Vag tripped lacadaisically down the steps of Widener. These past few hot days had drained him of every bit of enthusiasm. The very sight of the be-goggled grinds sitting four by four on every side of the Widener, tables filled him with a feeling of nausea. He had tried to alleviate it by going to the Radcliffe sector, but the scenery there wasn't much more inspiring. Every time he looked up, those Reading Room walls seemed to be closing in on him, and he could hardly wait for the hourly bells to toll, which for him was the signal to go downstairs for another cigarette.

Summer school wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It meant one more semester saved, but Vag was beginning to wonder whether he had not paid too much for the whistle. One more summer like this and he would be ready for the bughouse. Already his ideas of going to Grad School were beginning to fade: the very thought of spending another few years stagnating with the rest of the gleeps was enough to send him out for another beer. It used to be a question of going to work or going to school, and naturally everyone picked school because life was a lot easier there. But now with so much else going on in the world Vag felt as though time spent in classes was wasted, kind of like eating or sleeping or wearing off a hangover.

Sure everything was on the road back to normalcy. The headlines weren't any worse than they were in the thirties, and the same old gripers had the same old gripes. But the wheel of progress was moving faster and faster. Maybe Vag was out of tune with the times. Maybe everything would work out for the best in the end. But meanwhile there was so much to do and so little time to do it in. Let's not miss anything. Get in there and pitch, sonny, there's no telling when the game will be called on account of darkness or rain or a chain reaction of Uranium 235.

Vag walked out the gate of the Yard. The temptation to let everything go was strong, but social conventions were stronger. Too many people were depending on him to deliver the goods. He could be cynical in his room, but when the chips were down, there was no sense in acting like the lost generation. The left bank of the Charles was not Paris. And nothing was ever overcome or improved by running away from it.