“Oh, well, Theseus.” Hebster spread his manicured hands. “I’m a businessman.”
“You’re a businessman,” S.S. Lusitania agreed, getting to her feet stealthily and taking a great swipe with both hands at something invisible in front of her face. “And here, in this spot, at this moment, so are we. You can have what we’ve brought, but you’ll pay for it. And don’t think you can cheat us.”
Her hands, cupped over each other, came down to her waist. She pulled them apart suddenly and a tiny eagle fluttered out. It flapped toward the fluorescent panels glowing in the ceiling. Its flight was hampered by the heavy, striped shield upon its breast, by the bunch of arrows it held in one claw, by the olive branch it grasped with the other. It turned its miniature bald head and gasped at Algernon Hebster, then began to drift rapidly down to the rug. Just before it hit the floor, it disappeared.
Hebster shut his eyes, remembering the strip of bunting that had fallen from the eagle’s beak when it had turned to gasp. There had been words printed on the bunting, words too small to see at the distance, but he was sure the words would have read “ E Pluribus Unum.” He was as certain of that as he was of the necessity of acting unconcerned over the whole incident, as unconcerned as the Primeys. Professor Kleimbocher said Primeys were mental drunkards. But why did they give everyone else the D.T.s?
He opened his eyes. “Well,” he said, “what have you to sell?”
Silence for a moment. Theseus seemed to forget the point he was trying to make; S.S. Lusitania stared at Larry.
Larry scratched his right side through heavy, stinking cloth.
“Oh, an infallible method for defeating anyone who attempts to apply the reductio ad absurdum to a reasonable proposition you advance.” He yawned smugly and began scratching his left side.
Hebster grinned because he was feeling so good. “No. Can’t use it.”
“Can’t use it?” The old man was trying hard to look amazed. He shook his head. He stole a sideways glance at S.S. Lusitania.