That fall the two of them began seeing more of Professor Greg. Earlier they had been too much in awe of him, but now, somehow, they were both more tolerant of their own limitations and less fearful that Greg would be critical of them. He welcomed them and, as the winter wore on, they often sat together in front of the fireplace in the high ceilinged parlor. Before it was time for them to leave, Greg served them brandy in huge brandy snifters. He was showing his age more, and sometimes he seemed to be looking backward down the years to scenes his younger friends could not quite envision. Sometimes he told them about meetings he had attended in Lausanne or Perugia, or something he had discovered, quite by accident, in the Bibliotheque Nationale.
They rarely told him about department politics, but one evening, after a second brandy, Ford found himself saying that at a cocktail party Brockberg had said to him that his friend Greg was, well, without sufficient humor. Ford had thought he could state it less explicitly than that, but halfway through his sentance he realized that Greg already knew what he was going to say. Greg's eyes lit up with a look of disinterested amusement. Walking down the snowy sidewalk together afterwards, Ford apologized to Hall for his gaucherie, and Hall told him not to worry; Greg understood Brockberg better than either of them could hope to do.
IV
The winter, the spring, the summer, and the fall went by, then still other winters and springs and summers. Ford and Hall both began to be aware of the way the years clicked off. New students came, and there were end-of-semester exams. Each of them had married, each had two children, and occasionally on a Sunday afternoon one or the other, family in tow, would walk up to the old three-story brick house and pay Professor Greg a visit.... Greg rarely said anything about what he was working on, or even whether he was working toward any specific goal; but Hall and Ford often ran into him in the library, saw him picking up his books and putting them into his green book bag, and students ringing his doorbell frequently had to wait until he came down the three long flights from his study.
Then one morning he was dead. He had come down his porch stairs, green book bag in hand, and fallen slowly onto the sidewalk. When a passing student had reached him he was already dead. It was an ironic season for him to die. Autumn had come, and registration for classes had just begun. There was a large funeral procession, which included the business manager of the University and the gray-haired librarian who worked at the circulation desk, as well as the entire department. Briggs, Ford, and Hall were among the pallbearers. Even after classes had been going for some weeks, Ford and Hall found themselves still depressed. Over coffee they talked about Greg and what he had meant to them. The truth was that his passing had left them feeling isolated and, as Hall said, somehow suddenly middle-aged. Each allowed himself a few jibes at those of Greg's colleagues who had not properly appreciated him.
During the third week in October, Briggs left messages in both of their letterboxes, requesting that they come to see him at eleven o'clock. They entered his office together, and he motioned for them to sit down. There was a letter on his desk, and he read it through at least twice before speaking to them. Finally he explained that he had received a letter from Greg's lawyer, the executor of his estate. During the past ten years Greg had worked steadily at what might prove to be the outstanding work of his career. It was substantially finished, but would require some editing, and, of course, it would have to be seen through to publication. The next point was a little more complicated, and he began this more slowly. As they might have expected, Greg had suggested the two of them to do the actual work, but he had also suggested one of the senior professors to act as a kind of supervising chairman. However, it was his own considered opion that--at which point Hall, unable to restrain himself, asked, "You mean Brockberg?" "As a matter of fact," Briggs responded, "Greg did suggest Brockberg, but as I started to say, it seems much to be preferred that all seven of the full professors constitute themselves a committee to oversee the publication. They won't interfere with either of you, to be sure. No one could object to this arrangement because, after all, it was Greg's valedictory to his profession and to his old department." Briggs paused, then added, "I'm sure you'll agree that there is no reason for Professor Brockberg to learn that Greg had suggested him. After all,..." and Briggs gestured with his right hand, as though to say the virtues in his plan were perfectly clear. He thanked them, said he had a meeting to attend right now, but perhaps later in the day they could get together about he matter.
They went down the corridor together silently, and into Ford's office. Hall spoke first. "Imagine Greg singling out Brockberg! I guess he wanted to assure us that he wasn't above playing a little joke."
"Yes, and too bad Brockberg will have to go on without knowing that there was such a joke. But what about this honorary committee stuff? Won't they feel that Briggs has arranged a shotgun marriage?"
"Maybe at first," Hall answered. "That was my first reaction, but my guess is that it came to Briggs in states. When he first read the letter from Greg's lawyaer, he must have said something like 'Jesus, Lord!,' but on thinking it over he could see there were real advantages. And he can make the others see the light."
"Of course," Ford said. It has all been properly adjudicated--and now for the implementation."
Both men laughed quietly.