Doak relaxed and for the first time since the Chief's summons he wasn't thinking of June. He was thinking of Man, from the cave to Venus, from the wheel to free flight. And something out of his childhood memory came to mind.
Studious let me sit
And hold high converse with the mighty dead
Where had he heard that? Some Scotch poet, it must have been, for his mother recited only the Scotch poets. Studious let me sit—in front of a video set, to watch the wrestling?
And hold high converse with the mighty dead—not in this world where there was only tomorrow, not in this world of no books. There were no writers on television—they had no need to attract an audience. They had an audience. An audience that would watch wrestling would watch anything.
So the ad men took over the duties of the semi-writers who had prepared the radio programs. Ad men offended nobody, even those with denture breath. That could be cured and so could acne, B.O., straight hair and seam squirrels.
Hey! he though suddenly. Watch where you're thinking, Doak Parker.
A government man, a Security Officer, he straightened in his seat as the stewardess came along the aisle.
She smiled at him, "Everything all right, Mr. Parker?"
"Dandy," Doak said. "Great, fine! Why?"
She paused, disconcerted "I beg your pardon?"