structor. Not that they actually cause him any problems but, rather, they exhibit some of the dominant characteristics of those marine de Gaulles which are a constant thorn in the side of a diver. The first of these, and probably the most feared, is the poor old octupus. Although in Torres Straits he may grow tentacles as long as five feet, he is relatively harmless and certainly quite shy. In reality, he wants less to do with you than you do with him. He seldom ventures more than a hundred yards from his home, which might be a coral cave or some old, sunken hull. He's extremely defensive and on those occasions when he does approach a diver, it's usually out of curiosity not aggression. Let him pass that inquisitive tentacle over you and he'll soon depart peacefully. However, make a sudden move, regardless of how innocent, and you've threatened him, with the result that he'll cling to you as no Friday-night date ever did. Old Cirus octopus has his counterpart in the classroom. He too is quiet and inconspicuous, usually keeping his thoughts safely to himself for almost half of the quarter. Then one day something that you say attracts his attention, resulting in his gingerly extending an inquisitive tentacle, feeling you out on some religious or political or philosophical question. Quickly you move, anxious not to lose his first contact, this first real dialogue with Mr. Counterpart. You draw him out a little, show him the weakness of his position, urge him to take a firmer stand. Unfortunately, like the octopus, Mr. Counterpart feels threatened, feels that he must defend himself and, so he's immediately upon you. As the mere act of lifting your hand is seen by the octopus as a threat, so Mr. Counterpart interprets your challenge to his orderly, categorized set of dictums and dogmas as a threat. From that moment on he fastens himself to you. He stays after class for a few minutes to explain: "Mr. you don't seem to understand"; shares your lunch table, uninvited: "Like I was saying, Mr."; accosts you in the hallways: "Mr.--, why don't you look at it this way"; even believe it or not in the men's room: "I know this might sound strange to you, Mr.--, but" Like the octopus, once Mr. Counterpart has his defenses up; once his religious, political, or philosophical peace of mind has been disturbed and threatened; he hangs on to you with every justifying tentacle he can muster. Another resident of Torres Strait's reef-strewn wafers is the white shark. Unlike his cousin, the gray nurse, which will circle a diver several times before closing in for the kill, the white shark gives no warning. One moment you're alone the next, you're picking yourself up after being bowled over by the express-train rush of this sleek, swift scavenger. He comes from nowhere, grabs what he can, and keeps on going; never returning to finish the job. If you can survive the initial attack you're safe. On campus, too, there is the counterpart of carnivorous sharkus. For the first day or two following the beginning of a new quarter, he's lost in the sea of gently undulating classroom faces. However, before the first week has passed, old Sharkie strikes. Maybe it was something you said or, rather, shouldn't have said to the class. Maybe things just weren't moving fast enough or lively enough for him. Whatever the reason, Sharkie suddenly unleashes his full verbal fury on you. He challenges you, refutes you, criticizes you, demeans you, and (on occasion) tears off a final piece of flesh with some biting remark like, "how the hell you ever got into the teaching profession, I'll never know." Like his counterpart, Sharkie never returns, and just as well, too; for a second such attack would certainly finish you off. The last of my briny companions to be exhibited is the grouper. In the Torres Straits, this member of the cod family grows to the respectable size of three or four hundred pounds. His most outstanding feature is his big mouth in fact, he's almost all mouth. On one or two occasions, an entire diving helmet and breastplate have been taken from his stomach no small diver-swallowing act in anybody's book of tricks. The grouper is not a particularly common fish in these islands, and in my three years of diving there I only saw two of these whoppers. On both occasions they were sluggishly pushing their huge, gaping mouths through the water, moving with the grace of a muscle-bound cod. Yes, you've guessed it; the grouper too has a counterpart on campus. Usually he's an athlete, although certainly not representative of the average college athlete, most of whom may not be Rhodes scholars but are at least on a par and in some cases even academically superior to the average student. Like the grouper, Burton Bombast lumbers along, propelled, however, by tennis shoes instead of pectoral fins. He waddles into class as though he were suffering the muscular throes of a giant tetonic spasm. And like the grouper, his mandible hangs agape, revealing a monstrous cavern from which reverberates the most raucous laughter and irrelevant classroom comments imaginable. Even fellow athletes look askance at Burton, seeing him as do his instructors as nothing more than a gym-shoe transported mouth, powered by an over-active pituitary gland. Fortunately, there are no more than one or two of these on any college campus, and if an instructor is lucky, he may get through an entire four years of teaching without ever encountering Burton Bombast, except perhaps in the cafeteria where his stentorian pitched conversation may be heard in any corner of the crowded room. If I've sounded cynical I'm not. Mosf of my students are a pleasure to work with, and I enjoy them very much. However, for those few who feel that I've singled them out for ridicule, I can only reply as I opened with another cliche: "If the flipper fits, wear it." CIRCLES CIRCLES By BRUCE BAILEY The glass was squat and warm; the bourbon went 'round and 'round. "Say, Buddy, could you hurry it a little? I've gotta get home and." Barry was vaguely aware of the voice, but the words didn't register. His fingertip traced a circle on the rim of the glass as if he were dialing a phone. That same finger, the same slender hand with its glittering gold Santa Barbara High School ring, had dialed a number an hour ago. The other hand with its slim gold band had broken the connection when the gruff voice had answered. What had he been going to say when his father answered? Did it go something like, "Dad, I've lost my job and I was wondering if you might let me go back to work with" Barry drew in another sip, grimacing he muttered, "God! I'm glad I didn't make that call!" "What was that you said, Buddy?" Barry raised his eyes and stared. The bartender stood directly opposite him as if to speed his departure. "Oh, I just said" Barry stopped abruptly. Small lines that you probably wouldn't have noticed on his handsome face suddenly deepened into a violent scowl. His neat, brown, crew-cut hair seemed to bristle as he snapped, "What difference does it make to you?" His face flushed under the effort of pronouncing so many words. "And the name is not 'Buddy'. It is Barry Balentine!" With his lower lip protruding belligerently, he carefully straightened himself on the creaking leather stool. "All right, Mr. Balentine, no offense meant." He gave a practiced smile and pulled at the points of his brocaded black vest. "Would you like another drink, Mr. Balentine? It's almost three. I have to close up in five more minutes." The anger faded as quickly as it had come and there was nothing to mar Barry's amicable young face but the puffy redness around his grey eyes. He drained his glass and carefully set it down. Sliding off the stool, he wondered for the thousandth time why they didn't make bar stools for short people. The floor heaved menacingly. The bartender came out from behind his polished barricade to steady him, and Barry took the solid arm without a word. Together they made it to the big, royal-blue Impala. As he closed the door, the bartender whispered, "Next time don't try to take six doubles in one swipe, kid." Barry settled back into the powder-blue seats with the whispered "kid" ricocheting around his brain, kid? kid! No, he wasn't a kid, but his mind picked out a time when he had been a "kid". 31