Wilton-Smythe. “With every step I take, I extend my record."
"What record? You lost."
"The record for the longest time required to complete an Olympic marathon, of course,” said Wilton-Smythe. He looked puzzled. “I keep expecting the Guinness people to interview me or measure my stride or something for their record book, but so far they haven't shown up. I wonder why?"
"Maybe they don't know you're still running,” suggested Mallory.
"Impossible!” scoffed Wilton-Smythe. “Probably they're waiting for me five or ten miles farther up the road."
"Perhaps,” said Mallory without much conviction.
Wilton-Smythe yawned. “I'm getting sleepy. I think I'd better take a little nap before I reach them. I wouldn't want to look other than my best for the interviews and picture-taking."
"I don't think you're going to have much luck finding a room,” said Mallory. “It's New Year's Eve."
"Why would I want a room?"
"I thought you said you were sleepy."
"I sleep on straightaways and wake up for the turns,” explained Wilton-Smythe. “I wouldn't ever want it said that I cheated."
"Do you eat on the run, too?"
"Of course."
"Forgive my asking,” said Mallory, “but how the hell did you ever wind up on a bridle path in Central Park?"
"I wish I knew,” admitted Wilton-Smythe. “I think I probably should have turned left at Melbourne."
"Melbourne, Australia?"
The runner nodded. “Puzzling, isn't it?"
"To say the least,” agreed Mallory.
"Well,” said Wilton-Smythe, “I've enjoyed our little chat, but I really must be toddling along."
"If I were you, I'd pick up a road map,” Mallory shouted after him.
"What for?” he yelled back. “All roads lead to Rome."
Then they were out of earshot, and Mallory turned to Mürgenstürm.
"What did you make of that?” he asked.
"He's a fool,” answered the elf promptly. He frowned and scratched his head. “On the other hand, he's been working steadily for more than a quarter of a century, whereas most of the truly intelligent people I know can't seem to hold a job. I find it intensely puzzling."
"Not really,” said Mallory. “It's pretty much the same in my Manhattan."
"It is?"
Mallory nodded. “The bright ones can solve most of the problems of the world—but putting on matching socks or learning how to change a tire seems a little beyond them."
"How comforting,” said Mürgenstürm. “I was afraid it was an isolated phenomenon."
"No such luck,” said Mallory. He began walking to the north again. “Let's keep moving, Robe or no robe, it's goddamned cold out."
"Maybe the snow will prove to be an advantage,” said Mürgenstürm hopefully. “We should be able to pick up the unicorn's tracks."
"If our marathon runner doesn't obliterate them,” said Mallory.
They walked, shoulders hunched and heads lowered against the driving wind, for another half mile. Then Mürgenstürm suddenly sat down heavily on the ground.
"I can't go any farther,” he said. “I'm cold and I'm wet and I'm exhausted."
"And you think you're going to get warm and dry and energetic by sitting on the ground in the middle of a snowstorm?” asked Mallory sardonically.
"I don't care anymore,” moaned Mürgenstürm. “Let them come looking for me tomorrow at sunrise. All they'll find are the frozen remains of a noble little elf who never meant any harm to anyone."
"Can you think of anything that would make you feel better?"
"Absolutely nothing,” said Mürgenstürm emphatically.
"Not even a ladyfriend?"
"Well ... maybe."
"Look,” said Mallory. “If I let you go off and get laid, do you think you can keep your mind on business when you get back?"
"Oh, absolutely, John Justin!” cried the elf enthusiastically. “I see it all now! It's not the weather. It's just my metabolism."
"Stop drooling or you'll freeze your chin off,” said Mallory disgustedly.
"I'll be back in ten minutes,” said Mürgenstürm, leaping to his feet. “Fifteen at the most.” He paused.
"What record? You lost."
"The record for the longest time required to complete an Olympic marathon, of course,” said Wilton-Smythe. He looked puzzled. “I keep expecting the Guinness people to interview me or measure my stride or something for their record book, but so far they haven't shown up. I wonder why?"
"Maybe they don't know you're still running,” suggested Mallory.
"Impossible!” scoffed Wilton-Smythe. “Probably they're waiting for me five or ten miles farther up the road."
"Perhaps,” said Mallory without much conviction.
Wilton-Smythe yawned. “I'm getting sleepy. I think I'd better take a little nap before I reach them. I wouldn't want to look other than my best for the interviews and picture-taking."
"I don't think you're going to have much luck finding a room,” said Mallory. “It's New Year's Eve."
"Why would I want a room?"
"I thought you said you were sleepy."
"I sleep on straightaways and wake up for the turns,” explained Wilton-Smythe. “I wouldn't ever want it said that I cheated."
"Do you eat on the run, too?"
"Of course."
"Forgive my asking,” said Mallory, “but how the hell did you ever wind up on a bridle path in Central Park?"
"I wish I knew,” admitted Wilton-Smythe. “I think I probably should have turned left at Melbourne."
"Melbourne, Australia?"
The runner nodded. “Puzzling, isn't it?"
"To say the least,” agreed Mallory.
"Well,” said Wilton-Smythe, “I've enjoyed our little chat, but I really must be toddling along."
"If I were you, I'd pick up a road map,” Mallory shouted after him.
"What for?” he yelled back. “All roads lead to Rome."
Then they were out of earshot, and Mallory turned to Mürgenstürm.
"What did you make of that?” he asked.
"He's a fool,” answered the elf promptly. He frowned and scratched his head. “On the other hand, he's been working steadily for more than a quarter of a century, whereas most of the truly intelligent people I know can't seem to hold a job. I find it intensely puzzling."
"Not really,” said Mallory. “It's pretty much the same in my Manhattan."
"It is?"
Mallory nodded. “The bright ones can solve most of the problems of the world—but putting on matching socks or learning how to change a tire seems a little beyond them."
"How comforting,” said Mürgenstürm. “I was afraid it was an isolated phenomenon."
"No such luck,” said Mallory. He began walking to the north again. “Let's keep moving, Robe or no robe, it's goddamned cold out."
"Maybe the snow will prove to be an advantage,” said Mürgenstürm hopefully. “We should be able to pick up the unicorn's tracks."
"If our marathon runner doesn't obliterate them,” said Mallory.
They walked, shoulders hunched and heads lowered against the driving wind, for another half mile. Then Mürgenstürm suddenly sat down heavily on the ground.
"I can't go any farther,” he said. “I'm cold and I'm wet and I'm exhausted."
"And you think you're going to get warm and dry and energetic by sitting on the ground in the middle of a snowstorm?” asked Mallory sardonically.
"I don't care anymore,” moaned Mürgenstürm. “Let them come looking for me tomorrow at sunrise. All they'll find are the frozen remains of a noble little elf who never meant any harm to anyone."
"Can you think of anything that would make you feel better?"
"Absolutely nothing,” said Mürgenstürm emphatically.
"Not even a ladyfriend?"
"Well ... maybe."
"Look,” said Mallory. “If I let you go off and get laid, do you think you can keep your mind on business when you get back?"
"Oh, absolutely, John Justin!” cried the elf enthusiastically. “I see it all now! It's not the weather. It's just my metabolism."
"Stop drooling or you'll freeze your chin off,” said Mallory disgustedly.
"I'll be back in ten minutes,” said Mürgenstürm, leaping to his feet. “Fifteen at the most.” He paused.
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