The eyes of Pan Satyrus glowed with happiness.
"Looka the monkey," the bartender said. "He's a gent. You think a nice well-behaved monkey like that wants to dance with a couple of hoodlum tarts like you-all?"
"We're in the South," Ape said.
"Hooray for Dixie," said Happy.
"Now, take your turns an' dance like ladies," the bartender said. He shoved the redhead onto a bar stool. 'You plant your ass right there, and you give the monk a dollar an' dance with him nice," said the barman. "And no more dirty talk. This is a family joint."
The blonde gave Pan a dollar, which he shuffled across to hand to Happy, who was drinking potbelly's beer. Then he shuffled back, picked up the blonde and sat her on the biceps of his left arm. With his left hand on his hip, he twisted around the room to the music of the jukebox, which the bartender fed with his own dime.
Ape watched him gloomily. "The programs them keepers musta looked at."
Pot-belly said, "That's no or'nary monkey."
"Trained," Happy said. "We put a lot of training into him, long days at sea, you know. We were on ice-breaking patrol at the North Pole."
Pot-belly twitched his peeling nose. "Now I know you guys is kidding me. That's the Coast Guard, and you guys is Navy."
"The trouble wit' this country is too much eddi-cation," Ape said.
"I knew that was the monk went around the world," the small mouth under the red nose said.
"So okay." Happy made his voice as tough as possible. "So what are you going to do about it?"
"Take it easy," Ape said.
"I never met any real celebrities before," the little man said. "Ya think he'd give me his autograph?"
"Apes can't write," Happy said.
"Yeah, that's right."
"Tellya what you do," Ape said. "Get a box an' some Portland cement, an' we'll get him to put his foot in it for you. Like that theayter in Hollywood."
"Hey, that's a peachy idea."
As soon as the little man was out the door, the two sailors stood up. "It was a good racket while it lasted," Happy said. Pan was coming towards them with another dollar.
The stars were hidden by a mist that bad blown in from the east. They walked up the road, the leather soles of the sailors clacking on the highway. Pan kept to the softer ground of the ditch, complaining a little when he made a mistake and let his foot slip into the trickle that ran along the bottom.
Then, suddenly, the night was gone and it was glaringly bright. From all around them spotlights flared. Pan Satyrus sat down in the ditch and covered his eyes with his hands; but the water made him jump again.
A voice came through a PA system: "You're surrounded, boys. Don't do anything foolish."
Ape and Happy slowly raised their hands. Between them, Pan covered his eyes again.
A non-amplified voice said, "Put that gun away, you ape," and a voice with a Southern accent called back, "Who you callin' ape, you monkey?"
The amplifier said: "We're Federal agents. No harm will come to you. Just stand where you are."
They had no choice. Pan was whimpering a little from the pain that the sudden light caused his eyes. Happy dropped a hand to the chimp's shoulder. Then he called, "Get those lights out of our eyes, will you?"
"Filter the shutters, boys," a man shouted, and the glare turned into a softer glow.
"Remember, I forced you," Pan said. "I don't want to jeopardize your careers."
Happy said, "What long words our mascot knows."
"Ya remember Jimmy Durante on the radio?" Ape asked suddenly. "I kin git along wit'out d' Navy, but kin d' Navy git along wit'out me?"
"You're getting more like Pan every minute," Happy said.
"More ape-like," Pan said.
So they were all laughing as Mr. MacMahon strode out of the night to them, appearing suddenly from behind the lights, a looming figure that came down to normal size as he walked towards them. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said.
Ape growled, "In case you're worryin', fuzz, we got Pan somethin' to eat."
"How's that?" Mr. MacMahon asked.
Happy said, "You rats had him locked in a cell, starving. So that's why he broke out."
"I have no recollection of anything like that," Mr. MacMahon said.
"On that phony tank farm you run."
"Don't be ridiculous. I am a Federal special agent. Why should I run a tank farm? Mr. Satyrus, we have a comfortable car here for you and your aides. And, by the way, Chief Bates and Mr. Bronstein, we've flown all your personal gear here from your ship. Your strikers packed it, I'm sure it will be all right. Now, here is the schedule. You go from here to Miami Airport by car. There's a jet plane waiting for you there; Dr. Bedoian is making all arrangements for your comfort in flight. But, considering the late hour, you might prefer to put off your take-off till tomorrow morning; that way there'll be a much bigger reception, and while I know you probably don't care about that sort of thing, New York is your home town, after all and—"
Under the cold stare of the simian eyes, he cut himself off with a low burble.
"Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr. MacMahon?" Pan Satyrus asked.
The Federal man stood there. He swallowed. Even with the spotlight shuttered down, it was very bright. Then Mr. MacMahon shrugged, and took a notebook out of his pocket. He opened it, and looked at it. He looked from Ape to Happy and back again, but there was no mercy in the sailors'-eyes. In a dead tone, he began reciting. "The Police Commissioner of New York will meet your plane at La Guardia Field. That's a big airport at New York, sir. He will escort you to the City Hall to be greeted by the Mayor. After short legal proceedings, you will be driven at the head of a motorcade up Broadway for a ticker-tape parade — that is the way distinguished guests are treated in New York — to Radio City, for the signing, and then to the Bronx, where the president of the Zoological Society will unveil a bronze tablet commemorating your birth."
"In the Primate House," Pan Satyrus said.
"In the evening there will be a dinner designed by the dietician of the Central Park Zoo for you and—"
Pan Satyrus put out his long arm. The notebook came away easily in his strong fingers; they twisted it and the torn leaves went fluttering in the night breeze. "Legal proceedings? Signing? You're a poor actor, Mr. MacMahon. You had better stick to giving the third degree."
"I'd hoped you'd forget that, sir," Mr. MacMahon said. "And we didn't hurt you."
"You locked me in a cell, you threatened to starve me."
"I'd hoped you'd forget that, sir… I was acting under orders."
The long lips of Pan Satyrus worked back and forth on his alarming teeth. "Legal proceedings? Signing?"
"A New York court is going to make you a legal human being," Mr. MacMahon said.
"This guy has taken his lumps," Ape said, looking at Mr. MacMahon.
"I have indeed, Chief," MacMahon replied.
Pan Satyrus put his knuckles on the road and swung his short, powerful body back and forth, apparently thinking. "A legal human being," he said. "How nice."
"Yes, sir."
"And how old will this legal human being be?"
Mr. MacMahon backed away. But he couldn't go very far; they were ringed in by the spotlights and the security men and the technicians that ran the lights. "None of this is my idea," he said. "I never practiced law, but I don't see how any judge can change your age, Mr. Satyrus."
"A legal human being seven and a half years old, then? An infant? Happy, isn't there compulsory education in New York?"
"There is in Brooklyn, Pan. That's how I got to read and write."
"So I'm to sit in a classroom with little brats and listen to some woman tell how to make paper dolls? I have seen Ding Dong School on television, Mr. MacMahon."
Perhaps the Federal man had, too; at any rate something made his voice crack like an adolescent's. "Maybe they'll give you an examination and a high school diploma, sir… I really don't know,".