She burst into a laugh and took out her toothpick to point it at me. "Go and put your penny in another slot if you want an answer to an idiot question like that. How long? A day, a month, a year, ten years."
"In ten years—" I began.
"Exactly," she said and put away the toothpick.
83. I phoned Stuart Thario to fly over right away for a conference. "General," I began, "we'll have to start looking ahead and making plans."
He hid his mustache with the side of his forefinger. "Don't quite understand, Albert—have details here of activities ... next three years ..."
I pressed the buzzer for my secretary. "Bring General Thario some refreshment," I ordered.
The command was not only familiar on the occasion of his visits, but evidently anticipated, for she appeared in a moment with a trayful of bottles.
"Bad habit of yours, Albert, teetotalism ... makes the brain cloudy ... insidious." He took a long drink. "Very little real bourbon left ... European imitation vile ... learning to like Holland gin." He drank again.
"To get back to the business of making plans, General," I urged gently.
"Not one of those people getting worried about the Grass?"