Celia tried to comfort him. "Mother wants to go home too, dear one, but we can't go home just now."
We sure can't, I thought grimly. I maneuvered past the petal-shaped peak of Tribune Tower with its banner—100% COMPETITION MEANS 100% AMERICAN, past the upper stories of the Prudential Building ("WE'RE COMPETING—ARE YOU?"), past the squat old Bible Federation building (COMPETER, REMEMBER ST. PETER!), and at last settled with a sigh behind the museum.
"I want to go home," Freddie whimpered, his eyes starting to tear again. He was a thin, rather bony little boy, with light brownish eyes like Celia's, and a forceful jaw that was quivering now at the point of a sob.
Celia caressed his curly brown hair. "We're going to spend the entire day together, darling. We're going to look at some wonderful pictures."
I was irritated, but I guess you can't expect too much understanding of a kid.
We entered the building from the rear, parking lot entrance. The Art Institute was one of those wild, non-geometric creations of the Twenty-first century reconstruction period. It was a flat, one-storied building. The outside was partially circular, with a pearly transparent roof. Inside it formed a spiral, with galleries partitioned off like the chambers of nautilus shell. At the eye of the spiral stood a small sunken garden and tea room.
I looked at my watch. Ten-fifteen. "We can stay here until five, if need be," I told Celia. "Don't leave the building until I return."
"Where are you going?" Celia was calm outwardly. Only her eyes registered alarm.
"To see my lawyer. Then to the office. Then to the bank. I have a hunch that ten thousand won't be enough for our present needs."
"Bart, I—"