It's not that I have anything against them," the assistant professor of History said, moving his chair a little closer to the Common Room fire, "but I don't like to be pushed. As a matter of fact, despite my reticence, I think it's safe to say that I've had my share of success with the opposite sex." This was an arrant lie, of course, but we listened, interested.

"But as I say, I don't like being pushed. Women are fine, but after all, the scholar withers when he gets tied down. And cocrcion is the very antithesis of the university tradition." He paused, lifting his coffee cup.

"Coercion?" we asked.

"Mais naturellement. This new fringe benefit business, of course. Who on the faculty gets a fringe benefit--the monastic scholar, dedicated to his work, or the brilliant cosmopolitan researcher and man-about-town? Oh no; it's the faculty drudge who barely manages to get out a small paper and an insignificant book review in between taking care of the furnace and changing the baby's diaper. He's your fringe man. It's a matter of principle," he said.

"Principle?" we asked.

"But don't you see? These benefits make it practically obligatory to get married and propagate. A thousand dollars for each child in college--why, the man with four children is getting an extra $16,000 over a few years." We nodded. "And I am being cheated out of the same $16,000." We nodded again.

"As an Economic Man I don't see how I can resist. But as an idealist, I can't capitulate. I guess I'll just fight this fringe business as long as possible, and then retire to my small room in L-entry. But enough of this--I must be going." He swept up his coat in a hawklike motion.

"What's the hurry?" we asked.

"Have to meet one of my tutees for a drink. Fine young lady. Quite attractive, at that. And most interested in Byzantine heresies."

He whistled as he went out into the snow.