assessments of these people; of course we must. That's the only reason we're here. But I agree with the Secretary. My order of merit was the same as his: exactly so.'
Roope leaned back and stared at the white ceiling, a yellow pencil balanced between his teeth.
'Anyone else?'
The Vice-Dean sat shuffling uneasily in his chair, profoundly bored, and anxious to be on his way. His notes consisted of an extraordinarily intricate doodle of whorls and scrolls; and he added a further florid curve to the flowing tracery as he made his first and final contribution to the day's deliberations: 'They're both good men, that's obvious. Doesn't seem to me to matter much which we go for. If the Secretary wants Fielding, I want Fielding. A quick vote, perhaps, Dean?'
'If that's, er, that's, er. .'
A few members of the committee interjected their muted bleats of approval, and in a vaguely disconsolate voice the Dean called the division lobbies. 'All right. A show of hands, then. All those in favour of appointing Fielding, please?'
Seven or eight hands were being raised when Roope suddenly spoke again, and the hands were slowly lowered.
'Just before we vote, Dean, I would like to ask the Secretary for some information. I'm quite sure he'll have it at his fingertips.'
From behind his spectacles the Secretary eyed Roope with chill distaste, and several committee members could scarcely conceal their impatience and irritation. Why had they co-opted Roope? He was certainly a brilliant chemist and his two years with the Anglo-Arabian Oil Co had seemed a decided asset in view of the Syndicate's commitments. But he was too young, too cocky; too loud and splashy, like a vulgar speedboat churning through the placid waters of the Syndicate regatta. This wasn't the first time he'd clashed with the Secretary, either. And he didn't even serve on the Chemistry Committee; didn't do a scrap of examining. Always said he was too busy.
'I'm sure the Secretary will be glad to, er — What were you thinking of, Mr. Roope?'
'Well, as you know, Dean, I've not been with you very long yet, but I've been looking at the Syndicate's Constitution, and as it happens I've got a copy with me here.'
'Oh God!' mumbled the Vice-Dean.
'In paragraph 23, Dean — would you like me to read it?' Since half the committee had never even seen a copy of the Constitution, let alone read it, it seemed wholly inappropriate to dissemble any phoney familiarity, and the Dean nodded reluctant assent.
'Not, er, too long, I hope, Mr. Roope?'
'No, it's very brief. Here's what it says, and I quote: 'The Syndicate will endeavour at all times to remember that, wholly dependent as it is for its income on public monies, it owes and must seek to discharge a corresponding responsibility both to society at large and to its own permanent employees. Specifically, it will undertake to employ in its services a small percentage of persons who are variously handicapped, should the disabilities of such persons prove not substantially to interfere with the proper discharge of the duties entrusted to them.' ' Roope closed the slim document and put it aside. 'Now, my question is this: can the Secretary please tell us how many handicapped people are at present employed by the Syndicate?'
The Dean turned once more to the Secretary, whose customary
'We used to have a one-eyed fellow in the packing department—' In the ensuing laughter the Vice-Dean, whose own particular handicap was a weak bladder, shuffled out of the room, where Roope was pursuing his point with humourless pedantry.
'But presumably he's no longer employed here?'
The Secretary shook his head. 'No. Unfortunately he turned out to have an uncontrollable weakness for stealing toilet rolls, and we—' The rest of the sentence was drowned in a ribald cackle of lavatory laughter, and it was some little while before the Dean could bring the meeting to order again. He reminded the committee that paragraph 23 was not, of course, a statutory injunction — merely a marginal recommendation in the interests of normal civilized, er, living. But somehow it was the wrong thing to say. Far wiser to have allowed the Secretary a few more anecdotes about his less-than-fortunate experiences with the unfortunately afflicted few. As it was, the subtle shift had been made. The man with the handicap was coming into the betting once more, his odds shortening further as Roope pressed his point neatly and tellingly home.
'You see, Dean, all I really want to know is this: do we feel that Mr. Quinn's deafness is going to be a significant liability in the job? That's all.'
'Well, as I said,' replied Bartlett, 'there's the telephone for a. start, isn't there? Mr. Roope perhaps isn't fully aware of the vast number of incoming and outgoing telephone calls here, and he must excuse me if I suggest that I know slightly more about this than he does. It's a very tricky problem when you're deaf—'
'Surely not. There are all sorts of gadgets these days. You can wear one of those behind-the-ear things, where the microphone is—'
'Does Mr. Roope actually know someone who's deaf and who—?'
'As a matter of fact, I don't but—'
'Then I suggest he is in real danger of underestimating the sort of problems—'
'Gentlemen, gentlemen!' The exchanges were becoming increasingly tetchy, and the Dean intervened. 'I think we all agree that it would be
'But it's not just the telephone, is it, Dean? There are meetings — dozens and dozens of 'em a year. A meeting like this one, for instance. You get stuck in a meeting, with somebody on the same side of the table, sitting three or four places away. .' Bartlett warmed to the point, and made his case without interruption. He was on safer ground, he knew that. He was getting just a little deaf himself.
'But it's not beyond the wit of man to arrange the seating of a meeting—'
'No, it isn't,' snapped Bartlett. 'And it's not beyond the wit of man either to rig up a convenient little system
