The convention had scheduled a debate, on the subject of newspaper censorship pro and con, to be conducted by a pair of student speakers before an editorial audience who'd vote on the arguments by sitting on one side of the auditorium or the other. Can't remember who took up the pro side—somebody from the host school, I'd guess—but arguing against was none other than my dinner noncompanion of the previous night [, Roger Ebert].

Well, slam dunk, right? I mean, these are college newspaper editors, they automatically resist manipulation, they demand freedom to publish any damn thing they want. Except for crypto-fascist knuckle draggers like moi, who thought—back then, I should emphasize—that administrations have power of purse, and why should they abet students bent on subverting their own institutional best interests? Just the deadest of dead letters, the arguments from principle, plus they can pull the rug out from under you whenever they want.

But as the debate raged on I noticed that my side of the auditorium was gradually filling in. Because, incredibly, Ebert was losing! His opponent had managed to frame the argument in such a way that all the knee-jerk bromides the anti side could summon were immediately exposed for what they were—generalities that didn't address the specific technical issues being raised. Finally my chief editing assistant, one of the more committed anticensorship people I knew at the time, heaved a sorrowing sigh, shook his head, and slunk across the aisle to where I sat. And all Ebert could do was look dumbfounded, his a priori support trickling and trickling to the other side of the hall—or surging actually, in ever increasing billows. Give the guy a gimme, and he goes out and blows it.