And the words had to be right, exactly. He couldn't content himself with anything less. The whole dissertation—every page, every sentence, must be logic-grounded, solidly-documented, overwhelming evidence to prove his hypothesized explanation of the fall of Knossos.
He finished it, finally ... came home again ... turned in the first draft....
Then came that day in The Director's office. That ugly day, the last Burke was to spend in his own time and place.
The argument; the tempers, rising.
The Director—face flushed, jaw outthrust: "You young whelp, how dare you contradict Sir Arthur Evans? Would you set yourself up on a level with Hogarth? Pendlebury? Wace?" And then, the final knife-thrust: "Very well; have it your way. But so far as I'm concerned, I'll not accept this dissertation, now or ever. And so long as I'm here, you'll receive no doctorate, let alone a recommendation of any sort!"
Exit The Director. Forever.
Then, The Girl: "But Dion! Why did you have to be so stubborn? You could at least have kept your opinions to yourself till later. Now—well, how much of a field is there for an archaeologist with only an M. A. degree? You might as well forget Crete right now. And for my part, I must admit the idea of being the wife of an instructor in some second-rate college, at four thousand a year hardly appeals to me."
Exit The Girl. Forever.
The Research Professor, finally: "Damn it, Burke, I just don't dare to back you on it! Old Ape-Jaw's got the president's ear. If I even let it be known I designed that detector, I'll be operating this laboratory on a negative budget next biennium."
Exit The Professor. Forever.