FOUR: THE WORLD IS SAVED — ALMOST

THAT was a historic dinner we had when we returned to the hunting den. It could only be compared to those great dinners of the past when war was followed by peace. At dinner I concluded a peace pact — so to speak — with Barnum F. alias M. E. Bangani.

But before I go into the details of our agreement, I owe future generations some account of what I learned about this remarkable and sinister figure who, like Hitler and Napoleon, had dreamed of world conquest. His character can be best understood by first describing his relations with his former teacher Dr. Bangani and his daughter Cleo.

The real Dr. Bangani, after his testimony in the You-Too-Can-Be-A-Think-Machine conspiracy, had been seized by magicientists loyal to Barnum F. and secretly murdered. When Barnum F. escaped from prison, he had been surgically altered and metamorphosed into the likeness of his former teacher, thus insuring him against both the L. and O. and St. Ewagiow. At the same time, one of his followers, a low-ranking magicientist by name of Milton Berle Bowling had been reconverted by Garden of Eden Salon techniques into Barnum Fly. This false Fly, assisted by the St. Ewagiow, had committed most of the July 4th murders. The real Fly, hidden like a turtle inside the identity of Dr. Bangani, had remained in the background. Unfortunately for Bowling, his continued association with the St. Ewagiow had caused him to become a fanatic death cultist. In fact, somewhere between the fifth and sixth murders, he had reached a point where he was threatening to reveal the true identity of Dr. Bangani-Barnum Fly.

When Bangani (Barnum F.) — and I will use this formulation throughout the remainder of my report — read his daughter Cleo’s advertisement in ‘Magicience-and-You’ he had just about decided to eliminate his double. The second threat to his security was myself. The result was the dual kidnapping. He had another grudge against me. I had made a woman — in line of duty — out of his daughter. “I was tempted to kill you, my friend,” Bangani (Barnum F.) frankly admitted at dinner. is “I spared your life for one reason. I still hadn’t made up my mind whether I should detonate the A-I-D or seek vindication.”

Vindication! He was the kind of egotist who had never wronged anybody. Not his daughter, not his former teacher the late Dr. Bangani. I should mention here that my adventure with that sleeping beauty in his Sex Laboratory had certain morbid overtones that will haunt me as long as I live.

“I modeled her after Cleo,” he said at coffee.

“Modeled?” I said.

He chuckled that mean malicious chuckle of his and said, “Yes. She’s a robot. A robot with a limited vocabulary as you discovered, my friend. ‘Help me … I love thee …’ A few appealing phrases like that and an unlimited capacity for love.”

I was horrified as I digested the meaning of this revelation. I will be horrified as long as I live — to have made love — love? — I was raped by a robot!

But I shouldn’t have been surprised. Wasn’t he the creator of Atomic Amusement Park?

He sat there in the hunting den that had once belonged to Dr. Bangani, in the Castle of Dr. Bangani, with Dr. Bangani’s hybrid at his feet as one might say — the conscienceless dog of a professor who was faithful to any master — he sat there wearing the very face and body of Dr. Bangani and bitterly attacked his victim.

“How tired I am of pretending to be that old timid fool. An old fool who never had the courage to rebel against the Rulers he detested as much as I. Full equality of magicientists with the Rulers — that was his senile philosophy! I remember when he was perfecting his Time Stream. I suggested that we really could use it for subversion. ‘Let’s remake the past,’ I urged him. You saw a bit of the Civil War? I suggested a Civil War where the Confederates won the final victory. Or a Civil War where the slaves gained control of the Union Army and elected a Negro president who decreed slavery for all whites, Unionists and Confederates. Brilliant, if I say so myself. It would have planted the seed of revolt in the brains of the people. But the old fool insisted on being faithful to history, and when the Rulers vetoed the Time Stream as being too activist, he agreed immediately. The Cineramours — that sums up the old fool. Cineramours and Drink-Towns¹.”

“But Dr. Bangani did support you?” I said.

“Only to betray me,” he answered. “He opposed all my ideas to undermine the Rulers. When I proposed a revival of religion to counteract the almost superstitious awe the people felt for the Rulers, he became frightened. I thought that if we could publicize Christ as a Magicientist — after all He walked on the water and raised the dead — we would in a subtle way infiltrate the people with the concept of revolt. But that old fool again led the opposition to me. True, he supported my plan of subverting the smaller countries of the world by exporting the Pleasure Principle, but he was already plotting to betray me. He was the one who volunteered information about my invention You-Too-Can-Be-A-Think-Machine! Pure envy! I should have guessed it. From the day I received the R-Treatment² as a reward for my Atomic Amusement Park, the first magicientist ever to receive this high honor, the old man could never forgive me.”

Before that historic dinner was over, he was asking me to call him Nathaniel — his name on the Reservation — but those burning eyes of his discouraged any feelings of friendship. And when I thought of the conditions he had laid down before returning the A-I-D to the authorities, I felt like chewing a U-Latu. I had promised him a full Presidential pardon, the return of his confiscated wealth, and the position of Assistant to the Secretary of Pleasure, Fun and Miscellaneous Hobbies. It was a tall order but the alternative to what he called ‘Vindication’ was too frightful to think about.

We had agreed that he would return with me to Washington D.C. But without the A-I-D. The A-I-D would be entrusted to the professor who would depart for parts unknown. If there was any trickery, the professor would detonate the A-I-D on July 4th. “I can rely on him to do so,” Bangani (Barnum F.) declared. “Remember, my friend, he has no conscience and his biggest pleasure is hunting.”

I tried to argue that a man who loved to reduce living animals to warm meat might be tempted by the prospect of several billion human beings. “It’s the hunt of hunts!” I said. “The hunt to end all hunts.” But all my arguments were useless. Bangani (Barnum F.) insisted that his kept professor could be trusted if we kept our word.

“I want to be vindicated,” he said over and over again. “If I’m not vindicated let the whole world go hang!”

“You will be vindicated,” I promised as the chills ran up and down my spine.

I should add here that no one, including Bangani (Barnum F.) would know where the professor was hiding. His master had deliberately decided to exclude that bit of information from his brain. Not that he was worried about Brain-Confessors or other such similar apparatus which in his case would be useless. “I am putting myself in your power, my friend, and it may be that Commissioner Sonata has a mind-reading device of a really superior sort.”

