Terry whistled. "Aw, Arthur, I didn't think you was going to take me real serious and do it. You poets ain't got no more sense than a frog's got fur. Anyhoo, I'm sorry."
"Yeah," said Finch. "About as sorry as Hera was for Io."
"Whose them? Aw please, you know I wouldn't git you in no trouble I could help. I really owe you some-thin'. Why, you know I'm always gitting in trouble myself on account of helping my friends when there isn't nothin' in it. That's why the board keeps classifying me way down with the athletes, instead of putting me where I could get some status. And now ef you go bawl me out for that, I reckon it'll be more than human flesh and blood can bear—"
"All right, all right," said Finch. "Don't burst out crying about it." For Armstrong Terry Athlete looked as though he were about to do exactly that. It occurred to Finch that advantage might be taken on his low-caste friend's melancholy.
"By the way," he said, "I lost something a little while back. A little cube of red stone, about so big, with an inscription on it. You haven't seen it anywhere, have you?"
Terry looked up at him with big, honest eyes. "Naw, cain't say I ever have."
"Sure?"
I " 'Course I'm sure." A look of indignation came into Terry's face. "You ain't hintin' I done swiped your little doodad, are you? That ain't nice, Arthur. Ain't you got no consideration for nobody's feelin's at all? I know what's wrong with you. You're just mad on account of you made a misstep and got thrown out of the orgy."
It was convincing; a little too convincing, the thought flashed across Finch's mind. "Calm down," he said. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I just thought you might have seen that piece of stone. Look, tell me something; is tennis the only kind of athletics you conduct?"
"Aw, now Arthur, you're jest a-kiddin' me." He shifted rapidly from injured innocence to embarrassment, one foot twisting on the point of the toe. "You know I done beat that fellow from Locust House three times runnin' at lifting weights, and—"
He was off. Finch sat down and bore the torrent of words as patiently as possible, smiling glassily at appropriate intervals, and inserting a question now and then, like a nickel in the slot, to keep the mechanism working. The list of Terry's athletic triumph was endless, but he fortunately demanded nothing more than a willing ear and a pair of open eyes. Finch had plenty of opportunity to mature a plan of action which consisted in nothing more difficult than outsitting his friend and opponent and then searching his belongings for the carnelian cube.
It was nearly midnight before Finch won out. Terry interrupted the account of a wrestling match in which he had escaped a toehold at the imminent peril of broken bones to say " 'Scuse me, Arthur, I gotta go to the donniker." The moment he was out of the room, Finch was on his feet, beginning a brisk and competent, if somewhat superficial job on the bureau that stood at one side.
A step sounded behind him, and a hinge creaked ever so slightly. The door was fully open before Finch was in his seat again, but he had at least managed to close the drawer. His halt was a bit like that of a motion-picture film suddenly stuck.
"Hello, Orange Mrs." It was the stunning blonde.
"Hello, Finch Poet. I looked for you in your room—"
"I've been down here talking with Terry about athletics."
"Your taste in amusement is curious. It was conversation like that that made me divorce him."
"Passing over the comment as unnecessary," said Finch, "I may say that I am beginning to agree with— with thou. He piled a Pelion of detail on an Ossa of banality. But what did thou want to see me about?"
She smiled an open, candid smile, and said: "First I wanted to thank youse for that lovely sonnet! I've never been so honored at an orgy before. But youse shouldn't have done it. My co-wife Amaranth is going to make trouble for youse—and me, too."
Finch sobered. "I'm awfully sorry. I really didn't mean to get you—thou into trouble. Can I take all the blame or do anything else to' clear it up?"
Eulalie flashed a brief smile, and as Terry came in and ducked his head at her, sat down. "I don't know how youse can keep him from divorcing me, if Amaranth wants to make him."
Finch swung to Terry. "You're good with advice. What can I do about this jam I'm in with Orange?"
"Now, Arthur," Terry protested, "you done said you wudden bring up that business—"
"Not at all! Anyway, this time I'm not blaming you for anything. I just want to know what to do."
"Gee willies, I dunno. Jest set tight and hope that he won have the board reclassify you to a garbage man or agricultural farmer, or that Sullivan Michael Politician won't trade you off way up north."
"Being a garbage-collector might have a future," said Eulalie, eyeing Finch through narrowed lids. "Sullivan was one himself when he was elected House Politician. Maybe that's what Finch Arthur wants to do."
Terry grinned. "Too bad thou didn't go for him 'stead of old Orange. He's got more status and twice the money."
Eulalie looked burning lava, but before She could speak, Finch said: "All of which doesn't help very much. Listen, what's to prevent me from simply walking out? I could doubtless find something to do for a while till this blows over ..."
He halted at the simultaneous gasps from his audience.
Both spoke, practically in chorus: "But you can't do that!"
"Everybody has to stay in his House till his Politician trades him off to 'nother one somewheres else," explained Terry.
"Everybody knows it's the only way of keeping population adjusted to need and resources," said Eulalie, with the air of someone repeating a lesson.
"Nonsense," said Finch. "What if I did it anyway? Who'd stop me?"
"Sullivan would order but the proctors," said Terry.
"Very well," said Finch rising. "I think I'll start right now, tonight, before the Politician gets any bright ideas like that."
Again a chorus of expostulations. "You cain't go runnin' off like that, Arthur ..."
Finch grinned from the doorway. "Oh, can't I? My kind but hidebound friends, there are moments when true rationality has an appearance of the irrational. Watch me go."
"Anyway," said Terry, "you cain't go off with no more clothes than you got on. Hit gits mighty cold up in them mountains. I'm tellin' you as a friend, you better pack some things up like a reasonable man." The athlete began counting on his fingers. "You're a-going to need your razor and a toothbrush, and—"
"All right," said Finch. "I've been in the open before and I have a reasonable idea of what I need to cope with it, even if the approach strikes you as unreasonable. See you in six weeks."
He flipped a hand in farewell and left. It was remarkable how Armstrong Terry succeeded in irritating him.
One flight took him up to the floor occupied by' the Middle Division of the Client class, and he walked quickly along the corridor to his room. He opened the door, then froze. The light was on, and it showed a couple of burly men, with brass buttons on their blue pajama-like clothes, one sitting on the bed, one on his chair.
"Evening, Finch Arthur Poet," said one of them, as they hove to their feet like a pair of broaching whales. "You're under arrest."
"Huh? What for?"
"Sure thing; charge of advertising."
"Advertising?"
"That's right. You made a sensation with that there sonnet you sprang at Orange's orgy. Patron charges you with doing it deliberate."
"You mean—is it a crime to advertise?"
"Now, Finch Mr., less you say the better, or you'll have us giving evidence you behaved irrational, not recognizing the troubles made by uncontrolled ambition that comes from the new desires advertising makes. You want to come easy or resist arrest?"
Finch surveyed the pair of behemoths. "I don't know exactly what good it would do me to resist arrest from a pair the size of you two," he said, a trifle ruefully.