“Well,” said Heller, “you could have time to work on that.”

“You see,” said Epstein, “they argue with me that it isn’t in the field of business administration. They say it is a political science subject. But it isn’t. No! About eighty percent of a corporation’s resources are absorbed in trying to file government reports and escort inspectors around. If they would listen, I could get the Gross National Product up eighty percent, just like that!” He brooded a bit. “Maybe I ought to change my thesis title to ‘Corporations Would Find Revolution Cheaper Than Paying Taxes.’ ”

“I would pay you five hundred dollars a week,” said Heller.

“No. If I did it, it would be for one percent of the gross income with a drawing account not to exceed two hundred dollars a week. I’m not worth much.”

Heller went over to his jacket and fished out two one hundred dollar bills. He tried to hand them to Epstein.

“No,” said Epstein. “You don’t know enough about me. The offer is probably very good. But I can’t accept it.”

“Right now, do you have any money? Any place to live? Your apartment isn’t there anymore.”

“It’s no more than I deserve. I didn’t have any other clothes and I can sleep in the park tonight. It’s warm weather.”

“You’ve got to eat.”

“I am used to starving.”

“Look,” said Heller, “you’ve got to take this job.”

“It’s too good an offer. You do not know me, Mr. Hoover — I mean, Mr. Wister. You are probably a kind, honest, patient man. But your efforts of philanthropy are being directed at a lost cause. I cannot possibly accept your employment.”

They sat for a while, dangling their legs off the dock edge, drying out in the warm sun. The Hudson had begun to flow again as the tide ebbed.

Suddenly Heller said, “Is ethnology included in business administration studies?”

“No.”

“How about the customs of people?”

“No. You’re talking about social anthropology, I guess. I’ve never studied that.”

“Good,” said Heller. “Then you would not realize that the laws of the American Indian were still binding on Manhattan, due to prior sovereignty.”

“They are?” said Epstein.

“There was an Indian law that when you saved a man’s life, that man was thereafter responsible for you from there on out.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I was told by a master of political science from your own university.”

“So it must be true,” brooded Epstein.

“Good,” said Heller. “I just saved your life, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. I’m afraid there’s no doubt about that.”

“All right,” said Heller. “Then you are responsible for me from here on out.”

Silence.

“You have to take the job and look after my affairs,” said Heller. “It’s prior Indian law. There’s no way out of it.”

Epstein stared at him. Then suddenly his head dropped. He broke into a torrent of tears. When he could talk, he blubbered, “You see, I knew when I heard all that good news, some new catastrophe was lurking just ahead! And it’s arrived! It’s been horrible enough, in the face of malignant fate, trying to bear up and take responsibility for myself. And now,” a fresh torrent of tears, “I have to take responsibility for you, too!”

Heller laid the two one-hundred-dollar bills in his hand. Epstein looked at them forlornly. He got up and went over to his jacket. He put them in his empty wallet.

He sadly looked at Heller. “Meet me on the steps of High Library on the campus tomorrow at noon and I will have the plan of what we have to do.”

“Good,” said Heller.

Epstein picked up his coat and walked a little ways. Then he turned. “I am sure that, with my awful fate, you will live to regret the kind things you have done. I am sorry.”

Head down, he trudged away.

That evening, in the Gracious Palms lobby, Heller sat reading the Evening Libel. He was wearing his old, blue, too-short suit. The “throwaway” suit had really been thrown away after Heller’s swim in the polluted river water. And evidently the tailors had not delivered any new clothes.

The story he was reading said:

In a strongly worded statement today, Mayor Don Hernandez O’Toole censured the New York District Office of the Internal Revenue Service.

“The IRS practice of blowing up perfectly good tax-deductible property must cease,” said Mayor O’Toole. “It places all New York at risk.”

The censure came on the heels of an explosion this afternoon on West 125th Street where an IRS squad was visiting a tax-deductible apartment house.

Dynamite found in the government cars was clear proof of intent to dynamite, according to New York Fire Commissioner Flame Jackson.

Premature dynamission was the stated cause of the blast.

A U.S. Government spokesman said, “IRS has a perfect right to do what it pleases, when it pleases and to whom it pleases and New York better get the word, see?” This was generally accepted as an evidence of cover-up as usual.

There were no lives of any importance lost in the blast.

Heller had just turned the paper over and half a strip of Bugs Bunny became visible and I was much annoyed when he was interrupted.

Heller looked up. Vantagio was standing right beside his chair.

“Did you get registered?” His voice was edgy. Hostile? “If you did, why didn’t you call me?”

“Well,” said Heller, “it’s sort of up in the air. It’s my grades: D average and I’m asking to be accepted as a senior. It’s possible I won’t make it.”

Had Vantagio gone white? Hard to tell as he was shadowed by a lobby palm. “What did they say?”

“It’s ‘under advisement.’ I am to go back at nine in the morning.”

“Sangue di Cristo! You wait until eight o’clock at night to tell me this!” Vantagio rushed off. He slammed the door of his office. Oh, he was angry.

Yes, I felt I could make, possibly, use of this jealousy for Heller.

But I made a more important observation about nine, New York time. Heller disengaged himself from some African diplomat he was talking to, got in the elevator and went to his suite. I could see that, down the hall, his door was wide open!

And down close to the floor, as though she were lying on it, a beautiful brunette girl was extending her hand out into the hall. In a musical voice she called, “Come along, pretty boy. We’re waiting!”

A torrent of giggles came out of the room.

The interference went on. But I had made my observation. Heller never locked his door! Those women simply walked in whenever they chose!

A wide-open invitation to rob the place!

I myself had a very happy afternoon nap, contemplating it.

I must have overslept but there was ample excuse for it. I had not dared sleep for days. But things were running my way now. When I awoke, Heller was already disembarking from the subway at 116th Street. I watched tolerantly. His fate would soon be sealed.

He went directly to the temporary reservation area. There were quite a few students about, milling, finishing off their signups. I realized that it wasn’t registration week, really. It had been registration day, per se, yesterday, judging from the crowd sizes.

I sat back to enjoy Heller getting his comeuppance. No way would this Miss Simmons let him into this school. Not with those grades. Heller’s plans would be thrown into a cocked hat!

And there she was. She had just finished her last student. She ignored her short waiting line. She had a smile on her face but it was the kind you see on the female spider just before she has a meal of a male.

“Well, if it isn’t the young Einstein,” said Miss Simmons. “Sit down.”

Heller sat down and Miss Simmons scrambled through her papers and then sat back with that horrible smile. “It appears,” she said, “that they don’t care who blows up the world these days.”

“You called me ‘Wister’ yesterday.”