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"The Fuzhties have a great deal to offer humanity, Mr. Zachs, and the more favors he owes us, the sooner he'll start coming across with some of this magic technology of theirs. This is just one of those favors."
" 'The play's the thing,' " I said in my best soliloquy voice, " 'Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.' "
Fogerty frowned at me. "What?"
"Hamlet," I said.
"Shakespeare," Jerry added acidly. "He's done some plays and poems and stuff."
"Thank you," Fogerty said, matching Jerry's acid pH for pH. "I have heard of the man. The point is that I can requisition your theater, no questions asked, like it or lump it. So you might as well like it. Anyway, you should be honored to have their first ambassador in your theater."
"Besides, think of the great publicity," I reminded him. "You'll be able to use photos of the ambassador in all your future ads and—"
"Wait a minute," Fogerty cut me off, his face suddenly stricken. "He can't use the ambassador as a cheap come-on. This is a serious diplomatic mission."
"Oh, I don't know," Jerry mused, picking up the cue and ru
"When the King of Sweden came here, he let us use his name in some of our promotionals. I don't see how this is any different."
"Of course it's different," Fogerty snapped. "And if you even think about trying to take advantage of him that way—"
"Taking advantage?" Jerry asked mildly. "You mean like a six-hundred pound government gorilla trying to gouge a poor i
Fogerty glared daggers at both of us. But he didn't have time for a fight, and we all knew it. "Fine," he bit out. "Full ticket prices for the whole entourage."
"And full payment for the crew handling the alterations?" Jerry asked.
"We'll be doing it all ourselves," Fogerty gritted. "My people are already downstairs, waiting for the green light."
"Well, then, I guess I'd better give it to them," Jerry said, reaching for his phone. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fogerty."
The alterations took only a few hours, about the same time it took to get the ambassador and the rest of the entourage up from Washington and settled into a
hotel a couple of blocks from the St. James. We headed out that evening for the theater in the ambassador's special car, which would have been a major challenge to drive in midtown Manhattan if the police hadn't cordoned off the area for us.
I'm sure that stunt made us lots of friends among the local drivers. Probably just as well we couldn't hear what the cabbies were saying.
The theater goers at the St. James, to my mild surprise, seemed to take the whole thing pretty much in stride. There'd been some hassles at Jerry's end, knew, sorting out the people who'd already bought the seats Fogerty had appropriated, but they'd all been moved or paid off or otherwise placated, and by the time we walked in with the ambassador everyone was feeling cordial enough to give him a round of polite applause. I presume he understood—there'd certainly been enough applause on the TV programs the Fuzhties had pilfered—but if he was either pleased or a
He got to be smug for exactly three minutes.
I had given up trying to see anything around the ambassador's bulk when, without warning, he heaved himself to his feet. Someone behind me gasped—the Trinidadian representative, I think—and I remember having the fleeting, irrational thought that the ambassador had realized I couldn't see and was courteously getting out of my way. An instant after that I realized how absurd that thought was, and my second thought was that he must have to go to the bathroom or stretch his legs or something.
He didn't. With a roar that shook the spotlight battens, he climbed up on the empty seat backs in front of him and made a ponderous beeline for the stage.
The actors froze into statues, staring wide-eyed at this pinfeathered Goliath bearing down on them in slow motion. Making his way across the seats and the covered orchestra pit, he made a huge bound up onto the stage, landing with a thud that must have shaken the whole block. He turned around, filled his lungs, and bellowed.
You've never seen a theater clear out so fast. The orchestra and mezzanine both—it just emptied out like someone was giving away free beer outside. It was a miracle that no one was killed or seriously injured; even more of a miracle, in my book, that no one filed any lawsuits afterward for bruised shins or torn clothing. I guess the thought of facing a huge unpredictable alien in court made quiet discretion the smart move on everyone's part.
But at the time, I wasn't convinced any of us would be getting out of the St.
James alive. With the ambassador's second bellow even the actors lost it, scurrying for the wings like they'd spotted a critic with an Uzi. I was cowering in my seat, trying desperately hard to be invisible, unwilling to move until had a straight shot at an exit that wasn't already jammed with people. The ambassador, still bellowing, had begun pacing back and forth across the now empty stage when Angus grabbed my arm. "Look!" he shouted over the hysterical bedlam.
"I see him!" I shouted back, momentarily hating Angus for drawing u
"No!" Angus snapped, jabbing a finger at the RebuScope monitor he was carrying.
"He's not just roaring at nothing—he's talking to us!"
I looked at the RebuScope... and damned if he wasn't right. "Fine," I shouted. "So what does it mean?"
"I don't know," Angus said. More pictures were starting to scroll along the screen; punching for a hard copy, he tore off the first part of the message and thrust it into my hands. "Here—see what you can figure out."
I shrank back into my seat, half my attention on the paper, the other half on the ambassador still pacing and roaring. Th-hiss book hiss awl th-hat eye knee-d—
None of this made any sense. It really didn't. In the five weeks I'd been with the ambassador he'd never so much as raised his voice.
Howl two howl two drink—
And anyway, what in the world could be important enough for him to interrupt a
play for? A play he himself had asked to attend?
Drink? No, not drink. Straw? Howl two straw? No. Ah—suck. Howl two suck-see-d...
And then, with a sudden horrible jolt, I had it. I took another look at the rebus—glanced at the new pictures that Angus was getting—
"I've got it!" I yelled, grabbing Angus's arm and waving my paper in front of him. " 'This book is all that I need/ How to, How to Succeed.' "
He blinked at me. "What?"
"It's part of a song," I told him. "The opening song from the classic musical
'How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.' "
Angus looked up at the ambassador, his mouth falling slightly open. "You mean—?"
"You got it," I said. "The ambassador's not talking to us. He's singing." It took till after midnight for Fogerty to get the preliminary damage control finished with the St. James management. An hour after that, he held a council of war in the hotel.
A very small council of war, consisting of Fogerty, Angus, and me. I'm still not exactly sure why I'd been included, unless that as our resident Broadway expert I was the one Fogerty was pla
Not that he wasn't willing to apportion everyone a share of the blame if he could manage it. Fogerty was generous that way. "All right, MacLeod, let's hear it," he said icily as he closed the door behind us. "What the bloody-red hell happened?"