“Hitchcock said eighty,” I objected.
“He demanded a hundred and ten. As for paying in advance, I don’t blame him. When we leave that contraption we may be in no condition to pay. Give him ninety dollars.”
I shelled it out, was instructed to give the bluecap a buck and did so after he had handed the luggage up to the pilot, and steadied the portable stile while Wolfe engineered himself up and in. Then I embarked. There was space for four passengers, but not for four Wolfes. He took one seat and I the other, and the pilot stepped on it, and we rolled toward the runway. I would have preferred not to wave to Drogo on account of the extra sawbuck he had chiseled, but for the sake of public relations I flapped a mitt at him.
Flying low over the Volscian hills — see map — in a pint-sized plane was not an ideal situation for a chat with my fellow passenger, but it was only ninety minutes to Bari, and something had to get settled without delay. So I leaned across and yelled to him above the racket, “I want to raise a point!”
His face came around to me. It was grim. I got closer to his ear. “About the babble. How many languages do you speak?”
He had to jerk his mind onto it. “Eight.”
“I speak one. Also I understand one. This is going to be too much for me. What I see ahead will be absolutely impossible except on one condition. When you’re talking with people, I can’t expect you to translate as you go along, but you will afterward, the first chance we get. I’ll try to be reasonable about it, but when I ask for it I want it. Otherwise I might as well ride this thing back to Rome.”
His teeth were clenched. “This is a choice spot for an ultimatum.”
“Nuts. You might as well have brought a dummy. I said I’ll be reasonable, but I’ve been reporting to you for a good many years and it won’t hurt you to report to me for a change.”
“Very well. I submit.”