The professor fumbled in his pants' pocket and fished out a dime. He fingered it thoughtfully.
"I suppose the letter can wait," he said resignedly. "I believe I will buy a pair of doughnuts, Mr. Haskel."
"Why not get a hamburger, Professor? Special sale today. Only a dime. And since you're such a good customer I'll throw in a cup of coffee and the two sinkers for nothing."
"That's—kind of you," the old man said awkwardly.
Haskel shrugged. "A man has to eat."
The man called "the professor" came over and sat down two stools away, ignoring me. The clerk dialed his hamburger and served it.
I stayed with my beer and my thoughts.
More and more, I was coming to believe that Granite City wasn't a job for an investigative adjuster like myself but a psychological adjuster. Crime is a structural flaw in a community, yes. But when the whole society is criminal, distorted, you can't isolate the flaw. The whole village was meat for a sociologist; let him figure out why otherwise decent citizens felt secure in conspiracy to defraud an honored corporation.
I didn't feel that I was licked or that the trip had been a failure. I had merely established to my intuitive satisfaction that the job was not in my field.
I glanced at the old man. The proprietor of the store knew him and evidently thought him harmless enough to feed.