more, carefully.
It informed her that White House talent scout Janet Raimer had been unable to sign the great but morbidly neurotic concert pianist Richard Kongrosian for tonight after all, because Kongrosian had suddenly left his summer home at Jenner and gone voluntarily into a sanitarium for electroshock therapy. And no one was supposed to know.
Goddam, Nicole said to herself, bitterly. Well, that puts an end to this evening; I might as well go to bed right after dinner. For Kongrosian was not only the foremost interpreter of Brahms and Chopin but was in addition an eccentric, flashing, colossal wit.
Emil Stark puffed on his cigar, regarding her with curiosity.
“Does the name ‘Richard Kongrosian’ mean anything to you?” she demanded, looking up.
“Certainly. For certain Romantic composers—”
“He’s sick again. Mentally. For the hundredth time. Or didn’t you know about that? Hadn’t you heard the rumors?” Furiously, she spun the abstract away from her; it slipped to the floor. “Sometimes I wish he would finally kill himself or die from a perforated colon or whatever it is he’s really got. This week.”
“Kongrosian is a major artist,” Stark nodded. “I can appreciate your concern. And in these chaotic times, with such elements as the Sons of Job parading in the streets, and all the vulgarity and mediocrity which seems ready to rise up and reassert itself—”
“Those creatures,” Nicole said quietly, “will not last long. So worry about something else.”
“You believe you understand the situation, then. And have it firmly under control.” Stark permitted himself a brief, cold grimace.
“Bertold Goltz is as
Be
as it’s possible to be.
Out, un
and
Be;
he’s all three. He’s a joke. A clown.”
“Like Goering, perhaps?”
Nicole said nothing. But her eyes flickered; Stark saw that, the sudden, temporary doubt. He grimaced again, this time involuntarily. A grimace of concern. Nicole shuddered.
FIVE
In the little building at the back of Jalopy Jungle Number Three, Al Miller sat with his feet up on the desk, smoking an Upmann cigar and watching passers-by, the sidewalk and people and stores of downtown Reno, Nevada. Beyond the gleam of the new jalopies parked with flapping banners and streamers cascading from them he saw a shape waiting, hiding beneath the huge sign that spelled out LOONY LUKE.
And he was not the only person to see the shape; along the sidewalk came a man and woman with a small boy trotting ahead of them, and the boy, with an exclamation, hopped up and down, gesturing excitedly. “Hey, Dad, look! You know what it is? Look,
it’s the papoola.
”
“By golly,” the man said with a grin, “so it is. Look, Marion, there’s one of those Martian creatures, hiding there under the sign. What do you say we go over and chat with it?” He started in that direction, along with the boy. The woman, however, continued along the sidewalk.
“Come on, Mom!” the boy urged.
In his office, Al Miller lightly touched the controls of the mechanism within his shirt. The papoola emerged from beneath the LOONY LUKE sign, and Al caused it to waddle on its six stubby legs toward the sidewalk, its round, silly hat slipping over one antenna, its eyes crossing and uncrossing as it made out the sight of the woman. The tropism being established, the papoola trudged after her, to the delight of the boy and his father.
“Look, Dad, it’s following Mom! Hey Mom, turn around and see!”
The woman glanced back, saw the platter-like organism with its orange bug-shaped body, and she laughed. Everybody loves the papoola, Al thought to himself. See the funny Martian papoola. Speak, papoola; say hello to the nice lady who’s laughing at you.
The thoughts of the papoola, directed at the woman, reached Al. It was greeting her, telling her how nice it was to meet her, soothing and coaxing her until she came back up the sidewalk toward it, joining her boy and husband so that now all three
It informed her that White House talent scout Janet Raimer had been unable to sign the great but morbidly neurotic concert pianist Richard Kongrosian for tonight after all, because Kongrosian had suddenly left his summer home at Jenner and gone voluntarily into a sanitarium for electroshock therapy. And no one was supposed to know.
Goddam, Nicole said to herself, bitterly. Well, that puts an end to this evening; I might as well go to bed right after dinner. For Kongrosian was not only the foremost interpreter of Brahms and Chopin but was in addition an eccentric, flashing, colossal wit.
Emil Stark puffed on his cigar, regarding her with curiosity.
“Does the name ‘Richard Kongrosian’ mean anything to you?” she demanded, looking up.
“Certainly. For certain Romantic composers—”
“He’s sick again. Mentally. For the hundredth time. Or didn’t you know about that? Hadn’t you heard the rumors?” Furiously, she spun the abstract away from her; it slipped to the floor. “Sometimes I wish he would finally kill himself or die from a perforated colon or whatever it is he’s really got. This week.”
“Kongrosian is a major artist,” Stark nodded. “I can appreciate your concern. And in these chaotic times, with such elements as the Sons of Job parading in the streets, and all the vulgarity and mediocrity which seems ready to rise up and reassert itself—”
“Those creatures,” Nicole said quietly, “will not last long. So worry about something else.”
“You believe you understand the situation, then. And have it firmly under control.” Stark permitted himself a brief, cold grimace.
“Bertold Goltz is as
Be
as it’s possible to be.
Out, un
and
Be;
he’s all three. He’s a joke. A clown.”
“Like Goering, perhaps?”
Nicole said nothing. But her eyes flickered; Stark saw that, the sudden, temporary doubt. He grimaced again, this time involuntarily. A grimace of concern. Nicole shuddered.
FIVE
In the little building at the back of Jalopy Jungle Number Three, Al Miller sat with his feet up on the desk, smoking an Upmann cigar and watching passers-by, the sidewalk and people and stores of downtown Reno, Nevada. Beyond the gleam of the new jalopies parked with flapping banners and streamers cascading from them he saw a shape waiting, hiding beneath the huge sign that spelled out LOONY LUKE.
And he was not the only person to see the shape; along the sidewalk came a man and woman with a small boy trotting ahead of them, and the boy, with an exclamation, hopped up and down, gesturing excitedly. “Hey, Dad, look! You know what it is? Look,
it’s the papoola.
”
“By golly,” the man said with a grin, “so it is. Look, Marion, there’s one of those Martian creatures, hiding there under the sign. What do you say we go over and chat with it?” He started in that direction, along with the boy. The woman, however, continued along the sidewalk.
“Come on, Mom!” the boy urged.
In his office, Al Miller lightly touched the controls of the mechanism within his shirt. The papoola emerged from beneath the LOONY LUKE sign, and Al caused it to waddle on its six stubby legs toward the sidewalk, its round, silly hat slipping over one antenna, its eyes crossing and uncrossing as it made out the sight of the woman. The tropism being established, the papoola trudged after her, to the delight of the boy and his father.
“Look, Dad, it’s following Mom! Hey Mom, turn around and see!”
The woman glanced back, saw the platter-like organism with its orange bug-shaped body, and she laughed. Everybody loves the papoola, Al thought to himself. See the funny Martian papoola. Speak, papoola; say hello to the nice lady who’s laughing at you.
The thoughts of the papoola, directed at the woman, reached Al. It was greeting her, telling her how nice it was to meet her, soothing and coaxing her until she came back up the sidewalk toward it, joining her boy and husband so that now all three
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