Burt paused and let out a long stream of breath.
We turned into a luncheonette for coffee, and I didn't see his face, but the sound revealed his exasperation.
"You think I'm wrong?" "Just that you've come a long way kind of fast," he said.
"You've got a superb mind now, intelligence that can't really be calculated,
more knowledge absorbed by now than most people pick up in a long lifetime.
But you're lopsided. You know things. You see things. But you haven't developed understanding, or—I have to use the word—tolerance.
"You call them phonies, but when did either of them ever claim to be perfect, or superhuman? They're ordinary people. You're the genius."
He broke off awkwardly, suddenly aware that he was preaching at me. "Go ahead."
"Ever meet Nemur's wife?" "No." "If you want to understand why he's under tension all the time,
even when things are going well at the lab and in his lectures, you've got to know Bertha Nemur.
Did you know she's got him his professorship? Did you know she used her father's influence to get him the Welberg Foundation grant?
Well, now she's pushed him into this premature presentation at the convention.
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