The cement dragon now stood at the edge of the gutter, as if about to walk over to Morton along the architrave of the big gateway.
He lifted his glasses to the creature's head—blank and crude as an unfinished skull. Then on an impulse, he dropped them to the row of sculptured heads, focused on Galileo, and read the little inscription he had not been able to make out before.
"Eppur si muove."
The words Galileo was supposed to have muttered after recanting before the Inquisition his belief in the revolution of the Earth around the Sun.
"Nevertheless, it moves."
A board creaked behind him, and he spun around.
By his desk stood a young man, waxen pale, with thick red hair. His eyes stood out like milky marbles. One white, tendon-ridged hand gripped a .22 target pistol.
Norman walked toward him, bearing slightly to the right.
The skimpy barrel of the gun came up.
"Hello, Jennings," said Norman. "You've been reinstated. Your grades have been changed to straight A's."