This world would go on exactly as it was. Nothing would change in the least. So, what had he worked for? For himself? For this outworn husk of one man?
Seen in that light, he looked like a very stupid man. Stupid, foolish—monomaniacal.
Dear God, he thought with a rush of terrible intensity, am I now going to persuade myself not to use what I have built?
For all these years he had worked, worked—without stopping, without thinking. Now, in this first hour of rest, was he suddenly going to spit on it all?
A stout bulk settled on the bench beside him. "Jochim," the complacent voice said.
Professor Kempfer looked up. "Ah, Georg!" he said with an embarrassed laugh, "You startled me."
Doctor Professor Georg Tanzler guffawed heartily. "Oh, Jochim, Jochim!" he chuckled, shaking his head. "What a type you are! A thousand times I've found you here at noon, and each time it seems as if it surprises you. What do you think about, here on your bench?"
Professor Kempfer let his eyes stray. "Oh, I don't know," he said gently. "I look at the young people."
"The girls—" Tanzler's elbow dug roguishly into his side. "The girls, eh, Jochim?"