It’s time for Wall Street magnates and their employees to once again come two miles uptown and stay for an hour-and-a-half.

Sarah Burgess’ DRY POWDER should inspire today’s CEOs, CFOs and wannabes to take limos, cabs and subways to The Public Theater – just as OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY got their forebears to the Minetta Lane Theatre a quarter century ago.

From 1989 to 1991, Jerry Sterner’s play about (very) hostile takeovers seduced these Masters of the Universe to take a night off from working until one in the morning. They were the main constituents that kept the show off-Broadway for almost 1,000 performances.

Under those circumstances, DRY POWDER, about similar high- powered business machinations, should do as well, for it’s as good a play.

Burgess introduces us to Rick, a mover-and-shaker (or, if you’re a Sondheim fan, mover-and-shaper). Recently – and on the same day that he announced many layoffs among his rank-and-filers — he hosted a lavishly expensive party. The press learned of both and their exposés brought out the picket signs.

“Protesting,” his associate Jenny observes matter-of-factly “is what unemployed people do.”

Yeah, she’s a sweetheart, all right, with utter contempt for the hoi-polloi who “vilify the successful.” But she’s Little Mary Sunshine compared to Seth, who soon comes in with his ideas for a takeover.

His notions turn out to be the antithesis of Jenny’s. Each works hard to prove his or her worth by one-upping, two-upping and seven-upping the other. How else are you going to get that home in Bali and your own private plane? To hell with the cover of the Rolling Stone; it’s Business Week we’re after.

That unfeeling TV host who used to tell many a contestant “You are the weakest link. Goodbye!” would be right at home here. If Rick, Jenny and Seth have any true doubts about themselves, they’ve each found a way to bury them under stratum after stratum of mental concrete. None of them sugar-coat their comments any more than they put sugar in their coffee (lest an ounce be gained). Jenny to Seth: “Try to keep up.” Rick to Jenny: “Seth is about a thousand times more effective than you.” Seth to Jenny: “No one’s ever liked you.”

And they say show business is brutal! Still, between mentions of “LPs” and “LOIs,” there are plenty of opportunities for us to LOL. As for the quickly delivered business-speak, none will prevent even the most financially naïve from understanding what’s happening.

In a way, Seth and Jenny are reminiscent of young brothers and sisters who think nothing of hurling a barrage of non-stop insults at each other; now, after years of doing and hearing it, they’re inured to every slur. The words no longer have much meaning or power.

Instead, their eyes are on the skies: “We need to buy companies, increase their value and exit.” Landmark Luggage, the one they’ve now earmarked, manufactures suitcases. That may seem to be a dull product for our playwright to choose among literally anything, but this is CUSTOMIZED luggage, so it does have cachet.

We assume that Landmark’s CEO will be an equally potent white shark, but Jeff Schrader seems to have a heart that’s doing more than pumping blood. Because this is the only character to whom Burgess gives a surname, is she saying that he’s the only complete human being on the premises? (Actor Sanjit de Silva certainly makes him one.)

Although Jenny and Seth put their true feelings about each other right on the table, they keep their financial cards close to their vests when transacting with Shrader. They’ll say, promise or imply whatever they believe the fleeced-lamb-to-be wants to hear. Seth loves to bandy around the term “creating jobs” – not that he necessarily will, but because the two words give the impression that he cares for the common man. Yeah — about as much as he values common stock.

As Rick, Hank Azaria conveys a big shot with a small share of fear inside him. He’s trying to keep Jenny and Seth from gleaning that he’s running scared. Even letting them know that he’s WALKING scared is out of the question.

Claire Danes has that X-ray figure that Tom Wolfe noted that privileged woman have in BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES. She lets us see that Jenny has nerves of stained steel. When Danes says “People can’t relate to me,” she conveys both that Jenny isn’t above criticizing herself and that her self-appraisal or opinions of others don’t bother her at all. The closest Jenny comes to being sympathetic is her statement “Free enterprise isn’t very fair to the nice.” Danes delivers it begrudgingly.

John Krasinki’s white-hot shot Seth often has his arms akimbo in order to combatively establish how sure he is of what he’s saying. When he’s 100% certain, then he puts one hand in his pocket to casually indicate that his statements are givens, and that anyone who can’t see otherwise is a 24-karat moron.

We can’t say for sure if a certain telling moment is in the script or came courtesy of director Thomas Kail (who’s staged the show in rapid-fire fashion): Rick leaves the office and Seth – absent-mindedly, it seems — moseys over to his desk and sits in Rick’s chair. When Rick returns, Seth does arise not quickly enough to suggest he’s scared, but with ease as if to suggest that he was just keeping it warm for his boss. The look that Azaria gives is more one of surprise than fear or hatred.

A quarter of the house will miss this moment, for DRY POWDER is staged on a square set in the middle of Martinson Hall, with the audience placed around it on four sides. Although the play would work just as splendidly under a proscenium arch, Rachel Hauck’s set does suggest a boxing ring, and these characters do give each other plenty of body blows, hooks and, needless to say, sucker punches.

How rarefied is the air in this office? When the time comes for a set change, the men who move the scenery are dressed in suits and the women in Chanel knock-offs. And yet, Hauck has chosen (or has been only given enough of a budget for) a simple, all-blue set with building blocks. It could serve for a revival of YOU’RE A GOOD MAN, CHARLIE BROWN, another show where human beings act childishly. The only difference is that Charlie, Snoopy, Linus and even Lucy have far more integrity.

The whole play is a marathon race in which one party forges ahead of the other only to fall behind later. The miracle is that you may actually feel yourself worrying about each of them. But that’ll only happen if you’re a far nicer person than any of them. On second thought, you undoubtedly are.