Black Genesis

  He got on a subway and roared along. He seemed to be interested in the people. It was a hot New York day and in such weather the subways are very, very hot. The people were sweaty, soggy.

  I was not being any more alert than they were. I sud­denly saw a station sign flash by that said:

  23rd St. Then one went by which said:

  14th St. Union Square

  Hey, he was on the wrong subway. He was going DOWNtown, not UPtown! And he wasn't on the proper line! He was on the Lexington Avenue subway!

  Hastily, I backtracked on the second screen. He had changed, not at Times Square, but before that, at Grand Central! I backtracked further. I got to the phone book he had looked at. He had found Stocks and Bonds Brokers in the yellow pages. Then his finger had halted at Short, Skidder and Long Associates, 81 1/2 Wall St.

  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 demand
ing, 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.

  Heller was slowed to a crawl!

  PART EIGHTEEN

  Chapter 1

  Heller slowly paid the fees at the temporary cashier's desk and then, hands in pockets, wandered about, not looking at very much, apparently immersed in thought.

  After a while, he studied the posted building layout.

  He began to read bulletin boards. Students were look­ing for rooms and rooms were looking for students and Mazie Anne had lost trace of Mack and Mack had lost touch with Charlotte and Professor Umpchuddle's classes were transferred to the left wing. Then his eyes clamped on to a formally printed plastic sign. It said:

  THOSE DESIRING TO HIRE GRADUATES

  ARE NOT PERMITTED TO RECRUIT

  ON THE CAMPUS DIRECTLY.

  THEY MUST SEE

  THE ASSISTANT DEAN OF STUDENTS IN THE JUMP BUILDING.

  Promptly Heller was out on College Walk again, trotting through the throng of milling students, clickety-clacking on a zig-zag course and presently clickety-clacked into the office labelled:

  Mr. Twaddle, Assistant Dean of Students

  Mr. Twaddle was sitting at his desk in shirt sleeves filling out stacks of forms. He was a small, bald-headed

  man. He pointed at a chair, sat back and began to pack an enormous briar pipe.

  "I want to hire a graduate," said Heller.

  Mr. Twaddle stopped packing his pipe. Then he stopped staring. "Your name?"

  Heller showed him the invoice.

  "Possibly you mean your family wants to hire a grad­uate?"

  "Do you have any?" said Heller.

  "A graduate in what, Wister?"

  "Stocks and bonds," said Heller.

  "Ah. A Doctor of Business Administration." Mr. Twaddle got the pipe going.

  "He'd have to be over twenty-one," said Heller.

  Mr. Twaddle laughed indulgently. "A Doctor of Busi­ness Administration would certainly be over twenty-one, Wister. There are so many changes in the rules each year, it practically takes them forever. But I am afraid this is the wrong season of the year. You should have been here last May. They all get snapped up, you know. There won't be another crop until the October degrees are awarded almost two months from now and it just so hap­pens there aren't going to be any in that October crop." He smoked complacently.

  "Haven't you got any leftovers? Please look."

  Mr. Twaddle, being a good fellow, opened a drawer and got out a tattered list. He dropped it on the desk before him and made the motions of going over it. "No. They've been snapped up."

  Heller inched his chair forward to the desk. He pointed a finger halfway down the list. I hadn't known he could read upside down. But he couldn't read very well because the name had a lot of marks and cross-outs after it.

  "There's one that isn't marked assigned," said Heller.

  Mr. Twaddle laughed. "That's Israel Epstein. He didn't graduate. Thesis not accepted. I'm acquainted with this one. Oh, too well acquainted. You know what he tried to hand in? Despite all cautions and warnings? A thesis called 'Is Government Necessary?' But that isn't why they refused to re-enroll him."

  "But he's over twenty-one," said Heller.

  "I should say he is. He has been flunked out on his doctorate for three consecutive years. Wister, this young fellow is an activist! A deviant. A revolutionary of the most disturbing sort. He simply will not conform. He even boycotted the Young Communist League! He's a roaring, ranting tiger! A wild-eyed, howling anarchist, of all things! Quite out of fashion. But that wasn't why they refused to re-enroll him. The government cut off his stu­dent loans and demanded immediate repayment."

  "Why would they do that?" said Heller.

  "Why, he was doing all the income tax forms for stu­dents and the faculty and he was costing the Internal Revenue Service a fortune!"

  "Is that his address?" said Heller. "That number on 125th Street?"

  Mr. Twaddle said, "It probably was up to a few min­utes ago. Ten IRS agents were just here demanding that address. So he will soon be beyond reach entirely."

  "Thank you for your help, Mr. Twaddle," said Heller.

  "Always glad to assist, Wister. Drop in any time."

  Heller closed the door behind him. Then he started to run.

