of The Abraham Lincoln, Don Tishman and Patrick Doyle studied the application which Mr. Ian Duncan of number 304 had just now filed with them. Ian Duncan desired to appear in the twice-weekly building talent show, and at a time when a White House talent scout was present.
The request, Tishman saw, was routine. Except that Ian Duncan proposed to perform his act in conjunction with another individual
who did not live at The Abraham Lincoln.
Pondering, Doyle said, “It’s an old buddy of his from the Military Service. He told me once; the two of them used to have this act years ago. Baroque music on two jugs. A novelty.”
“What apartment house does his partner live in?” Tishman inquired. Approval of the application would depend on how relations stood between The Abraham Lincoln and this other building.
“None. He sells jalopies for the Loony Luke—you know. Those cheap little vehicles that just barely manage to get you to Mars. He lives on the lot, I understand. The lots move around; it’s a nomadic existence. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Yes,” Tishman agreed, “and it’s totally out of the question. We can’t have that act on our stage, not with a man like that involved in it. There’s no reason why Ian can’t play his jug; I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a satisfactory act. But it’s against our tradition to have an outsider participate; our stage is for our own people exclusively, always has been and always will. So there’s no need even to discuss this.” He eyed the skypilot critically.
“True,” Doyle said, “but it’s legal for one of us to invite a relative to watch the talent shows . . . so why not an army buddy? Why
not
let him participate? This means a lot to Ian; I think you know he’s been failing, lately. He’s not a very intelligent person. Actually, he should be doing a manual job, I suppose. But if he has artistic ability, for instance this jug concept—”
Examining his documents, Tishman saw that the highest White House scout would be attending a show at The Abraham Lincoln, Miss Janet Raimer. The top acts at the building would of course be scheduled that night . . . so Duncan & Miller and their baroque jug band would have to compete successfully in order to obtain that privilege, and there were a number of acts which—Tishman thought—were probably superior. After all,
jugs
. . . and not even electronic jugs, at that.
“All right,” he decided aloud. “I agree.”
“You’re showing your humane side,” Doyle said, with an expression of sentimentality which disgusted Tishman. “And I think we’ll all enjoy the Bach and Vivaldi as played by Duncan & Miller on their inimitable jugs.”
Tishman, wincing, nodded.
It was old Joe Purd, the most ancient resident of the building, who informed Vince Strikerock that his wife—or more exactly his ex-wife—Julie was living upstairs on the top floor with Chic. Had been all this time.
My own brother, Vince said to himself, incredulous.
The time was late evening, almost eleven o’clock, close to curfew. Nevertheless, Vince headed at once for an elevator and a moment later was ascending to the top floor of The Abraham Lincoln.
I’ll kill him, he decided. Kill both of them, in fact.
And I’ll probably get off, he conjectured, before a jury selected at random from among the residents of the building, because after all I’m official identification reader; everybody knows me and respects me. I have their confidence. And what position does Chic hold, here? And also I work for a really huge cartel, Karp u. Sohnen, whereas Chic works for a flea-sized outfit on the verge of collapse. And everyone here knows that, too. Facts like that are important. You have to weigh them, take them into account. Whether you approve of it or not.
And in addition, the pure, unadulterated fact that Vince Strikerock was a
Ge
and Chic was not would alone positively insure his acquittal.
At the door of Chic’s apartment he paused, not
The request, Tishman saw, was routine. Except that Ian Duncan proposed to perform his act in conjunction with another individual
who did not live at The Abraham Lincoln.
Pondering, Doyle said, “It’s an old buddy of his from the Military Service. He told me once; the two of them used to have this act years ago. Baroque music on two jugs. A novelty.”
“What apartment house does his partner live in?” Tishman inquired. Approval of the application would depend on how relations stood between The Abraham Lincoln and this other building.
“None. He sells jalopies for the Loony Luke—you know. Those cheap little vehicles that just barely manage to get you to Mars. He lives on the lot, I understand. The lots move around; it’s a nomadic existence. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Yes,” Tishman agreed, “and it’s totally out of the question. We can’t have that act on our stage, not with a man like that involved in it. There’s no reason why Ian can’t play his jug; I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a satisfactory act. But it’s against our tradition to have an outsider participate; our stage is for our own people exclusively, always has been and always will. So there’s no need even to discuss this.” He eyed the skypilot critically.
“True,” Doyle said, “but it’s legal for one of us to invite a relative to watch the talent shows . . . so why not an army buddy? Why
not
let him participate? This means a lot to Ian; I think you know he’s been failing, lately. He’s not a very intelligent person. Actually, he should be doing a manual job, I suppose. But if he has artistic ability, for instance this jug concept—”
Examining his documents, Tishman saw that the highest White House scout would be attending a show at The Abraham Lincoln, Miss Janet Raimer. The top acts at the building would of course be scheduled that night . . . so Duncan & Miller and their baroque jug band would have to compete successfully in order to obtain that privilege, and there were a number of acts which—Tishman thought—were probably superior. After all,
jugs
. . . and not even electronic jugs, at that.
“All right,” he decided aloud. “I agree.”
“You’re showing your humane side,” Doyle said, with an expression of sentimentality which disgusted Tishman. “And I think we’ll all enjoy the Bach and Vivaldi as played by Duncan & Miller on their inimitable jugs.”
Tishman, wincing, nodded.
It was old Joe Purd, the most ancient resident of the building, who informed Vince Strikerock that his wife—or more exactly his ex-wife—Julie was living upstairs on the top floor with Chic. Had been all this time.
My own brother, Vince said to himself, incredulous.
The time was late evening, almost eleven o’clock, close to curfew. Nevertheless, Vince headed at once for an elevator and a moment later was ascending to the top floor of The Abraham Lincoln.
I’ll kill him, he decided. Kill both of them, in fact.
And I’ll probably get off, he conjectured, before a jury selected at random from among the residents of the building, because after all I’m official identification reader; everybody knows me and respects me. I have their confidence. And what position does Chic hold, here? And also I work for a really huge cartel, Karp u. Sohnen, whereas Chic works for a flea-sized outfit on the verge of collapse. And everyone here knows that, too. Facts like that are important. You have to weigh them, take them into account. Whether you approve of it or not.
And in addition, the pure, unadulterated fact that Vince Strikerock was a
Ge
and Chic was not would alone positively insure his acquittal.
At the door of Chic’s apartment he paused, not
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