"What can I do about it?"
"Slip over to France now and then. French women are almost as ignorant but not nearly as conceited and often are teachable."
When my plane landed, I put the subject out of mind as I planned to be an anchorite a while. I learned in the Army that no sex is easier than a starvation allowance—and I had serious plans.
I had decided to be the square I naturally am, with hard work and a purpose in life. I could have used those Swiss bank accounts to be a playboy. But I had been a playboy, it wasn't my style.
I had been on the biggest binge in history—one I wouldn't believe if I didn't have so much loot. Now was time to settle down and join Heroes Anonymous. Being a hero is okay. But a retired hero—first he's a bore, then he's a bum.
My first stop was Caltech. I could now afford the best and Caltech's only rival is where they tried to outlaw sex entirely. I had seen enough of the dreary graveyard in 1942-45.
The Dean of Admissions was not encouraging. "Mr. Gordon, you know that we turn down more than we accept? Nor could we give you full credit on this transcript. No slur on your former school—and we do like to give ex-servicemen a break—but this school has higher standards. Another thing, you won't find Pasadena a cheap place to live."
I said I would be happy to take whatever standing I merited, and showed him my bank balance (one of them) and offered a check for a years fees. He wouldn't take it but loosened up. I left with the impression that a place might be found for E. C. "Oscar" Gordon.
I went downtown and started the process to make me legally "Oscar" instead of "Evelyn Cyril." Then I started job hunting.
I found one out in the Valley, as a junior draftsman in a division of a subsidiary of a corporation that made tires, food machinery, and other things—missiles in this case. This was part of the Gordon Rehabilitation Plan. A few months over the drafting board would get me into the swing again and I planned to study evenings and behave myself. I found a furnished apartment in Sawtelle and bought a used Ford for commuting.
I felt relaxed then; "Milord Hero" was buried. All that was left was the Lady Vivamus, hanging over the television. But I balanced her in hand first and got a thrill out of it. I decided to find a salle d'armes and join its club. I had seen an archery range in the Valley, too, and there ought to be someplace where American Rifle Association members fired on Sundays. No need to get flabby—
Meanwhile I would forget the loot in Switzerland. It was payable in gold, not funny money, and if I let it sit. It might be worth more—maybe much more—from inflation than from investing it. Someday it would be capital, when I opened my own firm.
That's what I had my sights on: Boss. A wage slave, even in brackets where Uncle Sugar takes more than half, is still a slave. But I had learned from Her Wisdom that a boss must train; I could not buy "Boss" with gold.
So I settled down. My name change came through; Caltech conceded that I could look forward to moving to Pasadena—and mail caught up with me.
Mother sent it to my aunt, she forwarded it to the hotel address I had first given, eventually it reached my flat. Some were letters mailed in the States over a year ago, sent on to Southeast Asia, then Germany, then Alaska, then more changes before I read them in Sawtelle.
One offered that bargain on investment service again; this time I could Knock off 10 percent more. Another was from the coach at college—on plain stationery and signed in a scrawl. He said certain parties were determined to see the season start off with a bang. Would $250 per month change my mind? Phone his home number, collect. I tore it up.
The next was from the Veterans Administration, dated just after my discharge, telling me that as a result of Barton vs. United States, et al., it had been found that I was legally a "war orphan" and entitled to $110/month for schooling until age twenty-three.
I laughed so hard I hurt.
After some junk was one from a Congressman. He had the honor to inform me that, in cooperation with the Veterans of Foreign Wars, he had submitted a group of special bills to correct injustices resulting from failure to classic correctly persons who were "war orphans," that the bills had passed under consent, and that he was happy to say that one affecting me allowed me to my twenty-seventh birthday to complete my education inasmuch as my twenty-third birthday had passed before the error was rectified. I am, sir, sincerely, etc.
I couldn't laugh. I thought how much dirt I would have eaten, or—you name it—the summer I was conscripted if I had been sure of $110 a month. I wrote that Congressman a thank-you letter, the best I knew how.
The next item looked like junk. It was from Hospitals' Trust, Ltd., therefore a pitch for a donation or a hospital insurance ad—but I couldn't see why anyone in Dublin would have me on their list.
Hospitals' Trust asked if I had Irish Hospitals' Sweepstakes ticket number such-and-such, and its official receipt? This ticket had been sold to J. L. Weatherby, Esq. Its number had been drawn in the second unit drawing, and had been a ticket of the winning horse. J. L. Weatherby had been informed and had notified Hospitals' Trust, Ltd., that he had disposed of ticket to E. C. Gordon, and, on receiving receipt, had mailed it to such party.
Was I the "E. C. Gordon," did I have the ticket, did I have the receipt? H. T. Ltd. would appreciate an early reply.
The last item in the stack had an A.P.O. return address. In it was an Irish Sweepstakes receipt—and a note; ‘This should teach me not to play poker. Hope it wins you something—J. L. WEATHERBY.' The cancellation was over a year old.
I stared at it, then got the papers I had carried through the Universes. I found the matching ticket. It was bloodstained but the number was clear.
I looked at the letter. Second unit drawing—
I started examining tickets under bright light. The others were counterfeit. But the engraving of this ticket and this receipt was sharp as paper money. I don't know where Weatherby bought that ticket, but he did not buy it from the thief who sold me mine.
Second drawing—I hadn't known there was more than one. But drawings depend on the number of tickets sold, in units of £120,000. I had seen the results of only the first.
Weatherby had mailed the receipt care of Mother, to Wiesbaden, and it must have been in Elmendorf when I was in Nice—then had gone to Nice, and back to Elmendorf because Rufo had left a forwarding address with American Express; Rufo had known all about me of course and had taken steps to cover my disappearance.
On that morning over a year earlier while I sat in a cafe in Nice, I held a winning ticket with the receipt in the mail. If I had looked farther in that Herald-Tribune than the "Personal" ads I would have found the results of the Second Unit drawing and never answered that ad.
I would have collected $140,000, never have seen Star a second time—
Or would Her Wisdom have been balked?
Would I have refused to follow my "Helen of Troy" simply because my pockets were lined with money?
I gave myself the benefit of doubt. I would have walked the Glory Road anyhow!
At least, I hoped so.
Next morning I phoned the plant, then went to a bank and through a routine I had gone through twice in Nice.
Yes, it was a good ticket. Could the bank be of service in collecting it? I thanked them and left.
A little man from Internal Revenue was on my doorstep—