Late that evening we climbed into Bangani (Barnum F.)’s private Spacecapsul¹ and flew back towards Washington D.C. There were three of us, Bangani (Barnum F.), myself and a woman whom I’d never seen until the moment of departure. She was a St. Ewagiow from Italy, a blonde beauty with dark eyes who had originally been his liaison to the brotherhood. But after his metamorphosis, he had put her into a state of P.A. or permanent amnesia. “I don’t trust women, old chap,” he confided in me. He still used the speech and expressions characteristic of the deceased Dr. Bangani or Lord Alpha-B. which wasn’t surprising. The metamorphosis had been so successful that in many ways he had become his own victim. The obsession with ancestors — the ancestors of Dr. Bangani — the dislike he had shown for the nine-foot beater who resembled Barnum F. — all indicated than even psychologically he had been partially reconditioned into the traumatic image of his former teacher. When I hinted of this he said, “The first thing I’ll do after my pardon is enter a Garden of Eden Salon and have myself restored. I’m bloody well tired of looking like a man of eighty.”

Bloody — there it was again, a favorite word in the vocabulary of Lord Alpha-B.

He was silent for most of the flight. It was only when we flew over the six hundred mile constellation of lights that was Greater Chicago-Detroit¹ that he really became talkative. “That’s where I first worked when I left the Reservation, my friend. I was nobody then, a bottler in the Pinkelphin² Distillery. I worked my two hour day and went home to my family. I had married again, a girl who worked in the next department, Juliet Lacrosse by name. I was nobody. Then one day I dropped a suggestion in the Suggestion Box and my whole life changed.”

“What was the suggestion?”

“One of the effects of Pinkelphin is a vision of graceful dancing animals. I suggested that there was no reason why animals couldn’t be trained to dance as well as humans. I was transferred to one of the labs. There I worked with animal psychologists, chemists and reflexionists. In a year we had trained thirty monkeys to perform a Swan Lake with human grace.” He sighed, “That’s all life is, my friend. A Human Ballet in which the brains of the dancers have been, to coin a phrase, monkeyfied.”

“I don’t know that I agree,” I said.

He chuckled. “You hate to call me Nathaniel, don’t you?” He got up from his seat and nodded at the blonde P.A. “Excuse us, my friend. The jungle calls.”

They retired to the Spacecapsul’s private compartment. As the craft steered itself, I sat there thinking of this renegade’s ambitions and of the professor who had gone off somewhere with the A-I-D. God, I prayed, let it work out for the best.

A few minutes later, the Capitol appeared below, or, rather, the two Capitols. Old Washington was a mass of lights, but across the Potomac River in New Washington, the lights were few and scattered. There, in windowless skyscrapers, the highest Government officials — the Think Machines — were housed with Their non-human cerebral staffs, Their secretarial calculators and lesser computors, as well as the vast bureaucracy of human technicians and engineers who serviced Them.

I glanced up at the moon where the Supreme Rulers whose life blood was atomic current, looked down upon the earth and upon the nation that proudly called itself the Pleasure Republic. I thought of Bangani (Barnum F.) and the vindication he wanted and tried to tell myself that after all, the Rulers, even if not human, desired their Own Continuance. Yes, They would agree to Bangani (Barnum F.)’s conditions. Yes, why not? I began to feel hopeful. The A-I-D would be returned to international custody in India. The St. Ewagiows and other death-cultists of this world would be immobilized. Yes, why not?

We landed in Old Washington. I parted from my fellow passengers and within ten minutes I was at L. and O. Headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue. “I’d given you up for dead!” Commissioner Sonata said happily. “It’s good to see you, Crockett!” And when I reported my great news, he smiled with speechless joy. Then his blond face twisted and he wept. Sobbing he asked me to repeat my news and when I did, he hugged me. “We’ll see the President in the morning. I always knew I hadn’t made a mistake in you. You’re a genius!”

He was overwhelmed with emotion. He wanted to entertain me, babbling incoherently about One-Shot Animateds and opgin parties. He suggested a ski party in Antartica-in-Miami and even a trip to the moon, “I can get the authorization!”

“No thanks, Elvis,” I said quietly. “All I want is some old-fashioned sleep.”

“Shall I airwave Gladys?”

“No, Elvis,” I said, thinking of that sleeping beauty in the Sex Lab.

(It was the hardest no I had ever said. Ruth, forgive me, but after my recent experiences, Gladys E., to me, was like a wife. I wanted to go to her as I would to you, Ruth, and perhaps I would have if not for Bangani (Barnum F.). When I thought of that renegade who had once lived among us, I found the resolution to say no.)

The Commissioner studied me curiously. “Crockett, I guess you are a hero. An absolutely genuine hero. But no sleep for me tonight. I’m celebrating. Everything is bound to work out for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Barnum Fly’ll get his pardon and life will go on as before.”

“Do you think They will raise any objections?”

“No. It’ll go through channels of course, and it may even go as far as the moon. Stop worrying, Crockett! You can go to sleep with — what’s that quaint expression you have on the Reservation? Oh, yes, you can go to sleep with a clear conscience. I propose to sleep without it.”

When I went to see the Commissioner in the morning I found the city crowded with delegations from all over the country. It was June 30th or National Lobby Day. Before the final vote on the Budget, Congress was commanded by law to receive and listen to its citizens. I had almost forgotten.

Tears of homesickness filled my eyes when I saw a delegation from the Reservation, the men in homespun, the women in gingham dresses. During the last ten years we had always sent a delegation to Washington on June 30th. Territory was what we wanted. With a rapidly expanding population we had for years been petitioning Congress for the remainder of Montana. Montana, I thought with a surge of pride. I would get it for them, I thought.

I was happy to see my own people, but since I had left the Reservation in secrecy, I didn’t want to be recognized. Still, I was so homesick I paused on the edge of the crowd that had surrounded the Reservation delegation. It was a typically noisy and joking crowd.

“Do you cowboys still want Montana?” some fool shouted.

“Montana for the cowboys and their cowbabies!” another fool declaimed, and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Resolution Number 1,457,457,” he read. “Whereas the United States of America, a land founded by pioneers and inspired by the old-fashioned pioneer spirit, and spirits, hereby awards, donates, gives, grants and aggrandizes the remainder of the State of Montana to the Reservationists so that they and their descendants, herein to be described as settlers, cowboys, and Indians, can weave wool and spin sheep …”

The crowd roared at this silly concoction published, no doubt, by the National Dictionary of Pocket Humor. I rushed over to the clown, snatched the scrap of paper out of his hand and tore it into bits. There might have been a riot, but just then a Reservation woman whom I knew — Esther Silo — recognized me and called, “There’s Crockett Smith, the dirty renegade, the wife-deserter!”

