"Well - I think it's a grave mistake to put on public record everyone's I.Q. I think the first thing the revolutionaries would want to do is knock off everybody with an I.Q. over 110, say. If I were on your side of the river, I'd have the I.Q. books closed and the bridges mined."
"Then the 100's would go after the 110's, the 90's after the 100's, and so on," said Finnerty.
"Maybe. Something like that. Things are certainly set up for a class war based on conveniently established lines of demarkation. And I must say that the basic assumption of the present setup is a grade-A incitement to violence: the smarter you are, the better you are. Used to be that the richer you were, the better you were. Either one is, you'll admit, pretty tough for the have-not's to take. The criterion of brains is better than the one of money, but" - he held his thumb and forefinger about a sixteenth of an inch apart - "about that much better."
"It's about as rigid a hierarchy as you can get," said Finnerty. "How's somebody going to up his I.Q.?"
"Exactly," said Lasher. "And it's built on more than just brain power - it's built on special kinds of brain power. Not only must a person be bright, he must be bright in certain approved, useful directions: basically, management or engineering."
"Or marry someone who's bright," said Finnerty.
"Sex can still batter down all sorts of social structures - you're right," Lasher agreed.
"Big tits will get you in anywhere," said Finnerty.
"Well, it's comforting to know that something hasn't changed in centuries, isn't it?" Lasher smiled.
There was a mild commotion at the bar, and Lasher leaned out of the booth to see what was going on. "Hey," he called, "Luke Lubbock - come over here."
Luke, the serious old man who had borne the elephant tusk at the head of the parade, came over from the bar, gulping his beer as he came, and looking nervously at the clock. He was perspiring and short of breath, like a man who'd been running. He had a large parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm.
Paul welcomed the opportunity to study Luke's magnificent costume more closely. Like a stage set, it was designed to impress at a distance. Nearness showed that the splendor was a fraud of cheap cloth, colored glass, and radiator paint. At his waist was a jeweled poniard, basically plywood, with an owl on its hilt. Counterfeit rubies as big as robin's eggs, mounted in golden sunbursts, were hung at random on the front of his lavender blouse. About the cuffs of his blouse and jade-green pantaloons were circlets of tiny bells, and - again - perched at the upturned tips of his golden slippers were a pair of miniature owls.
"Luke, you look wonderful," said Lasher.
Luke's eyes flashed agreement, but he was an important man, in too much of a hurry to respond to flattery. "It's too much, too much," he said. "Now I got to change so's I can march with the Parmesans. They're waiting up the street, and I got to change, and some damn fool's locked hisself in the can, so I got no place to change." He looked around quickly. "Would you let me do it in the booth, and kind of screen me?"
"You bet," said Finnerty.
They let Luke squirm into the shadows of the booth, and Paul found himself keeping a playful, leering lookout for women.
Muttering, Luke started to disrobe. He dropped his belt and poniard on the table, where they struck with an impressive thump. The glittering heap grew and grew, until, from a distance, it might have looked good enough to be at the end of a rainbow.
Paul relaxed his vigil for an instant to glance at Luke, and he was shocked at the transformation. The man was in his underwear now, ragged and drab, and none-too-clean. And Luke had somehow shrunk and saddened and was knobbed and scarred and scrawny. He was subdued now, talking not at all, and meeting no one's eyes. Almost desperately, hungrily, he ripped open the brown parcel and took from it a pale-blue uniform, encrusted with gold embroidery and piped in scarlet. He pulled on the trousers and black boots, and the jacket with its ponderous epaulets. Luke was growing again, getting his color back, and as he strapped on his saber he was talkative again - important and strong. He bundled up his other costume in the brown paper, left the parcel with the bartender, and rushed into the street, waving naked steel.
A whistle blew, and the Parmesans fell in behind him, to be led to glorious exploits in a dreamworld those on the sidewalk could only speculate about.
"Harmless magic: good, old-fashioned bunkum," laughed Lasher. "Talk about your hierarchies: Luke, with an I.Q. of about 80, has titles that'd make Charlemagne sound like a cook's helper. But that sort of business wears thin pretty quick for everybody but a few Luke Lubbocks. The lodge turnover is terrific." He stood. "No more for me, thanks." He rapped on the table. "But someday, gentlemen, someone is going to give them something to sink their teeth in - probably you, and maybe me."
"We'll give them something to sink their teeth in?" said Paul. He noticed he was getting somewhat thick of speech.
"You'll be what they'll get to sink their teeth in." Lasher laid his hand on Paul's shoulder. "One more thing: I want to be sure you understand that men really do worry about what there is for their sons to live for; and some sons do hang themselves."
"And this is as old as life itself," said Paul.
"Well?" said Lasher.
"Well, it's too bad. I'm certainly not overjoyed about it."
"You figure to be the new Messiah?" said Finnerty.
"Sometimes I think I'd like to be - if only in self-defense. Also, it'd be a swell way to get rich.
Trouble is, I can be sold or unsold on anything too easily. I enjoy being talked into something. Pretty shaky outlook for a Messiah. Besides, who ever heard of a short, fat, middle-aged Messiah with bad eyesight? And I haven't got that common touch. Frankly, the masses give me a pain in the tail, and I guess I show it." He made clucking sounds with his tongue. "I'm going to get myself a uniform, so I'll know what I think and stand for."
"Or two - like Luke Lubbock," said Paul.
"All right, two. But that's the absolute maximum any self-respecting human being ought to permit himself." He sipped from Paul's highball. "Well, good night."
"Have another," said Finnerty.
"No - I mean it. I don't like getting tight."
"All right. I want to see you again, anyway. Where can I find you?"
"Here, most likely." He wrote an address on a paper napkin. "Or try here." He looked closely at Finnerty. "You know, wash your face, and you might do real well as a Messiah."
Finnerty looked startled, and didn't laugh.
Lasher picked up a hard-boiled egg at the bar, crackled its shell by rolling it along the keyboard of the player piano, and walked out into the evening.
"Magnificent, wasn't he?" said Finnerty raptly. His gaze returned reluctantly from the door to Paul. Paul saw his eyes take on a glaze of ennui, of letdown, and he knew that Finnerty had found a new friend who made Paul look very pale indeed.
"Your orders, gentlemen?" said a short, dark waitress, with a hard, trim figure. She looked at the television screen while waiting for them to reply. The sound never seemed to be turned on, only the video. An anxious young man in a long sports coat jiggled up and down on the screen, and blew through a saxophone.
The saloon was filling up, and many of the flamboyantly and enigmatically costumed marchers had come in for refreshment, giving the place an atmosphere of international unrest and intrigue.
One small young man in mufti, with immensely wise and large eyes, leaned back against the table in Paul's and Ed's booth and watched the television screen with what seemed to be more than routine interest. He turned casually to Paul. "What you think he's playing?"
"Beg pardon?"
"The guy on television - what's the name of the song?"