Vag was bothered. He paced up and down the room, stopping every so often to kick an old copy of the "Lampoon" under the studio couch. This war was getting under his skin. Once this compulsory athletic program begins I won't even be able to stand up, much less walk around, he thought as he collapsed into an armchair. Stretching out a languid hand for a quick-energy chocolate bar, he reflected on the meagreness of the evening meal. A man needed more than that under his belt after four weary hours in Harry's Club. He'd really learned to know the place in the last two months.

But even with an accelerated program you had to take off at least one night a week. Even the Dean's Office admitted that. But then they claimed you could get eight hours' sleep every night, too. Dean's Office or no Dean's Office, this was Vag's night off, and he didn't know what to do about it. All the girls he'd called were spending the evening either learning about the innards of automobiles for a motor transport course, or boning up on incendiary bombs and blackouts for the A.R.P. exam. He'd seen the movie at the U.T. He was about to run down the list of in-town movies for the third time, when his roommates rushed in and dragged Vag, protesting, out of his chair. "Come see Donald Duck pay his income tax. They've got him at New Lecture Hall with a professor and a preacher and it's free." Vag didn't quite know what it was all about, but he dashed off eagerly.