  Chapter 2

  Heller was down 116th Street and up Broadway like a quarter horse. If anyone noticed he was going faster than was usual, he wasn't looking at them—but New Yorkers never notice anything. And, factually, I don't think he was moving at any exceptional speed: some cars were going faster than he was. I was glad to note that grav­ity differences had not given him any phenomenal pow­ers. Things to him weighed only a sixth less than usual.

  Judging by the scenery flow, he was probably only doing twenty.

  I was, of course, a little bit puzzled by his obvious antagonism to an anarchist. Or did he fear for the IRS agents, faced by a maniacal wild man of huge powers? Perhaps his contact with the FBI had inclined him to defect to the Earth government. I know that in his place, I would have been seeking political asylum.

  He came to 125th Street and raced along, looking for the address. But he found it because of three double-parked government cars. There was no one in them.

  Heller checked the building. The street number was almost indecipherable. It was one of those innumerable abandoned apartment houses with which New York is strewn. The taxes are high, the tenants destructive. If the owner tries to repair the building, the tax rates go up and the tenants tear it down again. So owners simply abandon them to rot. And this one was so bad off that not even tenants had to wreck it. Obviously no one in his

  right mind would try to live there. The front entrance looked like it had been an artillery target.

  He circumvented fallen debris and went in. He stopped. Noise was coming from the second floor-ripping sounds.

  Heller went up what was left of the stairs.

  A government agent was standing outside a door, picking his teeth.

  Heller walked up to the agent. "I'm looking for Israel Epstein," he said.

  The agent found a particularly succulent morsel in his teeth, ate it and said, "Yeah? We ain't got a warrant out for him yet, so that don't make you an accomplice. But as soon as they get through planting the evidence in there, we'll be able to get one."

  "Where is he?" demanded Heller.

  "Oh, him. Well, if we let him escape first, then he becomes a fugitive and we can send him up for that if for nothing else."

  "Where did he go?" demanded Heller.

  "Oh, he ran off down 125th Street," said the IRS agent, pointing west. "Said he was going to drown him­self in the Hudson River."

  Heller turned to leave. Two IRS agents stood square­ly behind with drawn guns.

  "Sucker," said the tooth-picking one. "Hey, McGuire!" he yelled into the apartment, "Here's one of his friends!"

  The two agents in the hall pushed Heller ahead of them with their guns. They shoved him well into the apartment.

  The place might have been a wreck before. It was an emergency disaster now. It was torn to splinters!

  IRS agents were using jimmies to pry up boards, hammers to smash furniture.

  A huge hulking brute out of a horror film stood, hands on hips, glaring at Heller. "So, an accomplice! Sit down in that chair!"

  It was pretty broken up but Heller managed it.

  "Say SIR when you're spoken to!" said McGuire. br />
  "Sir?" said Heller. "You a nobleman or something?"

  "We're a hell of a lot more important than that, kid. We're Internal Revenue Service agents. We run this coun­try and don't you forget it!"

  "Sir?" said Heller.

  "Now, where are the books you and Epstein cooked? Where are they hidden?" demanded McGuire.

  "Sir?" said Heller.

  "We know God (bleeped) well that you had actual IRS manuals! Copies of the real law and everything. Where are they hidden?"

  "Sir?" said Heller.

  "Do you realize," said McGuire, "if they got into public hands it would ruin us? Do you realize this is trea­son? Do you know what the penalty for treason is? Death! It says so right in the Constitution!"

  "Sir?" said Heller.

  "I don't think he'll talk," said another agent.

  McGuire said, "I'll handle this, Malone."

  "There ain't any manuals here," said still another agent.

  McGuire said, "Shut up, O'Brien. I'll handle this. This kid is a red-hot suspect. I got to read him his rights. Now listen carefully. You have to testify to whatever IRS wants you to testify to. You have to swear to anything IRS tells you to swear to and sign anything you are told by IRS to sign. If you fail to do so you will be charged with conspiring to conspire with conspirators regardless of race, color or creed. Sign here."

  Heller had a slip of paper under his nose. "What's this?"

  "By the Miranda Rule," said McGuire, "the prison­er must be informed of his rights. I have just informed you of yours. The IRS is totally legal, always. This attests you have been warned. So sign here."

  Heller signed, "J. Edgar Hoover."

  "Good," said McGuire. "Now, where are the God (bleeped) cooked account books and where are the God (bleeped) IRS manuals and regulations?"

  "Sir?" said Heller.

  "He ain't going to talk," said Malone.

  "I better just plant this Commie literature and these bags of heroin and we can get going," said O'Brien.

  "You know what's going to happen to you, kid?" said McGuire with obvious satisfaction. "We're going to force you to report downtown to the Federal Building. We're going to cross-examine you, kid. We're going to put you under the hot lights and we're going to find out all about you. Everything. When we get through with you, there won't be a thing about you we don't know. Take this."