The biped’s heart began pounding violently. “Did you say interviewed?” he stammered. “Who-what?”
“Interviewed, is all I know. Some newspaperman wants to write a story about you. All lies, I dare say, but that’s his lookout.” Rudi was wheeling his cart around, still without glancing at the biped.
There was a sound behind them, and the biped turned in time to see Emma come darting nervously out of her doorway.
“Rudi, she piped. Oh, Rudi-please wait!”
But the keeper had disappeared into the passage, and either did not hear or did not choose to turn back. After a moment came the sound of the outer door closing.
Emma retreated toward her room as the biped turned, her hands going to her head in the familiar gesture. But she paused when she saw him reach for the small packet on the desk.
“Is that soap?” she asked timidly. “I heard him say it was.”
The biped picked up the small paper-wrapped oblong. It had a faint aromatic scent which was oddly disturbing. “Soap, yes,” he said abstractedly. “I’ve got to get cleaned up so that I can be interviewed.”
“I had some once,” the female said, edging nearer. “It was a long time ago. They said it was bad for me.”
“I suppose so,” the biped muttered, tearing at the paper with his blunt fingers. The paper ripped open, the soap shot out between his hands and clattered across the floor almost to Emma’s feet. She bent slowly and picked it up. The fragrance had grown almost overpoweringly strong.
“Give it to me, will you?” the biped asked impatiently, walking nearer. He was at the scuffed chalk line that divided his side of the room from hers, but she took no notice. With the soap clutched in both hands, she was intently sniffing. Her mouth was half open, her eyes turned up.
The biped took a step across the line. Still she did not respond.
Alarmed, the biped halted and stared at her. “Emma!” he said.
Her head turned. “Yes?” she said in a dreamy voice. “What’s the matter with you, Emma?” “Nothing matter,” she replied, with a vacuous grin. “Well then, give me the soap if you please” “Good soap,” she said, nodding, but she did not move to hand it over, and seemed almost unaware that she was still holding it close to her face.
AT the point of crossing the line to take it from her, the biped hesitated. It suddenly struck him as rather odd that Rudi should have given him soap to wash with at all. He had not seen any in his week’s incarceration, and had not really missed it. Was soap good for this body, with its feathery spines? But if not, then why-?
Shaking his head irritably, he moved backward, away from the fascinating smell that came from the thing Emma was holding. With that insistent odor in his nostrils it was hard to think connectedly.
He concentrated. At last: “Why did they say soap was bad for you, Emma?” he demanded.
“Bad for me,” she agreed, swaying as if to inaudible music. “Soap bad for Emma. No more soap, too bad. Beautiful soap.”
As the biped stared at her silently, he heard the door opening again. His dulled brain began to work quickly once more. “Emma, listen to me,” he whispered. “Take your soap and go into your own room. Understand? Go into your own room. Don’t come out till I tell you!”
Emma not come out. With exasperating slowness, she moved toward the door as Rudi came back in, this time without his cart.
“Ready, are you?” he asked, with a glance at Emma’s disappearing figure.
The biped turned to face him, trying to look as dreamy and distant as Emma had. “All ready,” he said slowly.
“Know who you are, do you?”
“My name is Naum-”
“No, no,” Rudi interrupted, “don’t be stupid, your name is Fritz. Now say it after me. ‘My name is Fritz.’ ”
“Name is Fritz,” said the biped agreeably. He kept his eyes rolled up, and swayed on his feet. His head was buzzing with angry surmise, but he kept his voice blurred and slow.
“That’s all right, then,” Rudi said, satisfied. “How much is two and two, Fritz?”
The biped pretended to consider the question at length. “Four?” he asked hesitantly.
“Good fellow. Now how much is four and four and four and four?”
The biped blinked slowly. “Four and four,” he said.
Rudi smiled. “All right then, come along. You’re going upstairs to meet some nice gentlemen, Fritz, and if you behave yourself - mind, I said if! - I’ll give you something tasty all for yourself.” He took the biped’s arm.
THEY rode up in the elevator, walked along the glass-walled corridor overlooking the Zoo grounds. It was a sunny late afternoon, and the gravel paths were full of strolling people. A few faces tilted to watch them, but there was not much excitement. They entered the main building, Rudi opened a door, and the biped found himself being ushered into the same oakpaneled office where he had been received on the first day. Beside the desk, Griick, Wenzl and the man in the gray surcoat were waiting.
“Ha!” said Griick jovially, here is our Fritz at last. Now we shall see, my dear Tassen, how much truth there is in this fantastic story. We could have begun sooner, but our Fritz sometimes dirties himself, not so, Wenzl? Too bad, but what can one expect? So!” He rubbed his hands together. “Fritz, you are well?”
“Very well, Herr Doktor,” said the biped.
“Excellent! And you have eaten a good supper, Fritz?”
“Yes, Herr Doktor.”
Griick frowned slightly, glancing at Rudi, but in a moment collected himself and addressed the biped again: “Very good, Fritz. Now then, this gentleman is Herr Tassen of the Freie Presse. He will ask you some questions, and you will answer correctly. Understood? Then begin, Herr Tassen!” The man in the gray surcoat looked at the biped with a faintly uncertain expression. Well then, Fritz -” he began.
The biped took a step forward, away from Rudi, and said quickly, “How long have you worked for the Freie Presse?”
Tassen’s eyebrows went up. “A little over a year, why?”
“Do you know Zellini, the rewrite man?”
“How is this?” cried Griick, coming forward, redfaced with astonishment and anger. “Fritz, your manners! Remember-” “Yes, I know Zellini,” said the newsman. He was scribbling rapidly on his wad of paper.
“A little dark man, nearly bald. I sat next to him at the last European Journalists’ Dinner. He-”
“Wenzl!” shouted Griick. The biped felt himself seized by Rudi from behind, while Wenzl, his face a white mask, came toward him around the desk.
“They are holding me against my will!” shouted the biped, struggling. “My name is Martin Naumchik! They tried to drug me before they brought me up here!”
Griick and Tassen were shouting. Wenzl had seized the biped’s arm in one hand and was gripping his muzzle in the other, holding it closed. Between them, he and Rudi raised the biped off his feet and began carrying him out the door.
“Outrageous!” Griick was trumpeting. “A trick!”
The newsman, almost as redfaced as he, was shouting, “Bring him back at once!”
The door swung closed, cutting off the din. Without bothering to set him on his feet, Wenzl and Rudi carried the now unresisting biped down the corridor toward the elevator.
EMMA, it appeared, had not only been sniffing the soap all the time the biped had been gone but had eaten some as well. She was taken to the infirmary, unconscious, and remained there two days.
Deliveries of work stopped. Rudi, the keeper, disappeared and his place was taken by a heavy slow man named Otto. No one else visited the cage.
Exhausted and triumphant, the biped spent most of his time in the front room of the cage, sometimes reading or watching television, sometimes merely watching the crowds, to which he had slowly become accustomed. He hoped to see Tassen again, but the man did not reappear. On the day after the interview, however, a man outside took a folded newspaper from his surcoat and spread it out for the biped to see.