David Mason

“ Doctor Randall said, from far down in his comfortable chair. "No such thing as time travel."
"You underestimate the Physics department," Pangborn told us coldly. "In spite of heavy losses to our staff—last year's treason trials cost us three of our most brilliant young men—we've made some very remarkable strides. We have what is crudely termed a time machine—although the correct term is temporal transducer. In fact we are currently conducting some very interesting researches with it."
"Then you have tried the killing of a grandfather, Herr Doctor?" Von Juntz inquired. ”

“ It had everything else a good faculty club should have: brown leather armchairs, old magazines, fresh newspapers, a dusty chess board, cut glass decanters ... it was a place well suited for comfortable reading, talking and drinking—except for the quality of the whiskey. ”

“ Von Juntz asked, stroking his beard.
We all like to have our little oddities on the faculty at Miskatonic. Von Juntz liked to look like a nineteenth century Heidelberger. Pangborn of Physics liked to assume a personality pattern that would annoy people. Doctor Randall of the Department of Advertising Arts wrote poetry in secret. ”