“I’d just like you to comprehend——” Ilam began again.
But at that instant a head appeared above the edge of the central aperture of the car, and Ilam stopped.
It was the head of the young man in spectacles—gold-rimmed spectacles.
“I’m Smithers, of the Morning Herald,” said the young man brightly and calmly, “and I took this opportunity of seeing you privately. Your men objected when I got into the parachute attachment, but you told ‘em to let go, and so they let go. I’ve had some difficulty in climbing up here off the parachute bar. Dangerous, rather. However, I’ve done it. I dare say you heard the crowd cheering.”
“So it was him they were cheering,” muttered Ilam, and then looked at Carpentaria.
Ilam was not a genius in the art of conversation. He could only say what he meant, and when the running of the City of Pleasure demanded the art of conversation he relied on Carpentaria, even if he was furious with him.
“What’s the game?” asked Carpentaria.
“Well,” said Smithers politely, “don’t you think I deserve an interview?”
“You know we have absolutely declined all interviews.”
“Yes, that’s why the Herald wants one so badly; that’s why I’m dangling a thousand feet above my grave.”