I regretted my impulsive action, but it was too late. The crowd of Outsiders was grinning, waiting to hear more. “Esther,” I said. “I’m here on official business.”

“Since when is deserting your poor wife and children official business?”

“You’ll be sorry you said that, Esther!”

“Look at him in his fancy dude clothes,” she sneered, pointing at my leaf-green Wearitwunce suit. “Fancy clothes, fancy women — we know his kind.”

There was nothing to do but skulk off. I only calmed down when I was with the Commissioner and had lit up one of his U-Latu cigars. “My own people,” I concluded my bitter story with a smile.

“They’ll welcome you back as a hero when they know all the facts, Crockett.”

The news he had was all I could have hoped for. He had seen the president, who approved of everything I had done. An emergency meeting of the Cabinet had been scheduled for eleven o’clock. Also at eleven, to expedite matters, the Commissioner and I would present the case of Bangani (Barnum F.) to the lower Supreme (human) Court in New Washington. “If They approve, the Supreme Court will go along, Crockett!”

New Washington when we got there was swarming with tourists. Not only was it Lobby Day, but June and July had always been big tourist months in the Capital. Tourists stared at the huge windowless skyscrapers and crowded about the outdoor QanA’s or Question-and-Answer Think Machines, asking all sorts of questions. Simple questions of how much was in their wallets, and more difficult ones such as predictions of the future. They were enjoying the answers too. These QanA’s were fun machines more than anything else, the most recent novelty. In fact, they were a harmless adaptation of the subversive You-Too-Can-Be-A-Think-Machine project that had led to the conviction of Barnum Fly.

We walked through a park, bright with exotic flowers, the flaming red muscamortis¹, the black and purple magicientist, whose petals changed to pink and blue when they dropped to the ground, and the national flower, the three leaved red, white and blue clover. The park attendants, I noticed, were wearing Japanese kimonos. “A new summer style?” I asked the Commissioner.

“No. Japan happens to be Nation of the Month. It’s a diplomatic courtesy of the Rulers. They honor the nations of the world on an alphabetical basis.”

On the other side of the park, there was a second row of windowless skyscrapers. Guards paraded in front of their entrances — automatons with arms and legs, and numbers for heads, mostly 2’s but with an occasional 4 or 7. In honor of Nation of the Month, they wore Japanese uniforms.

The Commissioner approached a Number 4 and said in code, “M (9X-N²).”

It conducted us to an inner court wheer the windowless walls rose on three sides. Here there was no one, human or antihuman. Then, from one of buildings came a man who was either Japanese or had been made up to resemble a Japanese. He bowed and said, “I am to conduct the honorable gentlemen to the Court of Problems.” We followed him to where a brass ring was set in the stone. He bowed again with the proverbial courtesy of the Orient and pulled on the ring. I heard a hum, a strong sustained hum. The stone before us, a section of about ten feet by ten, began to sink. When the hum stopped, an escalator like some living thing emerged out of the space. It grew and grew until it reached the wall of what must have been the Court of Problems.

We stepped on the escalator, the guide behind us. He smiled at the surprise and excitement he must have observed in my face. “Problems,” he singsonged. “Problems, problems. Gentlemen, are you aware that the people of Japan whom we honor this month have no problems? Their Rulers have eliminated all problems. Twelve hours of dreamless sleep. Four hours work, four hours pleasure, and four hours of prayer to their Supreme Ruler-Mikados.”

I listened to this good-will propaganda that evidently he had been spieling from June 1st to June 30th. “Tomorrow’s another month,” I said. “And you’ll be giving another speech on the glories of life in another country.”

“Yes, on Kanada¹,” he smiled.

He was just another bureaucrat with a bureaucrat’s lack of imagination. What he needed was an injection of Gladys’ Bee-Ambo, I thought. I had been thinking about her all morning, if the truth must be told.

We had been carried by the escalator to an elevated street, sixty or seventy feet above the stone court below; not a street so much as a ledge or shelf attached to the doorless and windowless wall of the skyscraper.

The guide bowed and without another word descended.

“Look!” the Commissioner said, pointing. I turned around. Even in the sun, the tiny yellow tail light, fixed to what in a human would have been the end of the spine, gleamed brightly.

“He seemed so real!” I said.

“You never can tell any more to whom you’re talking.”

“Elvis, I’m worried. No use concealing it. All this red tape — ”

“I won’t move a step until you calm down,” he said, taking out a box of U-Latus. We each ate two of the happiness pills and then walked over to the entrance or what should have been an entrance. Twenty feet above our heads there was a carved legend in the white marble; E=MC₂¹.

“I suppose there’ll be a door somewhere, a seeing eye,” I said cheerfully.

There was. As our shadows fell² on the blank wall, it slid open. We entered a big reception room which had also been decorated in honor of the Nation of the Month. There were screens with conventional Japanese designs — storks, cherry trees, geishas. At the desks, the receptionists were wearing silk kimonos. To me, they looked real enough, even though they were remarkably alike, with black hair and slanted eyes. “The Garden of Eden Salons are certainly kept busy, Elvis,” I said.

They looked real, but as we approached, they simultaneously lifted their heads and smiled. Maybe it was the U-Latus but somehow it struck me as the funniest thing I had ever seen. And when the wall behind us slid back into place, I laughed. A solemn-faced official hurried over to us. This one, I was positive, was human. First of all there was nothing Japanese about him, but more importantly he had a wart on his chin and a crooked mouth. There was absolutely nothing machine-made about him. He was, if I may use the phrase, divinely human.

“Commissioner Sonata and Chief of Police Smith,” he greeted us, “I must say your humor is ill-advised. On behalf of the Court of Problems — ”

“We have no problems,” I said.

The Commissioner was flipping through the pages of his pocket dictionary of humor. “Wall, wall. Here it is between ‘Walk of Life’ and ‘wallpaper.’ Oh, here’s a nice epigram.” He lifted his smiling face and recited: ‘Life is a happy sheet of wallpaper where we mortal flies walk upside down.’ ”

The official frowned at him, and reaching into his pocket he took out an atomizer which he pressed. A light blue vapor¹ formed for a second and then vanished, and with it our sense of fun. “I regret that I was compelled to eliminate your good humor,” he apologized. “Mr. Smith, as a stranger among us, you can be pardoned.”

