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teachings. The man housed in his head a huge stock of valuable polypolisological information, much of it derived from ancient tomes too little consulted these days. He also exhibited a dry wit and genuine pedagogical talent and enthusiasm.
    Vinnagar’s course that Merritt was auditing in parallel this semester with Scoria’s was “Statistical Tools for Polypolisology.” It appealed to her linear, rational side just as much as Arturo’s story-telling appealed to her romantic visions, and she strove to do well in “Polyp Stats.”
    The week after she had cemented in his messy bachelor bedroom her new relationship with Art, Merritt found herself in Vinnagar’s classroom. Throughout the lecture the man seemed to cast a dubious eye upon Merritt. Her suspicions as to a shift in Vinnagar’s attitude were borne out when he detained her after class.
    Merritt had to stifle a giggle at the sudden notion that Vinnagar would ask her to become his lover as well. But predictably, her teacher took not a seductive but a monitory tone.
    “Miss Abraham, I am not one to spread or encourage rumors. But reliable reports inform me that you and Professor Scoria have formed a bond both intellectual and, ahem, physical that bodes ill toward your professional career. Surely you can see that tight allegiance with anyone faction in the department—especially such a shallow and academically dishonest member of our staff—can only result in skewing your future path. You owe it to your own considerable talents to maintain a studious neutrality—at least until you are more advanced in your studies, say at the time of choosing your thesis topic.”
    Here Durian Vinnagar essayed a small smile. “I had even hoped that perhaps if your status at the University became more normalized, you would consider having me as your advisor.”
    Merritt hardly knew how to respond. “Professor Vinnagar, I’m genuinely flattered and honored. But all of this seems premature. Right now, I just want to soak up as much knowledge as I can. Professor Scoria offers me that opportunity. I hope I won’t have to abandon all the wisdom you offer either, just because of my, ah, closeness to one of your respected colleagues.”
    Professor Vinnagar sat back in his chair and sighed. “As Emil Fourcade says in Patchen’s Last Horizon , ‘Against youth and heart follies, Vasuki Himself contends in vain.’ No, Miss Abraham, you may rest assured of my continued respect and guidance. But mark my words, Scoria is going to lead you into trouble—and quite soon, if my spies speak the truth.”
    More than this vague warning, Merritt could not pry from the man.

5.
    CAMPUS BUZZ

    WHARTON CELEBRATED A HOLIDAY IN MID-OCTOBER THAT Stagwitz did not: the Festival of Amrita. The holiday marked the arrival by Train each year of the lone shipment of a certain seasonal liquor obtained from the Borough of Tocktock, some fifty thousand Blocks Uptown, well beyond any facile travel. The liquor—four thousand jeroboams, no more, no less—had been arriving each year during the same week for the past two centuries, as a tribute to Swazeycape University. No one had any notion of the origin of the arrangement, even such antiquarians as Chambless and Vinnagar.
    But the uncertain basis of the tradition did not hinder the Borough’s enjoyment of the fresh and limited amrita. The sweet golden liquor, priced minimally by University fiat to make it available to all classes, owed like the Lavender Family’s happy tears at the conclusion of Diego Patchen’s late-period masterpiece Glints from a Hidden Hearth . The tipple provided a particularly serene yet potent buzz, non-impairing and non-conducive to combativeness, melancholy or despair. For four days, until the rare booze was all consumed, business closed their doors and classes were suspended, with only clubs and restaurants still operating, as the entire population embarked on a joyous long weekend.
    Merritt relished the chance to be together with