As he ran into the office space, the biped caught sight of Emma peering out of her doorway again. Ignoring her, he demanded, “Are they ready for me now?”
“Yes. Come,” Otto said. The biped smoothed down his spines and followed.
There were crowds outside the gallery, and in the corridors as well; the biped glimpsed Prinzmetal going by with a harried expression. Outside the penthouse dining room, there were men wearing earphones, crouching over metal boxes covered with switches and dials. A white-uniformed Berlin policeman stood guard by the entrance. Ignoring him, Otto opened the door and leaned in for a moment, blocking the way with his body. He spoke to someone inside, then closed the door again. “Wait,” he told the biped.
After a few moments the door opened again and a pale, sweaty face appeared. It was a young man the biped had never seen before. “All right, bring it in. Quickly, quickly!”
“Always in a hurry, aren’t you?” Otto grumbled. “Very well, go, then.” He gave the biped a push.
Inside, the pale young man seized the biped’s arm. “Go straight in, don’t keep them waiting!” Beyond him, past the backs of several men who were standing close together, the biped glimpsed Griick’s rotund figure behind a table. “And now,” the Director’s voice said nervously, “I present to you the biped, Fritz!”
The biped walked stiffly forward in the silence. The big room was packed with people, some standing with cameras, the rest seated at tables arranged in arcs all the way back to the far wall. Griick gave the biped an unreadable look as he approached. “Tell them your story, Fritz - or shall I say Herr Naumchik?” He bowed and stepped back, leaving the biped alone.
The biped cleared his throat with an unintended squawk, which caused a ripple of laughter around the room. Frightened and angry, he leaned forward and gripped the edge of the table.
“My name is Martin Naumchik,” he began in a loud voice. The room quieted almost at once as he spoke, and he could feel the listeners’ respectful attention. Gaining confidence, he told his story clearly and directly, beginning from the moment he had seen the young man with the camera outside his cage. As he talked, he looked around the room, hoping to see familiar faces, but the lights were so arranged that he could barely make out the features of those who were looking at him.
When he finished, there was a moment’s silence, then a stir, and a forest of hands went up.
“You, there,” said the biped, pointing helplessly at random. A woman rose. “Who told you to say all this?” she demanded. She had a sharp, indignant face, glittering eyes. A groan of protest went up around her.
“No one,” said the biped firmly. “Next! You, there … yes, you, sir.”
“You say you took a degree at the Sorbonne in 1999. Who was the head of the German department there?”
“Herr Winkler,” the biped answered without hesitation, and pointed to another questioner.
“Who was your superior on ParisSoir when you worked at the home office?”
“Claude JLhrichs.”
MOST of the questions were the same ones he had answered before, many of them several times, at previous interviews; repeating the same responses over again made him feel a trace of discouragement. When would there be an end? But the attitude of the listeners cheered him: they were respectfully attentive, even friendly.
A tall, red-bearded man stood up. “Let me ask you this, Hen Naumchik. What is your explanation of this incredible thing? How do you account for it?”
“I can’t account for it,” the biped said earnestly. “But I’m telling you the truth.”
There was a murmur of sympathy as the tall man sat down. The biped opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could do so the mellifluous voice of Dr. Griick was heard. “That ends our little question period, thank you very much, gentlemen and ladies.” Griick came forward, followed by two keepers who quickly took the biped’s arms and started to lead him away.
The biped, at first taken by surprise, began to resist. “I’m not finished!” he shouted. “I appeal to you, make them release me!” In spite of his struggles, the keepers were dragging him farther away from the table. “Make them release me! I am Martin Naumchik!”
They were at the door. Behind them, an angry hum was arising from the audience. There were shouts of “Shame! Bring him back!” Over the growing uproar, Griick’s voice was vainly repeating, “One moment, ladies and gentlemen! I beg your indulgence! One moment! One moment!”
The keepers thrust the biped outside; the door closed. The biped ceased to struggle. “Will you behave yourself?” demanded one of the keepers, straightening his collar.
Otto appeared through the crowd, his face as stolid as ever. “Go on, if I want you I call you,” he grunted. “Fritz, come.”
The biped followed him docilely, but his heart was thudding with excitement and indignation. “Did you hear it?” he demanded. “Did you hear how that man cut me off, just when-?”
“Not me,” said Otto. “I don’t concern myself with such things. I was sitting down and having a smoke.” Avoiding the crowd, he pushed the biped toward a rear stairway. They walked down two flights, then crossed a library exhibit, threading their way between the tables and brushing through red banners that urged, “Read a book about animals!” This part of the building was almost deserted; so was the gallery.
As soon as Otto unlocked the outer door, the biped heard Griick’s voice booming from within. His excitement increased again: he ran into the living room. In the television screen, Herr Doktor Griick’s red, perspiring face stared wildly. “Gentlemen and ladies, if I may have your kind attention! Gentlemen and ladies!”
The voice of an invisible commentator cut in smoothly, The hall is still in an uproar. The Herr Doktor is unable to make himself heard.
The biped danced with excitement in front of the screen, clasping his hands together. Outside, beyond the fence, a crowd was gathering, but he ignored it. The sound from the television had a curious echoing quality, and he realized after a moment that Emma must have her set turned on next door, too.
The noise was subsiding. Griick shouted, “Gentlemen and ladies - you have heard the biped’s statement! Now permit the Director of the Zoo to make a statement also!”
There were scattered cheers. Silence fell, broken at first by coughs and the shuffling of feet. When it was complete, Griick spoke again.
“Let me ask you to think about one question, he said. Where is Martin Naumchik?”
He glanced from side to side. The silence deepened. “Where is Naumchik, this enterprising newspaperman, who has scored such a triumph?” A mutter arose; the camera swung to show restless movement in the room, one or two people rising; indistinct voices were heard.
“Is he wandering the streets of Berlin, with an animal’s soul inside his body?” Griick persisted.
“Then why is he not seen? Isn’t this a curious question, gentlemen and ladies? Doesn’t this make you wonder, doesn’t it arouse your interest? I ask again, where is this famous Martin Naumchik? Is he hiding?” He stared out at the camera, eyes gleaming behind his rimless glasses.
The biped clenched his fists involuntarily.
“Suppose that I now tell you we are all the victims of a clever hoax?” Griick demanded. There were hisses, groans of protest from the audience. “You don’t believe it? You are too thoroughly convinced?”
A deep voice echoed up from somewhere in the audience. After a moment the camera swung around: it was the tall, red-bearded man who had spoken before. His voice grew clearer. “… this farce. Why did you hurry the biped out of sight - why isn’t he here to speak for himself?” Cries of approval; the red-bearded man looked selfsatisfied, and folded his arms on his chest.