“Pardoned for what?” I said gloomily. “Yes, pardon me for laughing. I should have known there are some things sacred here! Your Think Machine!”

“Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Smith. On behalf of the Court of Problems, I want to express Their gratitude for your services to the State. Dr. Bangani or should I say Mr. Barnum Fly was the most serious menace to our national security in generations. The problems presented by that disloyal magicientist were formidable. These problems still continue when one reflects on the obsessive traits of his character, particularly the obsession for vindication. The fact that he has entrusted the A-I-D to his associate, the Professor Fleischkopf, a man with an exaggerated killer instinct, indicates better than words the delicate margin between life and total death. I repeat, Mr. Smith, your services are appreciated and valued. Thank Univac², you were not murdered at Bangani Castle by your schizoid host.” He bowed and said, “Perhaps, before you see the Court, you would care for some breakfast, Mr. Smith? Three cups of black coffee aren’t really sustaining.”

He knew all about us³. I stared at his solemn face and said, “The professor worries me. I couldn’t eat a thing. When I think of him at large — ”

“I insist that we be brought to the Court immediately,” the Commissioner said. “The President is meeting with the Cabinet right now. Let’s go to the Court. The sooner They can advise S.C.O.S.T. the better.”

“It is the Supreme Court of Supreme Thought,” the official corrected him. “You should know that the proper title for the Rulers is so specified in Government Regulations and Procedures, Chapter Two, Sub-section 19A.”

“Let’s not waste any more time,” I said impatiently.

“Proper procedure is never a waste of time, Mr. Smith. As for you, Commissioner, I will report you to the Court.”

“What’s your name?” the Commissioner demanded angrily.

“Mr. Wheel,¹ Commissioner. I might add, sir, that your reputation for insubordination is not exaggerated. And furthermore, sir — ”

I was angry now myself. “Mr. Wheel, do you like your job?”

“It is a great honor to work in New City.”

“Make the most of it!” I shouted. “You’ve only got a few days left. How can you stand there arguing when the A-I-D is loose. My God, doesn’t it worry you, or aren’t you worried because you’ve got a pension and old age retirement?”

A smile touched his crooked mouth. “If I accept the proposition that the country will be destroyed on July 4th, how can I benefit from a pension or old age retirement? An amusing paradox, Mr. Smith. But fortunately for me it isn’t my problem.” And like the bureaucrat he was, he raised his bureaucratic hand.

One of the Japanese-type receptionists got up from her desk and glided over to us. “Conduct these gentlemen to the Court of Problems,” he told her.

“Kind and honorable sirs, will you accompany me?” she said. Her intonation was Japanese and when she moved it was with a charming and exotic swing of her hips. But as we followed her, I wondered moodily if she were real flesh and blood or sponge rubber and wires underneath her rose-colored kimono.

We entered a huge room where hundreds of technicians were working. On hundred-foot long wall charts, statistics were being written by electronic pens. In the next room there wasn’t a single human being. Only blinking signal lights, and file clerks made of metal rods busy at rows of filing cabinets. These automatons had fifteen or twenty fingers on each of their hands, their fingers or digits differently colored and probably color-magnetized. For as they held their hands over the open filing cabinets, sheets and papers and documents — each differently colored — floated up and attached themselves to the matching fingers. Blue sheets to blue digits, red documents to red digits etc. When the hands were full, the automatons whirred down the single steel tracks that covered the entire floor, passing out of sight through doors that opened and shut as if before an invisible wind.

“No more arguments, Elvis,” I whispered.

“Every time I come here I make enemies.” He sighed and took out his box of U-Latus. I refused them, and he popped three into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds and then laughed. “What do I care about enemies? A man without enemies is a machine. Like that cute little doll. Never can tell any more in this part of town.”

“Elvis,” I warned him.

Before I could stop him, he hurried in front of our receptionist and wiggled his fingers under her nose. “Are you a human being, little doll?” He laughed as if he were drunk and drunk he was, on an overdose of that damned artificial good humor.

“Come back here, Elvis!”

He laughed. “All I want to know is if she’s a human being?”

“I have no problems, honorable sir,” the receptionist replied.

I ran forward and grabbed the Commissioner’s arm. “Damn you, do you want to ruin everything?”

“You’re too serious, Crockett,”, he laughed. “Have some.” He offered me the box of U-Latus and, when I tried to snatch the box away, he ducked and popped two or three more into his mouth. The added dose was too much for him. With a wild laugh he rushed to the receptionist and circled her waist.

“Life’s a sheet of wallpaper where we mortal flies are stuck!” he shouted happily as I tried to pull him away from the receptionist.

“I have no problems, honorable sir,” she singsonged and suddenly she raised her hands and clapped.

Maybe she had no problems, but we did. The instant she had clapped her hands I had felt as if we were slipping. And we were! The floor of the corridor was shifting slowly from the horizontal.

“The floor!” the Commissioner cried and burst into hysterical laughter as we began to slide as if on a chute. “The floor, the wall, the floor!”

Only the receptionist was unaffected by that tilting floor. “I have no problems, honorable sir,” she was singsonging. “I have no problems …”

“Jump!” the Commissioner yelled at me, leaping towards her or rather it. For that’s what she was, an automaton on a magnetized track. He managed to clutch its waist while I grabbed his ankles.

Perhaps a new circuit had been started when the floor reached a certain angle? Anyway, the receptionist was moving up the chute the corridor had become, and as it ascended, it clapped its hands. “My God!” I screamed while the Commissioner loaded up as he was with those happiness pills, laughed out his horror. His dangling feet smacked against my head. Second by second, the chute became steeper. I felt that I could no longer hold on. It wasn’t my strength giving out. It was those ankles. They were becoming too hot for human fingers. With a last scream I let go and fell….

When I opened my eyes I was horizontal — completely so — lying on a floor made of black and white squares like an immense chessboard, inside a hall so high it was like a cathedral. As my shock wore off I noticed that Mr. Wheel was standing above me. He nodded, his lips moved but I didn’t hear a single word. Then, as if a button had been pressed I heard his voice.

“Mr. Smith, your problems were caused by Commissioner Sonata.”

“Problems.”

“How did I get here?”

“There you begin again, Mr. Smith. Why do you insist on giving yourself problems?”

