A $50 million margin call? I'll short Wall Street.

Saturday, July 19, 2008. 7 PM.

Greenwich, Connecticut.

The driveway at Greenberg Estate was paved with gravel, and the holly hedges on either side were trimmed as if measured with a ruler. The July sun shone brightly on everything, and the air smelled of sea salt and freshly cut lawn.

When Lu Ze arrived, another car was already parked on the other side of the roundabout. It was a black Toyota Camry, not a new model, with a University of Chicago alumni sticker on the rear bumper.

It wasn't a government-provided or rented black SUV, but an ordinary Toyota Camry with alumni stickers on it.

Lu Ze glanced at the car and got out.

The butler was waiting at the bottom of the porch steps. He looked exactly the same as when Lu Ze last saw him: white shirt, black tailcoat, impeccably dressed.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walker. The guests are already in the side hall. Mr. Greenberg is in his study and said that you two can come to him anytime if you need him."

The side room isn't large. One floor-to-ceiling window faces the garden, so it gets a lot of natural light.

Two single sofas and a low coffee table. On the coffee table sits a pot of what appears to be freshly brewed coffee, two cups, and a small dish of biscuits. There is no alcohol.

Goolsby was standing in front of the French windows, his back to the door, looking at something in the garden. He heard footsteps and turned around.

He was thinner than in the video. His hairline was a bit higher than in the video, probably because he wasn't using hair wax today. He was wearing a dark blue casual suit without a tie, and a light gray polo shirt underneath.

He looked more like a university professor who had been called to a departmental meeting on the weekend than a key staff member who was just one election away from the White House.

"Mr. Walker," Goolsby said, walking over and extending his hand.

His handshake was firm and lasted just the right amount of time; it was very standard.

But his eyesight isn't quite right.

The way he looked at Lu Ze was filled with an extremely clear and undisguised curiosity.

Rather than a politician's "I'm assessing what use you are to me," it's closer to a researcher meeting an experimental subject he's read extensively about but never seen in person.

"Professor Goolsby."

Lu Ze shook hands with him, then gestured to the sofa, "Sit?"

The two sat down on either side of the coffee table. Goolsby poured himself a cup of coffee with practiced ease, then poured one for Lu Ze. This gave Lu Ze the sudden feeling of sitting in a university professor's office.

"Before we begin,"

Goolsby, holding his cup, began in a tone that suggested, "Let me explain the rules first."

"I want to confirm one thing. Today's conversation doesn't exist. There's no record, no memo, and no legal obligation on either side. If anyone asks me tomorrow what I did this weekend, I was visiting an old friend's garden in Greenwich."

"agree."

Lu Ze said, "If anyone asks me, I'm sleeping at home."

"good."

Goolsby took a sip of coffee, put the cup down, leaned forward slightly, and rested his elbows on his knees. The way he looked at Lu Ze had changed—curiosity was still there, but with an added layer of seriousness.

"Then I won't pretend anymore, Mr. Walker—"

"Lance."

"Lance." Goolsby accepted the demotion in address and returned the favor with the same signal, "Call me Ostan."

"Ostan."

"Okay. Lance, to be honest, my interest in you surpasses any other purpose of this trip."

Lu Ze didn't respond, waiting for him to continue.

Goolsby does speak very fast.

"I taught economics in Chicago for over a decade. The efficient market hypothesis was the bible on our street. Market prices reflect all available information, and no individual can systematically and consistently beat the market."

He pointed his finger in the air, as if marking an important point on the podium.

"Then you appeared. Five million became seven hundred million. You precisely timed the oil price peak and made an unimaginable fortune. The bank collapsed four days after your open letter."

He tilted his head slightly, with a genuine look of confusion.

"How the hell did you do that?"

A full professor at the University of Chicago used the word "fuck" in a formal setting. This made Lu Ze chuckle.

Goolsby's directness reminded him of a trait he had observed in the video: an interesting misalignment between the man's academic identity and his manner of expression.

His thinking is rigorous, but his mouth is unconventional.

In the formal lecture halls of the University of Chicago, on the debate stage of CNN, and in the guest chair of "The Daily Show," he uses the same way of speaking—fast, direct, occasionally vulgar, and always honest.

Lu Ze had already judged while watching the video that this consistency showed that Goolsby's "persona" wasn't a facade, but his true nature. A person who didn't switch masks in different situations. Such a person is easier to trust and easier to be trusted.

But this also means it's more difficult to manipulate. Because people without masks are usually very sensitive to masks.

Therefore, Lu Ze cannot wear a mask in the following conversation. More precisely, he needs to make Goolsby think that he is not wearing a mask.

