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one another, though neither seemed aware of it; the one the traditional university professor, pedantic and edgy and impatient with people outside his specialty, the other the new breed of committed don, striving frantically to remain in touch with his students. Yet they found a kind of common meeting ground here, involved with a museum devoted to nostalgia.
    Still, their influences never truly mingled. Among the young people taking the inventory, the Ramsey students could clearly be separated from the Crane students. The Ramseyites were more traditional, more scholarly, more clean-cut and old-fashioned, while the Cranettes leaned toward beards and beads and bells.
    Leaving Muller, who promised to let me know when he was going to leave, I went down the hall to the office, and found Phil Crane himself there, running off copies of a page of the Village Voice on the copier there. “Hi,” he said, when I walked in. “You’re Tobin, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes.” I put my lunchbag down in its usual place, on the corner of a desk; I felt self-conscious about carrying a lunchbag, as though it were foolish or simple-minded, like wearing knickers.
    The copier could be programmed to do a maximum of ten copies at a time. Crane had apparently set it to its top output; he came away from it, and it kept on clicking and working away. “That must have been a real down for you last night,” he said.
    â€œIt was.”
    â€œA hell of a thing,” he said. “You walk into a room and zap! A dead body, staring right at you.”
    â€œHe wasn’t staring,” I said. “He was face down. It was just as well.”
    â€œStill. And you all alone.”
    â€œNot entirely,” I said. “He was there.”
    Crane barked with laughter. “Mr. Tobin,” he said, “you exceed my expectations. You groove on crisis, I know you do. Isn’t that right?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I said.
    â€œIt cools you out,” he said. “You go along, you go along, everything’s quiet, then there’s a crash, and you’re cool. Am I right?”
    I grinned at him. “You mean I’m good under pressure.”
    â€œMan, I mean you live under pressure. It picks you up.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I like a quiet life.”
    He gave me a knowing look. “Not you,” he said. “You’re a fatality freak. You know what I mean?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou don’t know it,” he said, “but I groove with you. I really and truly dig where you are. You let it come to you, and that’s good. I’m the same.”
    I wasn’t sure why, but he made me feel like laughing. Not derisive laughter, but happy laughter, agreeing with him. I said, “You think we’re that much alike?”
    He shook his head, with a kind of mournful smile. “No, no,” he said, without emphasis. “We don’t pick up on the same kind of thing. But we react the same, you and me. You ever try grass?”
    â€œYes.” I was referring to things from a long time ago, back when marijuana was a lot more esoteric than it is now.
    â€œDidn’t do you anything, did it?” He said it as a challenge.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, no, it didn’t.”
    He nodded, grinning at me. “Try it more than once?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œStill a bummer?”
    â€œStill no reaction,” I said, assuming that was what he’d meant.
    â€œI knew it,” he said, nodding some more, grinning in satisfaction. “I’m the same way. The kids can’t stand me, they’re flying and I’m on the ground.”
    I had to smile back. I said, “Why is that?”
    â€œControl,” he said. “Mastery of self. You and me, we just won’t ever let go, put down the reins and relax. You ever been hypnotized?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNobody ever tried?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œTry it some