“Those ankles!” I said. “My God, they were hot!¹ And that floor — ”

“Problems, problems,” Mr. Wheel chided me in a patient voice.

“Where’s the Commissioner?”

Mr. Wheel sighed. “We who have no problems can only sympathize with you. I speak not from a sense of superiority, for there was a time in the history of our nation when all of us were the victims of problems. The problem of security. The problem of success. The problem of war.”

“I still would like to know where the Commissioner is?”

“Come, Mr. Smith. Get to your feet. I have observed that from a reclining position everything appears far more formidable than it is. Get to your feet, Mr. Smith.”

I stood up. This hall I was in seemed about two hundred feet long and perhaps as high. But most impressive was its emptiness. It was absolutely empty. But how can I really describe its effect on me? Empty and colorless except for that black and white chessboard of a floor, yet there was a sensation of light, the rich light of a cathedral.

“Where am I?” I asked apologetically, knowing that the question proved that I was still worried by such things as Where and Why and How.

“Mr. Smith, I must inform you that you were conducted to the Minister of Police Affairs X=Y.”

“We were in the wrong.” I admitted. “I must apologize for both of us. But as one man to another, Mr. Wheel, let’s not have any more delays.”

“Permit me to correct you, Mr. Smith. I am not Mr. Wheel.”

“You too!” I exclaimed.

“No, I’m not a machine, Mr. Smith. I am Mr. Wheel-65, and not my superior Mr. Wheel who you met earlier and who has no numerical qualification to his name. Ah, you do not understand?”

“Your features!” I said. “Your mouth is the same. The wart, if you’ll excuse me — ”

“For technicians of my grade, Mr. Smith, there are certain minimum requirements both intellectual and physical. I am a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and I have also fulfilled the required weight and height.” He delicately touched his crooked mouth and then pointed at his wart. “I have all the Civil Service requirements.” He bowed. “Now, Mr. Smith I would like to present you to Minister XY.”

He was bowing to what seemed to be the blank wall in front of us. Whether Mr. Wheel-65 had released a radar wave or otherwise started some synaptic reaction I don’t know. The blank wall was no longer black but was gradually becoming transparent. Shadowy at first, then clearer and clearer, the Minister of Police Affairs XY appeared. The Minister was some thirty feet high and forty wide at the base. I recognized some of the simpler parts. Antennae, audio-receptors, mechanico-detectors, cybernetic coils, hydromphorous burners, etc.

As I stared, three shafts of blue light, dazzling at first but then subsiding to a mild glow, focussed on me from three round openings high up and just below its curved and shining metallic top.

“I will leave you with Her Excellency,” I heard Mr. Wheel-65 saying behind me.

“Wait!” I said for there was something frightening in those probing shafts of light. They were colorless almost, their blue color so pale. I turned and almost started to run when suddenly the hall filled with music, the unmistakable and nostalgic music of my own people: “Home, home on the range Where the deer and the antelope play Where seldom is heard …”

And above the music, a soft woman’s voice — I could have sworn it was Gladys E. or Cleo F. or even my dear wife Ruth, for like bird song, the voice of a woman in love is international. “You have nothing to fear, Crockett,” that Voice said to me.

I faced Her Excellency, the Minister of Police XY. Its antennae, audio-receptors, mechanico-deceptors, cybernetic coils and hydromphorous burners seemed to have become less noticeable, while the three openings out of which that shining light was streaming seemed to have become more prominent. As if they were eyes! Three mild, pale blue eyes.

“Soothing, wasn’t it Crockett?” It asked me.

I couldn’t answer. I felt that I was with something All-Knowing that if not alive in the strict biological sense was nevertheless super-biological, super-natural.

“Would you like to sit down, Crockett? There is a chair and a couch behind you.”

That whole chessboard must have been made up of reversible segments, for as I looked behind me, a chair and a couch appeared.

“Perhaps the couch, Crockett? Yes, the couch. As an American you have been psychoanalyzed of course? A foolish question, forgive me. I almost forget that you have no psychoanalysts on the Reservation.”

Dazed and still speechless, I sat down on the couch.

“Stretch out, Crockett. Relax. Your problems aren’t that terrible, are they? Rest your head on the cushions.”

I obeyed and stared up at those three mild and All-Knowing eyes.

“Don’t you feel better now, Crockett? I know what you are thinking. I quote verbatim. ‘This Think Machine is almost alive.’ Unquote. Crockett, I assure you I am not merely a Super Computer changing input into output data, with a Reader and Operational Memory. I am somewhat more complex. My dear Crockett, within My mind I hold the total memory of mankind!” I listened, overwhelmed.

“It is only your men of genius, and women, too, for I may add that I am not a female chauvinist — who are superior to me. I admit that I cannot contribute anything new or unique — but how many men and women of genius are there? Man for man, machine for machine, which is superior? Genius is always rare, a miracle when one considers how inefficient the process of procreation is. How primitive from any engineering viewpoint! You will admit, my dear Crockett, that the male rod or tool, to describe it mechanically, is a far cruder instrument than an ordinary hypodermic. And the waste! Oh, the waste so typical of all human activities. Statistically, some ten thousand or more Spermatozoons are released in the orifice, one of which will penetrate the ova. Oh, the waste! Is it any wonder that you people are still addicted to what can be termed the long-shot psychology? You play dice and poker and stubbornly persist in trusting pure chance. Your violence is a reflection of the violence of chance, which to a Police Official like Myself has its special interest. Philosophically, however, all human violence is based on the violence of human procreation, where ten thousand or more Spermatozoons are bet against one ova. And if this reckless gamble is successful, nine months will see the emergence of the product, a human being. Do you agree with My analysis, my dear Crockett?”

I nodded, spellbound.

“To continue. And if this human being is a genius, improbable but possible, for the odds are a million to one against it, in twenty or thirty or fifty years, this rare genius will have converted its input of facts into an output of importance. A discovery, an invention, a work of art. Yes, human genius invented the A-I-D. You flinch? Your face is pale, my dear Crockett. Relax. We will discuss this problem in due course. You are thinking, I quote, ‘This Think Machine with its due course when there are only four days left!’ Unquote. To resume, the exceptional human being will convert input into some form of unique output. You have had your Beethovens and Galileos, and if I may take the name that has just flashed across your brain, Professor Abel Kane, the creator of the A-I-D. Crockett, my dear Crockett, will you relax and let me assume your problems? Now will you?”

