"I'm Mr. Chesbro," the man said to Mr. Cioni. "I've come to pick up the car allotted to Mrs. Goudeket."
"The hotel lady? She said she'd be back herself."
Chesbro smiled and handed over the trip ticket. "She's exhausted. I'll pick her up and drive."
"I see. It's that Dodge. Be careful."
Artie almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of advice from this nobody to him, confidant of Akslund, Johnny on the most wonderful spot imaginable.
He drove off. River Street? Yes; the broadcasters were at River Street. He turned left and heard faintly a shout from the little nobody of the motor pool.
A fragment of the Rubaiyat—now there was a poem, not like those jumbled things Polly wrote!—drifted by. Would we not shatter it to bits, and then remold it closer to the heart's desire? Which was exactly what was going to happen. He had never really had a big chance before, but by waiting and building and sending out his lines of communication he had survived until the big chance came along. The county was shattered to bits, and he would remold it. It wouldn't look like much to an outsider—Akslund. To Akslund and his staff he would seem a disinterested and patriotic businessman working his guts out with no hope of personal gain to reconstruct the smitten area.
He had better start thinking about his lists.
The five walked into the motor pool. Mrs. Goudeket stared blankly at the empty space where the Dodge had been. She said to Mr. Cioni hopefully, "You moved it? Into the street?"