A short way down the street stood the professor’s gray stucco house. The professor stood in the driveway burning notebooks and papers. A heap of them was smoldering near his feet and sending up clouds of thick, whitish smoke. The professor reached into the cardboard box he was holding and pitched another fistful of white and blue sheets into the flames.
The professor grimaced and shook a bunch of papers in Fergie’s face. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m cleaning out the back room of my study, something that has needed doing for ages." [The Eyes of the Killer Robot, 39-40].
