Part 7 (2/2)
”I have been in your house for a week, now, Professor Parkhurst, and I have merely encountered you at meals.”
”Often enough,” said the Professor, making a sudden turn that almost upset Jarvis. ”I go fifty steps up, and fifty steps back,” he explained, and Jarvis stared at him open-mouthed.
”You count your steps?” he repeated.
”Certainly, no matter what I do, I count. When I eat, when I sleep, walk, talk, think, I always count.”
”How awful! A human metronome. I must make a note of that.” And Jarvis took out a notebook to make an entry.
”You have the notebook habit?” snorted the Professor.
”Yes, I can't afford to waste ideas, suggestions, thoughts.”
”Bah! A most offensive habit.”
”I gather, from your general att.i.tude,” Jarvis began again, ”that you dislike me.”
”I neither like nor dislike you. I don't know you.”
”You never will know me, at this rate.”
”I am not sure that I care to.”
”Why not? What have you against me?”
”You are not practical.”
”Do you consider yourself practical?”
”I do. I am the acme of practical. I am mathematical.”
He slew another bug.
”How can you do that?” cried Jarvis, his concern in his face. ”That slug has a right to life. Why don't you get the point of view of the slug?”
”He kills my roses,” justified the Professor. ”He's a murderer. Society has a right to extinguish him.”
”The old fallacy, a tooth for a tooth?”
”You'd sacrifice my roses to save this insect?”
”I'd teach the rose to take care of itself.”
”You're crazy,” he snapped, and walked on, Jarvis at his heels.
”I didn't come to quarrel with you about our views of gardening, or of life. I realize that we have no common ground. You are of the Past, and I am of the Future.”
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