"Gee, you were in there a long time. What commission did you get?" asked Terry.
"A poem," said Finch. "Specifically, a panegyric sonnet. But it calls for the damndest piece of rhyming since Apollo got a concupiscient itch for Daphne. Oh, well, I used to be a fairish poet one time."
"What d'you mean, you used to?" said Terry. "My goodness gracious, anybody'd think you'd forgot you was the prize poet of the whole Louisville district. Ain't you feelin' rational this morning, Arthur?"
So the imagined scene was laid in Finch's home town —or at least its suburbs. He waved compliment and inquiry aside. "What commission did you get?"
"Me, heh, heh. Seems as how Sullivan Michael Politician has done challenged Harrison Joe Politician from down at Highland Falls to a tennis match. So I got to git me some practice and take on Harrison's athalete. He's older'n I am, so I figger to lick him, but gittin' the practice, that's the Hell of it. You poets, all you-all got to do is sit down with a pencil and paper, and blam, out comes your poem Me, I got to sweat."
"Like to play a couple of sets?" suggested Finch.
"Shore," said Terry. Then he looked suspicious. "I cain't pay you nothing, though. Have to take it out in trade."
"Good lord, I don't expect pay for playing a friendly game of tennis!" cried Finch slightly aghast.
"Okay, Arthur, ef you're going to be that irrational. I'll meet you out on the court in an hour."
"Oh, by the way, do I own a racket?"
"Why—come to think of it, you don't. But that's okay; I'll lend you one of mine."
It occurred to Finch as he made his way back to his room that he had asked a very peculiar question. But that would probably be set down as part of his general irrational behavior this morning. The only odd thing was that Terry had not treated the question as unusual.
He gave a few moments' inspection to his quarters, half expecting the room to dissolve into a windy plain beneath his feet, but it seemed substantial enough, and was arranged with the same cold rationality which—now that he thought of it—characterized the rest of the morning's experience. There was an easy chair, a reading lamp, a supply of foolscap paper, several pens.
A bookcase held books, most of their titles and authors unfamiliar, the list appearing to contain several novels, one or two works on politics, and various volumes of verse. Finch took down one of the latter, the lettering on whose back announced it as "Odes and Threnodes—-Sullivan." Finch remembered Terry mentioning Sullivan Michael Politician who would, he supposed, be some kind of local Gauleiter. It seemed a little odd that Sullivan should be a poet as well as Finch if functions around here were all as specialized as they seemed to be. He took out the volume.
The title-page furnished enlightenment. At the top appeared in large letters:
ODES AND TRENODES
Then, in slightly smaller letters:
SPONSOR: SULLIVAN MICHAEL POLITICIAN
In medium-sized letters: \
PUBLISHED BY STRAWBERRY HOUSE
And at the bottom, in extremely small letters:
Author: Finch Arthur Poet
They seemed to have extremely comprehensive ideas about status in this projected cosmos, he thought, wondering how far this reflected from the depths of his own imagination. Yet there was certainly a smooth rationality about it—a civilization in which everyone knew and found his place without difficulty or the torments of useless ambition. He knew enough of history to be aware of how many races had flourished contentedly and even successfully under a caste system; and it certainly offered to all the security which was the goal of most ambition in the world he knew. As for himself, could he not adapt himself to such an arrangement, with his practice in buttering college presidents and rich men intent on buying their way through the needle's eye by financing expeditions to Asia Minor?
All he had to remember was to speak to superiors as "thou," equals as "you" and inferiors as "youse." Fortunately the inflection system did not appear to run through the entire language, as among some of the Eastern tongues he knew.
He hunted through belongings till he found a pair of rubber-soled shoes and went below to find the tennis-court, half expecting to find the building a unit in a crowded metropolis. It was a pleasant surprise to discover that, although large, the structure stood by itself, surrounded by parklike grounds. The top of another apartment house was visible a quarter-mile off, through a break in the trees, and around the corner of Strawberry House itself a low structure that looked like a stable.
The building was a comfortable looking place despite a vast horizontal reach; four storeys with ivy crawling over blonde brick. People came and went in leisurely fashion. The whirr of industry came from some invisible wing of the building, and the chatter of schoolchildren at recess from another.
Beside a slightly weedy clay tennis-court, Terry was stretched out on his back with a white canvas hat over his face. As Finch approached he yawned, crawled erect, and handed over a racket-Finch had not played since leaving the United States for Pushman's dig. He said: "Let's volley a bit till I get my hand in, shall we?"
"Shore tiling, partner," said Terry, and began to bat over a few easy ones. Finch dubbed the first shots horribly, but Terry politely refrained from comment. Presently the latter suggested play.
As soon as the ball began to come over the net in earnest, Finch realized that Terry was better than he, but that was to be expected from a pro. Nevertheless the first set was by no means a walkover; Finch carried several points to quite long and honorable rallies before losing at 6-2. On the second set his first serve began to drop in, and the games seesawed back and forth: 5-5, 5-6, 6-6, 6-7.
Finch was puffing now and becoming a little impatient against an opponent who played a good basic game, concentrating on returning everything, without cuts or other fancy work. All his life Finch had been warned by college pros against cuts: "Not the right way to play—" "You'll never work up a reasonable game if you depend on cuts—"
But this couldn't go on. Finch cut, outrageously; and Terry, set for a forehand drive, was left standing foolishly as the ball zipped past his left cheek.
"That was right smart," he confessed. Finch cut again; cut through to win the set, and began on the next one, still cutting and still taking points. Terry's face took on a comical expression of bewildered despair. "How under the canopy do you do that, Arthur?" he asked, as the game score reached love-three, and Finch was about to reply when a sudden twinge made him drop his racket and sit down.
His heart was racing and his face tingling; the same old tachycardia which had not attacked him for so many years that he had forgotten to watch out for it.
"What's the matter, Arthur?" said Terry, coming over. "You look kinda peaked."
"Heart," said Finch. "I—I think I'll stretch out a bit." The world around him began doing odd, fuzzy things.
"Massage me under here," he managed to articulate, pointing to the places below the angles of the jaw, where the vagus nerve comes near the surface.
Terry was fumbling uncertainly about it when a feminine voice said: "Here, let me, stupid!"
"Aw, Eulalie, thou ain't got the heft in your fingers ..."
Nevertheless, the fingers that took over the task more competently were clearly a woman's. As Finch's vision cleared he became aware of a blonde object of considerable pulchritude and greenish eyes. He struggled to sit up.
"A man of your age ought to know better than to overdo," she said, and without waiting for thanks turned her back, pushed through the little group of half a dozen or more who had gathered round, and disappeared.