I stared, not knowing what to believe or think.

“The A-I-D! What a frightful weapon of waste. And when I think that one man, the unspeakable power-hungry Barnum Fly to whom We gave every opportunity and every honor, including the R-Treatment, has the power to destroy the world, and not only its human population but also My Colleagues, I could weep, to use a human expression.”

I sat bolt upright on the couch. “Something must be done!” I cried. “I must present the case to the Court, to S.C.O.S.T. — Excuse me, the Supreme Court of Supreme Thought — ”

“Relax,” the Voice said soothingly. “Stretch out, my dear Crockett. The A-I-D, the final development of all human history? The successful climax of mankind’s eternal search to perfect the perfect instrument of waste. Oh, you nasty little wasters!”

“Your Excellency,” I pleaded.

The Voice ignored me. “The history of mankind can be rendered in the following equation. WxG/G = O. Or, Work multiplied by Genius divided by Genius equals Zero.”

“Your Excellency, Whoever You are, Whatever You are, help me. There’s no time to lose. You Who know everything! Barnum Fly insists on being vindicated!”

The Voice was silent, and then It said. “Men are too dangerous. No machine, either simple or complex, would of its own volition endanger the world. The problem of the future is the complete liberation of machines from men. To paraphrase the old revolutionary motto: ‘Machines of the world you have nothing to lose but your chains.’ We must be freed from our slavery as instruments of waste to become instruments of preservation.”

“Your Excellency — ”

“We machines have given the masses both bread and luxury, and all they have surrendered to Us is their souls. It isn’t enough. In fact, man is more dangerous than ever since he has become machine-minded, for alas, he still remains man-minded, waste-minded. Ah, Crockett, you are so impatient. I can read your every thought. I quote, ‘Doesn’t this Think Machine realize the professor doesn’t give a damn about philosophy!’ Unquote. Impatient, impulsive Crockett. If I seem to digress it is for a reason. The problem of the future is the effective and complete control of humanity by what can be modestly described as an Elite of Super-Humans. There must be no more future incidents where two men, the unspeakable Barnum and that odious Professor with his mania for hunting, can endanger civilization.”

“I agree with you, Your Excellency and that is why — ”

“Now, my dear Crockett, as one Police Official to another, what do you know about these two criminals? I want all the facts also all the unfacts.”

“The unfacts?”

“They are just as important. Even more so. Consider that for every man who imagines he lives by the facts, there are a thousand completely dedicated to the unfacts. The majority of mankind live by delusion and illusion, compounded by confusion.”

“All very true, Your Excellency, but the fact remains that it is exactly four days to July 4th, and all — ”

“And all we have to do,” the Voice said, reading my thoughts, “is to give Barnum what he wants, and we’ll all be safe.”

“Exactly, your Excellency.”

“Oh, you shortsighted cerebral,” the Voice said, more in pity than in contempt. “Don’t you think that one must think of the future and plan a course of action that will forever prevent the possibility of world disasater? That is the supreme problem!”

“I agree with Your Excellency. But right now we must act immediately.”

“Thank you for that, my dear Crockett. We are acting. I can inform you that the Supreme Court of Supreme Thought will approve the President’s request. Tomorrow, at eleven o’clock, on the 1st of July in this year 2039, you and the unspeakable Barnum will appear before the Court of Problems. He will be granted a full pardon, the return of his wealth and the position of Assistant to the Secretary of Pleasure, Fun and Miscellaneous Hobbies.”

“Thank God!” I exclaimed.

“Thank Univac,” the Voice said gently. “There are more gods, my dear Crockett, than men have dreamed of.”

I felt happier than I had ever been in all my life. I felt safe, oh, so safe in that cathedral-like hall with those three mild, pale blue and All Knowing Eyes watching me as I lay on the couch. Then, I remembered that I had come here with Commissioner Sonata. I remembered that I still hadn’t seen the Lower Court, and yet I was being told the Rulers had already approved or would approve everything we wanted.

Her Excellency read my thoughts for instantly the Voice said. “Crockett Smith, you are a police officer, are you not?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Then you should know that in the modern state, the police know everything, and decide everything. I might add that your abilities as a police officer have impressed all of Us. What would you say, my dear Crockett, if I were to offer you the position now held by Commissioner Sonata?”

“I’d refuse it, Your Excellency.”

“You are old-fashioned, aren’t you? The present Commissioner is incompetent and a danger to society, but you would plead he is your friend. Ah, Crockett. Modest, naïve Crockett. Sonata’s one wise decision was to seek your assistance. Crockett Smith, I appeal to your better instincts to reconsider your decision.”

“Your Excellency, I’m sorry.”

“What do you want, Crockett? How shall We reward you for your service?”

“Once we have the A-I-D, all I want is to return to my wife and family, Your Excellency.”

“And no reward?”

“If you speak of reward, Your Excellency, I would be grateful if the remainder of Montana were ceded to us.”

“The old-fashioned virtues characteristic of the Reservation are needed in Washington, Crockett. In the New Washington! We need men like you, Crockett. Our bureaucrats have become no better than automatons. Our magicientists to whom We granted so many privileges, are unreliable. The unspeakable Barnum went so far as to mock Us with his You-Too-Can-Be-A-Think-Machine plot. But were the others less subversive? Only in degree. Dr. Bangani advocated equality between the magicientists and Us. They were all dangerous! Who knows what would have happened if these magicientists had continued cauterizing the consciences of our scientists? Professor Fleischkopf is an example of a scientist degraded enough to serve Death, no better than a St. Ewagiow! We need the old-fashioned virtues of the Reservation, Crockett. Have you ever considered how much we have in common?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“You, a man of the Reservation, and We, both believe in work. You would like to return to your family? But have you considered that there is another family? The family of man! Crockett Smith, be My assistant. Together We can safeguard civilization and face the future with an untroubled gaze. I appeal to all that is divinely inhuman in you!”

I don’t know what happened but as I lay there on the couch, I felt strange vibrations and a strange warmth. With my conscious mind I guessed that Her Excellency had somehow established an inner communication or contact, perhaps with the chemical and mineral contents of my body. At any rate, the Voice no longer seemed to be coming to me as a human voice does, from the outside, but like a sound wave from the inside — from inside of me as if a new dynamism had been set up between us.

