"These are your office hours," Alona replied. She nervously smiled, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch. Somewhere in the darkened hall, a janitor coughed.
"All right," conceded Prof. Sigger. "Come in."
The carpet was smothered by leaning towers of textbooks. Papers lined the left side of the desk, above which was a small note card which read "To Be Graded." On the right side, the oak finish gleamed in the mid-morning light that pierced the Venetian blinds.
"You've come about your final project," Prof. Sigger stated.
"It's only mid-term," Alona reminded him.
"Oh yes, yes," continued Prof. Sigger, without conscious embarrassment. "Mid-term grade. I think I have it here. Somewhere." His hands disappeared into the left side of his desk.
"You told the class that we would all get a C if we maintained that
Coca-Cola wasn't a crypto-fascist conspiracy."
"Oh yes," said Prof. Sigger. "We were discussing social issues, as I remember. I was quoting Marx and some little idiot brought up Rush Limbaugh."
"That was me," Alona muttered.
"Oh yes, yes," Prof. Sigger continued. "What can I do for you?"