“Farnsworth?” inquired Don.
“He’s the gent what sees every one,” explained the boy. “Ticker’s over there.”
He pointed to a small machine upon a stand, which was slowly unfurling from its mouth a long strip of paper such as prestidigitators produce from silk hats. Don crossed to it, and studied the strip with interest. It was spattered with cryptic letters and figures, much like those he had learned to use indifferently well in a freshman course in chemistry. The only ones he recalled just then were H2O and CO2, and he amused himself by watching to see if they turned up.
“Mr. Pendleton?”
Don turned to find a middle-aged gentleman standing before him with outstretched hand.
“Mr. Barton wrote to us about you,” Farnsworth continued briskly. “I believe he said you had no business experience.”
“No,” admitted Don.
“Harvard man?”
Don named his class.