When he had selected the books that would form our study for the next few days and urged us to choose more for ourselves, Mr Million would retire with us to some quiet corner of one of the science reading rooms, where there were chairs and a table and room sufficient for him to curl the jointed length of his body or align it against a wall or bookcase in a way that left the aisles clear. To designate the formal beginning of our class he used to begin by calling roll, my own name always coming first.
I would say, “Here,” to show that he had my attention.
“And David.”
“Here.” (David has an illustrated Tales From the Odyssey open on his lap where Mr Million cannot see it, but he looks at Mr Million with bright, feigned interest. Sunshine slants down to the table from a high window, and shows the air as warm with dust.)
“I wonder if either of you noticed the stone implements in the room through which we passed a few moments ago?”
We nod, each hoping the other will speak.
“Were they made on Earth, or here on our own planet?”
This is a trick question, but an easy one. David says, “Neither one. They’re plastic.” And we giggle.
Mr Million says patiently, “Yes, they’re plastic reproductions, but from where did the originals come?” His face, so similar to my father’s, but which I thought of at this time as belonging only to him, so that it seemed a frightening reversal of nature to see it on a living man instead of his screen, was neither interested, nor angry, nor bored; but coolly remote.