"It could have been something in the food," Justin suggested. "But that's a technicality, doctor. What interests me is the nature of your assignment—if you don't mind telling me about it."
Dr. Phillips laughed—a shrill bark of embarrassment. He said, "Not at all, Justin, not at all. I'm a university don, you know." He sighed. "Fusty sort of work but it maintains me. At the moment I've been serving as temporary dean of admissions. When I retired for my nap"—he looked with more puzzlement than abashment at his trouserless shanks—"I was on the eve of tackling a batch of applications for the new semester. Beastly repetitious sort of work." He sighed again.
"And Ortine has asked you to grade some student's paper in a certain way for the good of the world?" Justin asked eagerly.
Dr. Phillips blinked behind his spectacles. "My word!" he exclaimed. "How'd you know that?"
"I didn't," Justin told him drily. "I merely surmised it from the nature of my own assignment. Could you give the details?"
"Certainly, Justin, certainly." Dr. Phillips paused to check his memory. Then, "It was a black chap—a Hindustani, a most repulsive little fop. His record and paper were excellent of course—but there's more than marks to a university, what?"
"Oh quite," said Justin. "Would you care to tell me his name?"
"Not quite proper, is it?" Dr. Phillips looked distressed. "But I suppose there's small point in discretion. Chap's name was an odd one." He looked distressed, added a trifle uncertainly, "Believe it was Mohammed or something like that. Last name was like that river in India where the Hindus all take their annual bath."
Justin said, "Mohammed Ganges? It would be Mohandas K. Ghandi, wouldn't it?"
Dr. Phillips regarded him with admiration, said, "Bless my soul—that was it! Though how on earth you ever knew it...."