"Well…." Smith was undecided. "Where would you like to spend some time when we're through with all this?"
That I hadn't expected. "You mean I have a choice?"
Noncommittally, "Up to a point. How about some island somewhere? Or in the States? Cold or warm? How, for instance, would you feel about Guam or-"
"Watched by the whole Mounted Police?" He nodded.
I didn't care. "Just someplace where no one will bother me; some place where I can play some records of the Boston Pops or Victor Herbert;" (and I guess the nervous strain of all that mental effort in all the noise and smoke was fighting a delaying action) "someplace where I can get all the beer I want, because it looks like I'm going to need plenty. Someplace where I can sit around and take things easy and have someone to-" I cut it short.
He was one of the understanding Smiths, at that. "Yes," he nodded, "we can probably arrange that, too. It may not be…." What else could he say, or what other way was there to say it?
"One more thing," he went on; "one more … demonstration. This will take some little time to prepare." That, to me, meant one thing, and I liked it not at all. He beat me to the punch.
* * * * *
"This should be what is called the pay-off, the final edition. Come through on this one, and you'll be better off than the gold in Fort Knox. Anything you want, anything that money or goodwill can buy, anything within the resources of a great-and, I assure you, a grateful-nation. Everything-"
"— everything," I finished for him, "except the right to go down to the corner store for a magazine. Everything except what better than me have called the pursuit of happiness."