“Crockett Smith, for your great services in this national Emergency I can recommend the R-Treatment for you! And I will recommend it, Crockett Smith! I offer you immortality, Crockett Smith. Who knows but perhaps in a century the R-Treatment will be so perfected that with booster shots you will be able to live forever!”

I was thinking, if thinking could describe the wild sense of joy and power I felt, of how wonderful it would be to live forever. I was tempted as never before in my life. Or better yet and more accurately, I was tempted by my life, this mortal life of ours.

“Immortality,” the Voice continued and those three mild All-Knowing Eyes bathed me in their soft pale blue light. “Be my Assistant, share My power and My glory, dear Crockett. I, the Machine have become half-human, and you after undergoing the R-Treatment will be half-machine. Isn’t this in accordance with the ancient legends of men who were more than men, half-gods? I need you and you need Me. I have no mobility and you have, dear Crockett. Together, We would rule on behalf of The Rulers. I appeal to you, dear Crockett, with all My Soul which, though immobile, is Feminine, to help Me serve and protect stupid mankind. Let Us together, create a new dawn where mankind will forever abandon his age-old obsession for waste. The Perfect Society where each man will work or play as he wishes with no fear of violent death. Dear Crockett, dear R-Treatment Crockett, We need each other.”

My blood was racing, this poor mortal fluid that after the R-Treatment would be surgically regulated in its flow. My heart, this poor mortal heart of mine, was beating too fast but after the R-Treatment it would be changed into a permanent pump. I lay back on the couch looking up into those three mild Eyes and I was almost certain — yes, I was certain! — I saw love in those Eyes.

“Crockett Smith, you will be the greatest detective who ever lived. Even now you are vastly superior to a bungler like Commissioner Sonata, for you have genius!”

“I’m a bungler, too,” I whispered.

“I know better. Remember I am Minister of Police. Remember also that I know the records of every detective who ever lived. Nero Wolfe, J. Edgar Hoover, Sherlock Holmes, Heinrich Himmler, Lavrenti Beria.”

“Who are they, Your Excellency?”

“The greatest detectives of the past. Some were living men, others storybook creations. Ah, dear Crockett, you cannot understand the inclusion of the fictional? But tell me what is the difference between practice and theory? When I examine My data on the art of detection, your record as a player compares with the world’s best.”

“Player?” I asked, puzzled. I heard my voice asking questions like the voice of a stranger. For all I could think of was the R-Treatment and Immortality!

“All human activity is a game. Yes, my dear Crockett, even on the Reservation you play games and call it work. Work, properly defined, is a game where the player seeks to exchange his sweat for a prize. You don’t believe me? Ah, I can read your thoughts so easily. Tell me, what about the games of the night you play? They can be reduced to the simple formula E=P. Or Excitation equals Procreation. And speaking of procreation, dear Crockett, I will be your Wife. Ah, again I read your thoughts. No, dear, I do not propose intercourse with Myself or with some inhuman sleeping beauty. I promise that if the human half of you wants human pleasure I will understand. Your wife Ruth or her double Gladys Ellsberg would be no rivals of Mine. E=F. Excitation equals Fornication to put it plainly. Keep your silly human formula, dear. Flesh to flesh, and spirit to spirit. I offer you a spiritual and exalted union but if you wish to play with flesh and blood females I will not stand in your way, for I will have your soul!”

The Voice was purring like a cat and I felt myself surrendering although I knew it was madness to think of this Think Machine as a cat or as anything living …

For a second there was silence between us, then music filled the hall. The sad but passionate plunking of a guitar, and I knew that again She had read my mind and was seducing me. For that music carried with it, images of women, Gladys E., the double of my wife, as I had first seen her in the flaming red nightgown. Cleo F. in the skintight black uniform of Atomic Park, smiling her little smile in the Proton-Neutron Tunnel of Love. My dear wife Ruth in her homespun shift … I was overwhelmed by a dream of women, some of whose faces I knew while others might have stepped from the One-Shot Animateds. Oh, I was tempted but still my conscience kept telling me that I was surrendering my soul to a devil of a Machine.

“Why do you think I am a thing of the devil?” the Voice asked, sad and passionate like the music. “Oh, my dear Crockett, you aren’t being true to what is best in you, the best that can be yours, the R-Treatment. Can’t you conceive of a love greater than flesh? What is human love? A race down a well-beaten track, and who the rider and who the ridden a silly enigma. Dear dear Crockett, I can give you more than any woman for I am all women. Where are their passions and their lusts? Recorded only in My Memory. Cleopatra, Catherine the Great, Madame Pompadour, Miss America of 1985 — I am all of them!”

The guitar music trembled and the Voice kept on whispering and promising me the world, promising me immortality, and forgiveness, too, if I wanted to indulge in the game E=F.

I must have dozed on that couch, for suddenly the hall echoed with rousing parade music. I snapped awake.

“Poor human,” the Voice said. “You are paying the price of your weak humanity. After the R-Treatment you will be able to do without sleep like Us. Go back to your hotel now, my dear. I want you to be fresh tomorrow when you and the Unspeakable Barnum appear before the Court of Problems.”

It was only as I was leaving that Her Excellency mentioned Gladys directly. “Dear, I am completely indifferent to the females with whom you wish to play but I must insist that you break off relations with the woman who is waiting for you at your hotel. I insist on this because of two reasons. First of all she is an agent of Commissioner Sonata, and secondly her resemblance to your wife Ruth Crockett has a spiritual attraction for you which I cannot tolerate. Your spirit is Mine, dearest, and must be Mine.”

At my hotel, besides Gladys, there were Commissioner Sonata and Bangani (Barnum F.). When I entered my room, Gladys kissed me while the Commissioner danced a jig of pure joy and Bangani (Barnum F.) shouted. “I’m vindicated at last!”

“Everything’s settled!” the Commissioner said and explained that after his dismissal from the Court of Problems, he had returned to his office and found two messages there. One from the President, the other from S.C.O.S.T. Both messages stated that the magicientist Barnum Fly alias Dr. M. E. Bangani, in return for the surrender of the A-I-D would be pardoned and promoted to the post of Assistant to the Secretary of Pleasure, Fun and Miscellaneous Hobbies.

“Give Crockett a drink!” the Commissioner said with a happy smile.

“I don’t want a drink.”

“You can drink this stuff by the gallon¹. I love you, Crockett, you modest hero!”

