He was playing hooky!

Oho, maybe all that with Vantagio was not in vain. Maybe I could gather data and show Vantagio that Heller was not obeying him and Vantagio would let me into Heller’s room. A beautiful daydream of a smiling Vantagio, waving an arm to bid me go in and saying, “Yes, Officer Gris. Feel free! Ransack the place! I’ll even call housemen to help you find the platen! And it serves this disobedient young kid right, doesn’t it, Officer Gris.” A beautiful dream!

But back to reality.

Heller, red baseball cap on the back of his head, trotting along on baseball spikes, found 81 1/2 Wall Street and by means of elevators was very shortly breasting a counter at Short, Skidder and Long Associates. There were big blackboards with current prices on them. Ticker tapes were chattering.

A gum-chewing girl said, “Yeah?”

“I want to see somebody about buying stocks,” said Heller.

“New account? See Mr. Arbitrage in the third cubicle.”

Mr. Arbitrage was immaculately groomed and all dried up. He remained seated at the cubicle desk. He looked Heller up and down as though somebody had thrown a fish into the room, a fish that smelled bad.

“I want to see somebody about buying stocks,” said Heller.

“Identification, please,” said Mr. Arbitrage, going through the motions out of habit.

Heller, unbidden, sat down across from him. He pulled out the Wister driver’s license and social security card.

Mr. Arbitrage looked at them and then at Heller. “There is probably no need to ask for credit references.”

“What are those?” said Heller.

“My dear young man, if this is some kind of a school assignment, I am afraid I have no time to teach the young. That is what we pay taxes for. The exit is the same door you came in.”

“Wait,” said Heller. “I have money.”

“My dear young man, please do not trifle with me. My time is valuable and I have a luncheon appointment with the head of J. P. Morgan. The exit door…”

“But why?” demanded Heller. “Why can’t I buy stocks?”

Mr. Arbitrage sighed noisily. “My dear young man, to deal in stocks, you must open an account. You must be of age to do so. Over twenty-one in our firm. To open an account, you must have credit references. You obviously have none. Could I suggest that you get your parents to accompany you the next time you call? Good day.”

“My parents aren’t on Earth,” said Heller.

“My condolences. Please hear me when I say you have to have a person, over twenty-one, who is responsible for you before you can deal with this firm. Now, good day, please.”

“Do all firms have this restriction?”

“My dear young sir, you will find all firms will slam their doors in your face even harder than I am doing! Now, good day, young sir. Good day, good day, good day!” And he reached up and got his bowler and left for lunch.

Heller went down to the street. The luncheon mobs were beginning to boil out of the buildings — luncheon on Wall Street looks like a full-fledged riot in progress.

Thoughtfully, Heller bought a hot dog from a pushcart and drank some orange pop on the sidewalk. He noticed that Mr. Arbitrage was doing the same thing further along.

Heller looked at the towering, cold buildings, the hot and sweating throngs. He checked the pollution dirt on the building sides. He seemed to find it of great interest. He took some pages from a notebook, wrote an address on one and wiped it against a building. Of course it came out black. He trotted through the throngs and took a similar sample on another building. Then he went back down into the subway station and reached over the platform edge and did the same thing. He put the carefully folded and labelled papers away.

He studied the subway map, apparently decided you couldn’t get from Wall Street over to Chambers by subway, caught a train to Grand Central, shuttled over to Times Square, transferred to a Number 1 and was soon roaring north.

At 116th Street he debarked and was shortly trotting along College Walk through mobs of students of every color and hue, a throng that was going here and coming from there or standing about. It was a drably somber crowd.

A young man walked up to Heller and said, “What should I take this term?”

“Milk,” said Heller. “Highly recommended.”

Like someone who knew where he was going amongst a lot of people who didn’t know where they were going, Heller went up steps and found himself in a hall where registration was being administered to long lines. Registrars sat at temporary desks, barricaded in paper. He looked at his watch and it winked the time at him. He looked at the long lines.

A young man, apparently clerical help and a student at the same time, entered, carrying a huge stack of computer printouts of class assignments. Heller walked over to him and said with the ring of Fleet authority, “Where are you taking these?”

“Miss Simmons,” said the young man, timidly, nodding toward one of the registrars at a temporary desk. “You should be on time,” said Heller. “I’ll take these. Go back and get some more.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man and left. Heller stood back until the girl Miss Simmons was interviewing and registering began to gather up her things to depart. Heller went over and put the stapled computer printout booklets down on Miss Simmons’ desk and sat down in the chair, bypassing the unattentive waiting line. He took out his own papers and handed them to Miss Simmons.

Miss Simmons did not look up. She was a severe-looking young woman, her brown hair pulled into a tight bun. She had thick glasses and began to paw about the desk in front of her. Then she said, “You haven’t made out your application form.”

“I didn’t know how,” said Heller. “Oh, dear,” said Miss Simmons, wearily. “Another one that can’t read or write.” She got a blank and started to fill it in from Heller’s papers. She wrote and wrote. Then, she said, “Local address, Wister.”

“Gracious Palms,” said Heller and gave her the street and house number.

Miss Simmons gave him an invoice. “You can pay the cashier. But I don’t think it will do any good. Payment of fees does not guarantee enrollment.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong?” mimicked Miss Simmons. “There is always something wrong. But that’s beside the point. It’s these grades, Wister. It’s these grades — a D average? They clearly show that your only A was for sleeping in class. And in a practically unknown school. Now, what major are you demanding?”

“Nuclear Science and Engineering,” said Heller.

Miss Simmons gave a shocked gasp like a bullet had hit her. She glared. She ground her teeth. When she had recovered enough to continue, she said in a level, deadly voice, “Wister, some of the prerequisites are missing for that. I do not see them on your transcript of grades. I am afraid all this is irregular. It does not conform. You are seeking to enroll here for your senior year. It does not conform, Wister.”

“All I want is a diploma,” said Heller.

“Ah, yes,” said Miss Simmons. “Wister, you are demanding that at commencement next May, Empire University certify on a diploma that you are a Bachelor of Nuclear Science and Engineering, lend you its prestige and send you out, a totally uneducated savage, to blow up the world. Isn’t that what you are demanding, Wister? I thought as much.”

“No, no,” said Heller. “I’m supposed to fix it up, not blow it up!”

“Wister, the only thing I can do is take this application under advisement. There must be other opinions gotten, Wister. So be back here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. I can offer no hope, Wister. NEXT!”

It was a bright moment for me. Heller always had such a marvelous opinion of himself, always bragging. And here was a sensible person who saw through him completely. And Bury was a very clever fellow to lay such an adroit trap. I drank a whole glass of sira straight down in a toast to Bury.