"Not the army, for God's sake," pleaded the adjutant.
"No, I'm going to dump it on the Russian embassy. Damn their black hearts, they started this. Hurry up with that drink!"
"Watch out you don't lose your donkey for sure and all," the adjutant said. "Them Russians are smart cookies."
"They'll have to be," the governor said, reaching for the fresh drink. "They sure ... as ... hell ... will have to be!"
All the folding chairs were taken. Extra women stood in the aisles and along the side of the hall. Martha Stonery bulged over the rostrum in blue knitted wool and a pearl necklace. Seated around a half-circle of chairs behind her, pack leaders and committee chairwomen smoothed at their skirts. Monica Flint in dove gray sat at the organ.
Martha pounded with her gavel so hard that her pearls rattled.
"Everyone will please stand while we sing our hymn," she said into the resultant hush. She nodded to Monica, who began to play.
"I did not raise my dog to ride a sputnik, I will not let him wander to the moon...." The song was a shrill thundering.
Martha beamed across her bosom as the crowd settled itself again.