's picture was on the front pages of the Herald Examiner, the Tribune, and the Times, and in every one he looked wild-eyed and dangerous. In adjacent photographs, O'Fallon, in a sober suit and tie, looked grim and aggrieved. "Lost Man in Violent Melee with Guard," read one caption; "Wild Man Attacks Keeper," blared another.
Luckily the stories accompanying the photographs were much tamer. Sydney's father simply denied all of O'Fallon's lying allegations, and the tone of the articles indicated that the authors were more inclined to believe him than the ex-janitor and habitual brawler. In the process, though, Papa was forced to disclose the full extent of Michael's socialization, his ww-wildness, so to speak—something he hadn't planned on revealing to his superiors, much less to the world at large, for a lot longer. Thanks to O'Fallon, the jig was up.
That afternoon Dr. Winter's nemesis paid a call. Chairman Slocum, according to Papa, had never liked him because he was rich and didn't have to work for a living. That made him a dilettante in Slocum's book, a reproach her father deeply resented.
The chairman stayed an hour, locked up in the study with Charles and Papa. Sydney sat in the living room and tried to read, keeping one eye on the hallway and jumping at every sound. Finally Slocum left, and a second later she went into the study.
"What happened? What did he say?"
Both men looked stricken and dazed. Her father tried to focus on the question, but the cloud of his abstraction was too thick.
Charles answered for him. "There's no more project. He's cut off our funding. We're finished."
"We get to keep him, though," Papa rallied to point out. Charles nodded glumly. "He'll be more useful to the natural historians now, but we still get to keep him. Better for him, I told Slocum. Can't keep shuffling the fellow around." He ducked his white head into his shoulders, his retreating-turtle trick.
"And we can still get an article out of him, sir. At the very least. Once they're written up, our experiments are sure to interest a few journals. Not for the nature-nurture debate anymore, maybe, but on general questions of
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