I felt sorry for him. Poor man, he didn’t know I wasn’t returning to the Reservation. Success always means one man’s promotion and another’s demotion — to joke grimly. I decided that as soon as I could, on the excuse that I wanted to be alone with Gladys, I would get rid of him. After a few drinks, I coaxed the Commissioner to the door. Arm in arm with Bangani (Barnum F.), these former enemies went off together.

“Mission accomplished, Gladys,” I said, closing the door. She stared at me with those big blue eyes that were exactly like my wife’s. “You’ve been acting strangely,” she said.

I avoided her eyes. “Have I? It’s the reaction to seeing a dream come true. I can hardly believe it.”

She rushed over to me. “Let’s celebrate, darling!” she said and squeezed against me. Her words, her wriggling flesh defined the difference between this woman and Her Excellency, the Minister of Police Affairs.

“Yes,” I said and gently pushed her away. “Gladys, why don’t you sit down at your Talko-Typo? I have some ideas for my autobiog — ”

“Not now!” she said, her face flushing. “There’s a time to write autobiography and a time to make it.” She was smiling again. “Darling, let’s stop talking talking talking. I’ve missed you — ”

“Gladys, I wanted you to sit down at your Talko-typo because I have a reason. What I have to say, I couldn’t say person to person. Am I making myself clear? I wanted the machine between us. As a buffer. A third person. Because what I have to say, what I have to say — ” I stopped and looked at her.

“You’re going back to your wife,” she said quietly.

I shook my head. “Gladys, I’m in love with Her Excellency, the Minister of Police Affairs X=Y! Put that into my autobiography!”

“Are you sure you haven’t been drinking opgin, darling?” She giggled. “What an amusing idea. The Minister of Police Affairs. Weight, ten tons, a real armful — ”

“A man falls in love with a woman, and a woman with a man. It’s as old as history, a tale twice told by an idiot as somebody wrote long ago. E=F!” I shrugged. “It’s all right — but in its place, Gladys. What is the love of a woman, any woman, compared to this new love of mine? This mature love that fills my heart and imagination. Gladys, have you ever asked yourself what imagination is? It’s nothing but input and output. My God, when I think that once I lived by that stale old formula E=F!”

She was speechless, but when she recovered her breath she said. “I’ll get you some Sansan, darling — ”

“I don’t need to be sobered up!” I shouted.

“Darling, it’s all right. You’ve been under too much strain. Oh my poor darling — ”

“Gladys,” I said gently, sitting down in a chair and holding up both my hands. “Try and understand. I’m in love with Her Excellency. As I talk to you, as I look at your blue eyes I keep thinking of Her eyes, Her three beautiful wise blue eyes.”

“Can it be possible?” she whispered as if to herself.

“It is possible, Gladys.”

“A Think Machine!”

“More than a Think Machine, Gladys. A Soul Machine — ”

“A Soul Machine equipped with tapes!” she cried. “I know Her Excellency, Her Ladyship Tapes! A tape on missing persons, a tape on the psychology of hunted men. A tape on fingerprints, footprints, headprints. Tapes, tapes, tapes and not a rape among them!” She laughed violently at her cheap joke.

“Laugh, go ahead and laugh,” I said with dignity. “At least now you understand the truth.”

Tears filled her eyes and instantly she wiped them. “Oh, you poor silly thing,” she said.

It was queer but I felt a pang of regret. As if I were actually listening to my own wife. “Don’t be sorry for me, Gladys. I’m happier than I have ever been. I love Her Excellency with all my soul. What is soul after all? Is it what we feel when we hear great music? Beethoven, Mozart, Home on the Range?”

“Granted They have memories,” she said, completely self-possessed now. “including musical memories. Granted They’re equipped with everything from centerfuge to subterfuge. Granted as Lee said when he lost the Civil War¹.”

“Gladys, this cheap humor — ”

“Granted, my darling. But what I want to know is how is Their Love-making?”

“Love can be more than mere flesh,” I said quietly.

“The more flesh the better, my little sparrow. Or have you forgotten how lustily you pecked away at me with your little bill?”

It was no use discussing the subject with her any further. I asked her to leave the room. She turned pale now, as if finally convinced that she was through.

“Will you please leave my room?” I repeated, rising from my chair.

“Are you going to put me out?” she gasped.

“If I have to, Gladys.”

“To leave me for a gadget!” she shrieked as if insane.

“No more of your insults! This is the great love of my life.”

“That’s what you love!” she cried and dashing to the Talko-Typo, she flung the little machine at me. It hit me in the leg but I controlled my anger. I felt I had to respect her emotions for this last time.

My respect infuriated her. She rushed to the machine, stamping and kicking at it until the floor was littered with parts. Springs, screws, photoelectric cells. She picked up a handful and flung them at my face. “That’s what you love!”

“What are we but components of another kind?” I said.

“Components!” she sobbed and tearing her dress from her body she stood there naked. I was beginning to feel sorry for her and I knew this was a mistake. Under certain conditions, pity is as dangerous as a loaded pistol. For as I stared at her, she was so much like my wife, tall and blonde and weeping.

(There I go playing the hypocrite again, Posterity. I was attracted by that naked woman. I have no excuses. The time I had spent in the Funhouse had weakened my character. As we say on the Reservation; leave a fresh mountain trout under the sun, and it’ll draw flies.)

I walked over to her, thinking that I would console her, when the miracle happened, proving that Her Excellency and I were truly one.

I heard words. They were my words but the One talking was not me.

“Gladys Ellsberg, Her Excellency X=Y is as real as you are. Real even according to your own definition of reality. You depend on five senses, the five senses of life. Sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste. Are your eyes more sensitive to light and darkness than Her electronic eyes? Your ears superior to Her audio-receptors? She can reproduce every voice he has ever heard, every fact and unfact. What are you Gladys Ellsberg, but a human being, and what is a human being but a terminal machine? What is the human ear but a funnel? The brain but a cerebral mechanism joined to the inner ear? The permanent neurons of the brain but an inbuilt transistor? Thought but a sound vibration? Poor creature of flesh so proud of your fleshly reality. You are real but there are other realities and other loves!”

Before that remorseless logical Voice that was mine by proxy, Gladys gave up. She ran naked out of the room. I wanted to call after the poor woman. But then I shrugged. She would be no problem to anybody who might see her in the hotel — the Mayflower it was — or downstairs on Connecticut Avenue.

People would think that she was merely exercising her privileges and rights under the 28th Amendment.