"Bourbon and water," he said to the bartender.
"Sorry, sir."
"Sorry about what?"
"I can't serve you."
"Why not?"
"I've been told you're no longer a guest at the Meadows, sir." There was a prim satisfaction in the bartender's voice.
A number of people observed the incident, Kroner among them, but no one made a move to change the bartender's ruling.
It was a crude moment, and in its fetid atmosphere Paul made an ultimately crude suggestion to the bartender, and turned to leave with dignity.
What he still had to learn was that without rank, without guest privileges, he lived on a primitive level of social justice. He wasn't prepared when the bartender vaulted the bar and spun him around.
"Nobody says that to me, sonny Jim," said the bartender.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" said Paul.
"I'm no goddamn saboteur," said the bartender hotly. Everyone heard it, the ugliest word in the language, one that permitted no muttering withdrawal, no shaking of hands and forgetting it. Son-of-a-bitch could be softened with a smile, but not saboteur.
Somehow the idea of a wrecker of machines had become the smallest part of the word, like the crown of an iceberg. The greatest part of its mass, the part that called forth such poisonous emotions, was undefined: an amalgam of perversions, filth, disease, a galaxy of traits, any one of which would make a man a despicable outcast. The saboteur wasn't a wrecker of machines but an image every man prided himself on being unlike. The saboteur was the man who, if dead, would no longer make the world a trying place to live in.
"You want me to say it again?" said the bartender. "Saboteur. You're a stinking saboteur."
It was an electrifying situation, an elemental situation. Here one big man had offered the ultimate insult to another big man. No one looked as though he were willing to bring the drama to an end, or as though he thought he could. It was like seeing a man caught in a threshing machine, beyond saving. As long as God had precipitated the tragedy, the onlookers might as well watch and learn what a threshing machine would do to a man once it caught him.
Paul hadn't hit anyone since his sophomore year in high school. He had none of what bayonet instructors hoped to instill in their pupils, the will to close with the enemy. It was an unpromising sort of will, he thought. Still, obedient to some system of involuntary nerves and glands, his hands tightened into fists, and his feet spaced themselves to form a solid bipod from which to swing.
Just as there is no encore for the 1812 Overture save "The Stars and Stripes Forever," so Paul had no choice of rejoinders. "Saboteur yourself," he said evenly, and swung at the bartender's nose.
Absurdly, the bartender collapsed, snuffling and snorting. Paul walked out into the night, like Wild Bill Hickock, like Dan'l Boone, like the bargeman on the book jacket, like - He was suddenly spun around again. For a split second, he saw the bartender's red nose, white face, white apron, and white fist. A brilliant flash illuminated the inside of his skull, and then midnight.
"Doctor Proteus - Paul."
Paul opened his eyes to find himself staring up at the Big Dipper. A cool breeze played across his aching head, and he couldn't see where the voice was coming from. Someone had stretched him out on the cement bench that ran the length of the dock, to be loaded with the band and the outgoing mail aboard the last boat for the Mainland.
"Doctor Proteus -"
Paul sat up. His lower lip was shredded and puffed, and his mouth tasted of blood.
"Paul, sir -"
The voice seemed to be coming from behind the spiraea hedge at the foot of the dock. "Who's that?"
Young Doctor Edmund Harrison emerged from the shrubbery furtively, a highball in his hand. "I thought you might want this."
"That's real Christian of you, Doctor Harrison. Guess I'm well enough to sit up and take nourishment now."
"Wish I'd thought of it. It was Kroner's idea."
"Oh? Any message?"
"Yes - but I don't think you'll want it. I wouldn't, if I were in your spot."
"Go ahead."
"He says to tell you it's always darkest before the dawn, and every cloud has a silver lining."
"Um."
"But you ought to see the bartender," said Harrison brightly.
"Aaaaaah. Tell me all."
"He's got a nosebleed that won't stop because he can't stop sneezing. Looks like a vicious circle that with luck could last for years."
"Wonderful." Paul felt better. "Look, you'd better beat it before your luck runs out and somebody sees you with me."
"Mind telling me what on earth you did?"
"It's a long, sordid story."
"I guess. Boy! one day you're king, the next day you're out on your tail. What're you going to do?"
Talking softly there in the dark, Paul began to appreciate what a remarkable young man he'd picked to sit down beside the first day - this Ed Harrison. Harrison had apparently taken a liking to Paul, and now, with no personal reasons for turning against Paul, he was sticking with him as a friend. This was integrity, all right, and a rare variety, because it often amounted, as it might amount now, to career suicide.
"What am I going to do? Farm, maybe. I've got a nice little farm."
"Farm, eh?" Harrison clucked his tongue reflectively. "Farm. Sounds wonderful. I've thought of that: up in the morning with the sun; working out there with your hands in the earth, just you and nature. If I had the money, sometimes I think maybe I'd throw this -"
"You want a piece of advice from a tired old man?"
"Depends on which tired old man. You?"
"Me. Don't put one foot in your job and the other in your dreams, Ed. Go ahead and quit, or resign yourself to this life. It's just too much of a temptation for fate to split you right up the middle before you've made up your mind which way to go."
"That's what happened to you?"
"Something like that." He handed Harrison the empty glass. "Thanks, better beat it. Tell Doctor Kroner it never rains but what it pours."
The cabin cruiser, Spirit of the Meadows, grumbled into her slip, and Paul climbed aboard. A few minutes later the band got on with their instruments, and a last call was put out over the loudspeakers. The lights in the saloon blinked off, and knots of remarkably sobered roisterers crossed the parade ground to their tents.
The rattle of the switch, the scratch of a needle, and the loudspeakers sang for the last time that night:
And Paul waved wanly, apathetically. This was goodbye to his life so far, to the whole of his father's life. He hadn't had the satisfaction of telling someone he'd quit, of being believed; but he'd quit. Goodbye. None of this had anything to do with him any more. Better to be nothing than a blind doorman at the head of civilization's parade.
And as Paul said these things to himself, a wave of sadness washed over them as though they'd been written in sand. He was understanding now that no man could live without roots - roots in a patch of desert, a red clay field, a mountain slope, a rocky coast, a city street. In black loam, in mud or sand or rock or asphalt or carpet, every man had his roots down deep - in home. A lump grew in his throat, and he couldn't do anything about it. Doctor Paul Proteus was saying goodbye forever to home.