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damned thing.” Gunther sounded troubled and fretful. “Why would they do it? I know it was one of them.”
    â€œOne of who?”
    â€œOne of our gentle students.”
    â€œI just met a guy who likes them.”
    â€œ Likes them?” He could almost see Gunther shaking his head. “I always considered myself reasonably libertarian. Do you know I get threatening letters from them?”
    Gunther’s voice dribbled away.
    â€œYou sound kind of shot,” McCall said. “I won’t hold you to that dinner engagement, Dean Gunther.”
    â€œFloyd, remember? Wouldn’t hear of it, Mike. And my wife’s looking forward to meeting you. I’m anxious to talk this mess over in depth. I’ll try to give you the total picture.”
    â€œIt’s this Laura Thornton business that’s principally on my mind at the moment, Floyd—”
    â€œOf course. I mean it’s difficult for me to forget sometimes that we have over sixteen thousand students … Laura Thornton. Yes … oh, I’m late for an appointment, Mike. See you tonight.”
    As he showered and dressed, McCall went through the low of a manic phase. Joe Grundy-Mozzarella-Whatever hadn’t exactly given him a lift. Tisquanto State was a long way from Berkeley and San Francisco State College, in climate as well as geography. At least that was what McCall had come to town thinking. This part of the state wasn’t what you’d call revolutionary country, unless you were thinking of the Rebellion of 1776. The kids—and most of the students at Tisquanto were relatively local—came from staunch middle-class homes … potatoes and gravy, Grange and 4-H club activities, big whing-dings at the parish house Saturday nights, and the strap in the woodshed only one generation in the past.… Or am I way behind the times? Maybe that’s the trouble. Maybe that’s what they’re rebelling against. All that virtue.
    He tried to remember how it had been when he’d been at college.
    A hell of a lot different from today!
    Laura Thornton.
    Something told McCall she had found big trouble.
    It was dark as he drove back toward the college. Gunther lived at the other end, not far off campus. He decided to drive through the campus.
    Tisquanto seemed a nice enough town. At this hour it was quiet and cool with a breeze ruffling the tops of the trees, playing them against the streetlights. Cars hissed past, an occasional pedestrian strolled by. It was a fine spring evening. For a moment it brought back some memories of his perishable youth. He dismissed them sternly.
    As he approached the administration building McCall braked. No peace here! Something was up.
    Young people covered the campus like ants around a disturbed nest. They seemed unorganized, darting here and there. The astonishing thing was the lack of noise. Astonishing, and ominous. There was no shouting, either in high spirits or anger. Just those dartings about, like feints in a prize ring. What was going on?
    McCall parked and slipped into the crowds. Here he immediately vanished as an individual. Invisibility was one of his most valuable assets. He carried his own protective coloration, changing automatically with his background. It was an inborn, not an acquired, talent—an ability to blend with people so that nobody remembered him afterwards. Governor Holland had once remarked that it was a good thing for the law enforcement arm that Mike McCall had no stomach for crime.
    Here and there were groups of whisperers. Most of these were fringe students—hippies, Yippies. The students in conventional clothes, many carrying books, were hurrying along, for the most part in silence. They were headed somewhere, too.
    McCall headed somewhere with them.
    Then he saw it, a mob of students carrying a dummy. They were holding it high over their heads. It was the effigy of a fully clothed man.
    They had reached the quadrangle