"So long," he said. And then, in spite of himself, "So long, gang."
A laggard group, genuinely inebriated, was being coaxed out of the saloon. They were singing an effusively sentimental rendition of "Toast the Oak." They draped their arms over each other's shoulders; and made clumsily for the great tree. Their voices came clearly to Paul over the flat, green lawns:
There was a reverent pause, broken by an exclamation. "Jesus!" It was Berringer's voice, Berringer's word.
" 'Smatter?"
"Look at the tree - around the bottom!" "Holy smokes!"
"Somebody's stripped the bark off clear around," said Berringer hollowly. "Who?"
"Who do you think?" said Berringer. "That stinking saboteur. Where is he?" The Spirit of the Meadows gunned her engines and backed into open water. "Hey," cried a lonely, frightened voice in the night. "Hey - somebody's killed the Oak." "Killed the Oak," echoed the shore.
The loudspeakers clattered on again, and a chilling war whoop filled the air. "Beware the Ghost Shirt!" shrieked a terrible voice. "Ghost Shirt," said the shore, and all was deathly still.
Chapter Twenty-Four
EN route by air from Miami Beach to Ithaca, New York, home of Cornell University, the Shah of Bratpuhr caught a nasty cold. When seven prakhouls (that quantity of fluid that can be contained in the skin of an adult male Bratpuhrian marmot) of Sumklish improved the Shah's spirits but did nothing for his respiratory system, it was decided that the plane should land in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, in order that the Shah might rest and try the magic of American medicine.
With seven prakhouls of Sumklish under his belt, the Shah called cheery messages to pretty female Takarus on his way to the doctor's office.
"Pitty fit-fit, sibi Takaru? Niki fit-fit. Akka sahn nibo fit-fit, simi Takaru?"
Khashdrahr, who was without the benefit of Sumklish, was livid with embarrassment. "Shah says it is a nice day," he explained unhappily.
"Fit-fit, pu sibi bonanza?" called the Shah to a small blonde who had her hands in a streetcorner manicure machine.
She blushed, and jerked her hands from the machine and stalked away, leaving the machine to buff away at nothingness. A street urchin stuck his grubby hands in for the remainder of the operation, and drew them out with gleaming, red-enameled nails.
"I'm glad he likes the weather," said Halyard glumly. For many weeks now, they'd traveled without the subject's coming up once, and Halyard had hopefully told himself that the Shah really was different from his other guests in this respect, different from the French and Bolivians and Czechs and Japanese and Panamanians and Yaps and. . . . But, no. The Shah, too, was now getting curious about American-type women. Halyard, at a frightful price in dignity, was once more going to have to perform the role of utterly perfect host - or pimp.
"Fit-fit?" called the Shah, as they pulled up to a stoplight.
"Look," said Halyard reproachfully to Khashdrahr, "tell him he just can't walk up to any American girl at all and ask her to sleep with him. I'll see what I can do, but it won't be easy."
Khashdrahr told the Shah, who waved him away. Before anyone could stop him, the Shah was out on the sidewalk, confidently confronting a startlingly beautiful, dark-skinned brunette. "Fit-fit, sibi Takaru?"
"Please," said Halyard to her, "please excuse my friend. He's a bit under the weather."
She took the Shah's arm, and together they climbed back into the limousine.
"I'm afraid there's been a terrible misunderstanding, young lady," said Halyard. "I hardly know how to put it. I, ah, he, that is - What I mean to say, rather, is he wasn't offering you a ride."
"He was asking for something, wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"There's been no misunderstanding."
"Fit-fit," said the Shah.
"Quite so," said Halyard.
Khashdrahr began looking out of the window with fresh interest, wildness, in fact, and Halyard had difficulty holding himself in check.
"Here we are," said the driver. "Here's Doctor Pepkowitz's office."
"Yes, well, you wait in the car, young lady," said Halyard, "while the Shah goes in here for a cold treatment."
The Shah was grinning, and inhaling and exhaling rapidly.
"His sniffles are gone," said Khashdrahr wonderingly.
"Drive on," said Halyard. He had seen a similar miracle cure of an Ecuadorian brigadier's hives.
The girl seemed restless and unhappy, and utterly out of character, Halyard thought. She smiled constantly, unconvincingly, and was apparently anxious to get the whole thing over with. Halyard still couldn't believe that she knew what the whole thing was.
"Where are we going now?" she said, grimly cheerful. "A hotel, I suppose."
"Yes," said Halyard unevenly.
"Good." She patted the Shah on his shoulder, and burst into tears.
The Shah was distressed and tried clumsily to comfort her. "Oh, nibo souri, sibi Takaru. Akka sahn souri? Ohhh. Tipi Takaru. Ahhhh."
"There, now," said Halyard. "See here."
"I don't do this every day," she said, blowing her nose. "Please excuse me. I'll try to be better."
"Certainly. We understand," said Halyard. "The whole thing has been a terrible mistake. Where would you like us to leave you off?"
"Oh, no - I'm going through with it," she said gloomily.
"Please -" said Halyard. "Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if -"
"If I lost my husband? Better if he shot himself or starved?"
"Certainly not! But why would those terrible things happen if you refused to - That is -"
"It's a long story." She dried her eyes. "My husband, Ed, is a writer."
"What's his classification number?" said Halyard.
"That's just it. He hasn't one."
"Then how can you call him a writer?" said Halyard.
"Because he writes," she said.
"My dear girl," said Halyard paternally, "on that basis, we're all writers."
"Two days ago he had a number - W-441."
"Fiction novice," Halyard explained to Khashdrahr.
"Yes," she said, "and he was to have it until he'd completed his novel. After that, he was supposed to get either a W-440 -"
"Fiction journeyman," said Halyard.
"Or a W-255."
"Public relations," said Halyard.
"Please, what are public relations?" said Khashdrahr.
"That profession," said Halyard, quoting by memory from the Manual, "that profession specializing in the cultivation, by applied psychology in mass communication media, of favorable public opinion with regard to controversial issues and institutions, without being offensive to anyone of importance, and with the continued stability of the economy and society its primary goal."
"Oh well, never mind," said Khashdrahr. "Please go on with your story, sibi Takaru."
"Two months ago he submitted his finished manuscript to the National Council of Arts and Letters for criticism and assignment to one of the book clubs."
"There are twelve of them," Halyard interrupted. "Each one selects books for a specific type of reader."
"There are twelve types of readers?" said Khashdrahr.