The eyes of the Baron Burgenblitz of Blitzenburg had grown distrustful, then became sly, then wandered to Pard Powell, whose own glaucous glance met his . . . who nodded solemnly. Eszterhazy spoke again. “We have learned that both Graustark and Rumania may hold a demarche in the Disputed Areas in hopes of annexing the Ottoman provinces.” The Baron’s glance became absolutely opaque. “Sir,” said the Doctor, “I now request my congee." He made an informal salute.
Burgenblitz returned it. “You щау go,” he said, languidly. “And damned if I don’t flay you, slowly and alive, if this turns out a tarradid- dle.” (And doubtless he would, thought Eszterhazy. Claiming a feudal privilege to do so.) The Baron was gone before the thought. Gone slowly. But he had headed his horse towards the Old Fair Grounds.
“Brunk.” Abruptly.
Brunk (aggressively): “Can prove nothing! Nothing, nothing prove!”
Doctor (calmly): “No? I can prove I know the Emergency Laws of the Year of Bonaparte better than you do.”
Brunk had been prepared to shout about the sludge in the river. Brunk was dressed as usual in a suit appropriate to an upper clerk. Along with this Brunk wore the foxskin hat of a country bailiff, a gorgeous gold watch and chain, and a pair of miner’s boots. Poor Brunk! He did not yet know who he was. Or who or what he might yet be. And, certainly, he was not yet prepared to claim wide knowledge of the Emergency LawsoftheYear of Bonaparte — that fierce and frightful Year which first pushed the Confederacy of the Lower Ister on its way towards empery — though certainly he had heard thereof. “What Law Bonaparte?" asked Brunk.
“As an emergency measure I can here and now dismount and bum your coalyard to the ground —” See Brunk’s mouth open very, very wide. “— and oh certainly I should be obliged to pay compensation.” See Brunk’s face indicating his calculation how much this could be, plus interest. “Oh of course it would be compensation at the value of the place during the Year of Bonaparte . . . what? A hundred ducats?”
“ What a hundred ducks bum my place Bonaparte?!"
“But I won’t.” Eszterhazy. Very quietly. Brunk had begun to reel a bit. Things were going too rapidly. He put out both his hands palms down at breast level. He looked rather like a rather disorganized dancing-bear.
“Now here is what you have to do. ...” Brunk, mouth a-sag, nodded silently. “You have to take a few good men with wheelbarrows. Cross the Little River. Now. Mother Wumple’s Yard. Where all the stuff has washed up and dried. You are to break it all up. Into little pieces. About the size of a common hen’s egg. Carefully. She won’t prevent you. And then you’re to have your chaps wheel it along to the Old Fair Grounds. Pile it on a couple of good large tarpaulins. Cover it with a couple of good large tarpaulins. Got that?"
Brunk had been nodding, nodding. First he lifted one foot. Then he put it down. Then he lifted the other. Then he put it down. Then he asked. “ What I must do next Boss my place Bonaparte don’t bum?” Eszterhazy thought a moment. Only a moment, though. Then, in the crisp tones of an officer who has allowed the men to take two minutes to piddle into a hedge, and Brunk would certainly still be on the SemiActive Militia Lists, the officer by his tone now indicating that it was back to Forward! MARCH!, Eszterhazy said, “Draw four times four rations upper NCO quality plus four times ten rations other ranks quality. And see that it is delivered with the rest, go!”
And Brunk, breathing heavily, muttering disconnected words . . . burn, Bonaparte, boss, rations, NCO, break, pieces, eggs ... Brunk went.
Any decade, any year or month or week now, capital in Scythia- Pannonia-Transbalkania would discover its own power. And leap, roaring, forward. With, right behind it, labor. And yet and meanwhile? Well. Not today.
Professor Gronk had accepted development as calmly as he had accepted stasis. Washington Parthenopius “Pard” Powell, who had been given his own emergency task to perform, had performed it. And had returned. The inventor’s loft was a-blaze with scarlet silk. “What do you mean, ‘Did I have any trouble?’ Why, harlots is the most patriotic class of people they is, irregardless of nationality or theopompous preference. Course I lied a lot. Told ’em I needed it fer to make belly-bands so the sojers wouldn’t ketch the cholera in the humid swamps of them Dispu- tated Territories or whutchewcallem. Even showed whut size to cut they red silk petticuts cuttem up to. Then I give every house one a my little flags. ’N then they all kissed muh. Well. Here we are. Do we stitch? Or do we glue?”
In the Taxed Domestic Animals Division of the Excise Office.
“What does Skimmelffenikk report from High Hyperborea?”
Chairs were thrust back. Drawers rattled. Files were slapped down. The motto of the Royal and Imperial Scythian-Pannonian-Transbalkanian Excise Office was, “If you have nothing to do, do it very loudly, so nobody will notice.”
“Here it is, Chief.”
“There it is, Chief.”
“Right over there, Chief.”
“File Number 345 slash 23 dash 456, the 11th inst. Skimmelffenikk reports from High Hyperborea. . . .”
The Chiefs round, whisker-encircled face took on a look of controlled patience. “Yes?” he enquired. “Well? So?”
Skimmelffenikk’s report from High Hyperborea had been properly received, posted, docketed, filed ... all the rest of it. However, it was rapidly becoming clear, nobody had read it. Until now. Vows were instantly (and silently) made to The Infant Jesus of Prague, All the Holy Souls, and St. Mamas Riding the Lion, that the Chief not completely blow up, declare Unpaid Overtime, fire them all, cancel the three-o’clock borsht break — None of it. The Chief read to himself without sound, the Chief read vocally in a mutter, then the Chief read altogether aloud. Skimmelffenikk reports from High Hyperborea that to the sound of like real weird music the untaxed he-goats had been dancing and prancing with like crowns of flowers on their heads.... And this statement had been signed in full by the Officer Reporting (Skimmelffenikk), attested by his Sergeant, one Grotch; and confirmed by the latter’s Rural Constable, one Mommed, who makes his Mark, said Mark being herewith identified by the District Imam with Rubric in Turkish according to the Highly Tolerant Imperial Permittzo. . . .