"Ostan, if my method could be systematically replicated,"

Lu Ze leaned back on the sofa, his hands clasped over his stomach, his posture more relaxed than during any of his meetings on Wall Street.

"The ones making the most money should be the professors at the University of Chicago, not me."

This is a classic Wall Street joke mocking academia. Goolsby's lips twitched, giving off that "okay, you're right, but I'm not so happy to admit it" look.

"Do you know the average annual salary in our department?" Goolsby said. "If my colleagues heard you say that, they'd probably all quit and start their own hedge funds."

"Then the efficient market hypothesis is truly dead, and don't blame me if they go bankrupt."

This high-quality verbal exchange clearly pleased Goolsby, making him burst out laughing.

Lu Ze made a mental note: the rhythm is right.

Goolsby enjoyed the fast-paced, intellectually competitive rhythm of the conversation. He had seen this pattern in videos: the most relaxed and enjoyable moments in Goolsby's interactions with Stewart were when their jokes caught each other within half a second.

"But honestly."

Goursby's smile faded, though a trace of warmth still lingered in the corners of his eyes.

"As someone who has built their career on the belief that 'no one can predict the market,' I need to understand what you're actually doing. Not the specific trades. I know you won't tell me that. I'm referring to the framework. What kind of analytical framework are you using?"

This was the first real question Lu Ze had anticipated. And it was also the most difficult to answer.

Because the real answer is: he has no framework.

He possesses the memories of a time traveler, combined with his practical understanding of market microstructures accumulated in this life.

These two things together do not constitute anything that can be described as a "framework".

But he can't say, "I don't have a framework." For someone who has earned billions of dollars to say they don't have an analytical framework is either hiding something or insulting the other person's intelligence.

Therefore, he needed to give Goolsby an answer that was both truthful and incomplete. Truthful enough that a top economist's logical radar wouldn't detect any flaws, and incomplete enough that it wouldn't reveal his true source of information.

"The word 'framework' might not be entirely accurate."

Lu Ze slowly began to speak.

"A framework implies a set of analytical tools that can be built in advance and applied iteratively. But the market environment we are in now—"

He paused for a moment.

"Austen, have you ever encountered a moment in your academic career where you face a phenomenon, search through the literature, and find that no existing model can explain it?"

Goolsby's expression changed. Subtly, but Lu Ze caught it. It was the reaction of a scholar whose professional sore spot had been touched. But the way Lu Ze delivered it made the reaction one of empathy rather than annoyance.

"Often," Goolsby said, "and usually the most interesting research is found where the models fail."

"right."

Lu Ze continued speaking.

"I think we're at a point where models are failing. It's not just one particular model that's failing; it's almost all conventional analysis tools failing."

The interest rate model is failing because the Federal Reserve's policy transmission mechanism is blocked by the credit freeze.

Stock valuation models are failing because you can't price a company whose balance sheet hides billions of dollars in black boxes.

The risk model is failing because the VAR (Value at Risk) model assumes that market volatility follows a normal distribution, but what is happening now is a series of Six Sigma events.

Lu Ze noticed that Goolsby nodded when he mentioned VAR. This is Goolsby's comfort zone: criticizing the limitations of models is something academic economists excel at.

"So if you ask me what framework I use—my honest answer is, I don't have one."

Lu Ze looked at Gulsby, letting the words pause in the air for a moment.

"Nobody has that. We're currently in a gap between the old maps being obsolete and the new ones not yet being drawn. In this gap, models and frameworks can't help you. You can only rely on two things—direct observation of micro-market data and a little bit of instinct."

Goolsby didn't speak immediately. He picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, and put it down. The whole process lasted about four or five seconds, which was a long silence for him in his usual rhythm.

Lu Ze knew what he was dealing with.

Goolsby is a believer in systems analysis. He accepts the concept of "model failure" academically, but is not so comfortable with it emotionally.

Because if all the models fail, then someone like him who does theoretical research is truly of little use in the current crisis. This creates an existential unease for an intellectual.

Lu Ze's previous statement was designed to first establish resonance by using the "model failure" analogy—you and I are facing the same predicament. Then, he used "microscopic observation and instinct" to imply that in this predicament, practical experience is more valuable than theoretical frameworks. What you need from me is not theory, but firsthand intelligence from the battlefield.

This hint doesn't need to be explicitly stated. Goolsby is smart enough to arrive at this conclusion on his own.

really.

"Micro-market data," Goolsby repeated, leaning forward slightly. "What level of micro-market are you talking about?"

Arrived.

This was the turning point in the conversation. Goolsby's question shifted from "What is your framework?" (academic level) to "What have you seen?" (practical level).

This means that he has accepted the premise that "at this moment, practical intelligence is more valuable than theoretical analysis."