"Excuse me, sir, but is this the place one registers a bicycle?"

The sign in Moors Hall had said Central Square only, the notice in the paper had mentioned the fire station as an alternative, and this was the fire station; but aside from a few engines, shiny red and rust-free there was nothing here and the only person in sight was this man behind the desk and he was busy.

"Excuse me, sir, but can you tell me..."

"Jerry Nicholson, Jerry Nicholson, in the Captain's office," his voice spoke into a loud speaker and echoed "...zun ...zun ...zzofiss" from the upper levels. "Jerry Nicholson."

"Sir? I was told to come..."

"What's that? You wanta sign up a bike?"

"Yes, and I wondered..."

"You have the serial number?"

"The serial number?"

"Yeah. You know, model, make and serial number. You need 'em all, and the color, too."

"But I have the bicycle. Isn't that enough"

"Sure, that's fine, but the office is upstairs, see, and the bike stays down here. So just find the number, the model, and the make, and take those stairs to the left there."

"Then you don't have inspection? I thought you did. At least, they do for autos. And it's really not a bad bicycle. I never ride in the snow and only rarely in the rain and...

"Hey, Jerry, get in the captain's office. Ya'hear?"

"I bought it from a student at M.I.T. and it was very inexpensive. I think he made it himself. Put it together from spare parts he found along the road after one of those Harvard-Wellesley marathons. I'll admit I was a trifle worried about inspection since the bicycle does seem a bit unorthodox. But I realize..."