He seemed more sad than upset, Ward thought, a spent old man clinging to the straw of a dream. He saw where the metaphor was leading and pushed it aside. If Allenby were a drowning man, then Ward himself was one. He looked at the others.
They were all edgy or simply frightened, but they were taking it very well. Some of them were stationed at the gates of the Quad, but none of them, as far as he could see, was armed. Except for McCarthy. The psych man was wearing his Star Watcher helmet and had a B-gun strapped at his side. Probably had a small force-field in his pocket, Ward thought, and a pair of brass knuckles.
"So—the philosophy king got it too," McCarthy said, coming over to them. He was a big man, young but already florid with what Ward had always thought of as a roan complexion. "Love, understanding, sympathy—wasn't that what was supposed to work wonders? All they need is a copy of Robinson Crusoe and a chance to follow their natural instincts, eh?"
"One failure doesn't prove anything," Ward said, trying not to be angry.
"One failure? How often do they have to make us hit the slides for the safety of the Mob Quad before you adopt a sensible theory?"
"Let's not go through all that again. Restraint, Rubber hoses and Radiological shock—I've heard all about the 3 Rs."
"At least they work!"
"Oh, yes, they work fine. Except that they never learn to read and they can't sign their names with anything but an X."
"It was progressive education that destroyed reading," McCarthy said heatedly. "And they don't need to sign their names—that's what universal fingerprinting is for."
"Please, gentlemen," Dr. Allenby interrupted gently. "This kind of squabbling is unbecoming to members of the faculty. Besides," he smiled with faded irony, "considering the circumstances, it's hardly a proper time."