Free Colonel Butler's Wolf by Anthony Price

warn you that we have to go very carefully?”
    “They did—yes,” growled Butler. “Stocker mentioned Dutschke. And there seems to be a petition of some sort floating around.”
    “Ha! You can say that again!” murmured Audley. “I’ve signed it myself. And I’m a member of the Cumbrian branch of the Council for Academic Freedom and Democracy too— a perfectly worthy institution. But unfortunately, there are a hell of a lot of clever friends of mine who can’t distinguish between wolves and sheepdogs when they set about protecting their flocks—and there are some who think there isn’t any difference anyway. They shoot on sight, and some of ‘em are pretty good marksmen, I warn you, Butler.”
    He gazed at Butler quizzically. “Did Stocker ask you what you thought about the younger generation ?”
    “Yes.”
    Audley sniffed. “Load of nonsense! He talks about the younger generation as though it was a political party with lifelong membership. And I think he’s frightened of it.”
    “Whereas you aren’t?” murmured Butler. There might be something in what Audley said, but it went against the grain to agree with him when he was laying down the law like this.
    “They’re too inexperienced to be dangerous at the moment. And by the time they’ve picked up the know-how, then life has moved them on, poor devils. As a rule they’re no match for the terrible old men on the other side.”
    “You’re sympathetic to them, then?”
    “Sympathetic? My dear Butler—the girls are delicious, with their little tight bottoms, and the boys are splendid when they’re arrogant—and when they’ve washed their hair. But when they forget they’re individuals and try to be the Youth of Today I find them extraordinarily tedious and self-defeating.”
    “I was under the impression that they were giving the university authorities a run for their money.”
    “Oh—quite often they do. That is, when the authorities make mistakes. And it’s just like our business, my dear fellow: only the mistakes get the headlines. That’s part of the reason why Stocker and Fred are sweating—what happens in the universities is news. The other part is that there’s still a lot of influence in the universities as well as a lot of brains. And they know how to use it too. We’re an example of that.”
    “We are?”
    “My dear Butler, we’re here because the Master of King’s knows which string to pull. Take my advice and forget about the younger generation. Think about the older one instead: think about the Master of King’s.”
    He gave a little admiring grunt. “The Hobsons have been a power in Oxford for a century—you can see them planted in rows in St Cross churchyard. It’ll be like a family reunion when the last trump sounds there. And our Sir Geoffrey’s the second Hobson to be Master of King’s. They say the first one had a niece who was Beerbohm’s model for Zuleika. They also say old Hobson was the model for the Warden of Judas. There’s also a story that Old Hob once made a guest at High Table take the college snuff, and when the poor chap fell dead of apoplexy (King’s snuff being fearful stuff) all the old villain said was ‘At least he took snuff once before he died!’.”
    Audley chuckled, savouring the anecdote, and then checked himself as he caught Butler’s disapproving look. “Yes … well, Young Hob, as they call the present Master—he’s nearly 70, actually—he’s a man who likes to work indirectly. That’s why he approached me through Theodore Freisler.”
    “He intended to get through to you?”
    “No shadow of doubt about it. To me through Theodore and then to Sir Frederick through me. I tell you, he prefers the indirect approach.”
    And also the approach that protected him best from any awkward questions if things went wrong, thought Butler. Except that that meant the Master was a worried man as well as a careful one, a man who truly believed his own warnings of doom. And as Stocker and