"Yes, but what about when the drawer was shut? I admit, it's a
difficult concept to grasp at once. You see, we of Targoff are not
interested whether the tiara exists when someone is not actively
perceiving it or not. It exists when existence becomes a necessary
quality for it. It's a Monday, Wednesday, Friday concept, Mr. Channing.
Your mind can grasp it only at times, and perhaps even then flittingly.
Like the ontological proof for the existence of your God: by
definition. He is an infinitely perfect Being. Since existence is one
of the qualities of infinite perfection, He exists. Do I make myself
clear?"
"No-o."
"Here. Take the tiara to your wife. My compliments. Things will work
out for you, Mr. Channing."
"I came here to work out some compromise with you," Channing said,
pocketing the tiara, then feeling foolish and placing it back on the
desk, then deciding that would be quite undiplomatic and pocketing it
again while Qui Dor's round eyes fairly sparkled. "Instead, I find
myself being lectured on the philosophy behind the trouble. That
doesn't help."
"You're confused, Mr. Channing. When I said things will work out for
you, I meant it. More I cannot tell you, except to say the matter is
entirely up to you. I should have said things can work out for you. I'm
sorry if this sounds cryptic, but I can tell you no more. Incidentally,
I'm sure your wife will like the tiara."
It did sound cryptic. Channing did not know if Qui Dor was sorry.
Channing was sorry.
Maybe he'd be better off giving the tiara to Mrs. Delacourt.
* * * * *
When Channing could make only a negative report to Mrs. Delacourt,
the wheels began their spinning. Health and P. W. tendered a frosty
ultimatum which he was forced to ignore because he lacked policy-making
authority. Someone bent the First Lady's ear, who in turn bent the
President's. When State himself returned from India with a redder face
but no answers, he received a verbal whipping and almost achesonian
condemnation in the press. Clearly, he needed a scapegoat.
While State was being chastized by the President, the scapegoat was
home in Center Moriches, determined to rescue something from the
sinking ship of life. He'd effect a reconciliation with Ellen and they
could debate the ultimate disposition of little Stephanie at some
later date.
A savory aroma assailed his nostrils from the kitchen. He found Ellen
there, scurrying from pot to pot, a determined look on her face, a
stray lock of chestnut hair loose over one eye.
"Chicken cacciatore," he said, breathing deeply. "Hey now, we haven't
had that at home in a long time."
"Too long," said Ellen, stirring the delicious contents of a large pot.
"A girl can make mistakes, dear. Smell good?"
"Wonderful."
"I knew you'd listen to reason. I just knew it."
"Well, I'm a reasonable guy." What was she talking about? he wondered.
"That's why I married you. Taste?"
"No. I'll wait till it's on the table."
"Stephanie's gained another pound."
"That's--uh, fine."
"I must say, you don't seem as enthused about her as you did before."
"Before?"
"This morning."
He had been in his office all morning, taking the afternoon off to come
home. "What did I say?" Funny, he did not remember calling her.
"You know what you said."
"Honest, I don't."
"Say, are you planning to renege or something?"
"Ellen, something's screwy. I don't remember calling you this morning."
"That's because you didn't, dear."
"But you said I said--"
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"No."
"You were here all morning. You weren't gone more than an hour when you
came back."
"I--came back?"
"Of course."
"I did not."
"Are you trying to stand there and tell me we didn't have a long talk
this morning in Stephanie's room? Are you trying to stand there and
tell me we didn't decide to keep Stephanie and maybe even get her a
little brother in a year or so?"
"What's got into you? I never said anything of the kind."
"Bryan Channing! If you're joking, I don't find it so funny."
"Neither do I. I'm not joking."
"I--I hate you...."
"One of us had better see the doctor," said Channing, placing his hands
on Ellen's shoulders and bending forward to kiss the whisps of hair at
the nape of her neck. "Maybe you'd like to go away to the country for a
while."
"Don't you kiss me."
"What's the matter now?"
"You changed your mind. You're trying to lie your way out of it."
"I'll call Dr. Flint."
"You'll go out someplace and eat supper, you mean." Off the range came
the pot of chicken cacciatore, its delightful contents landed into the
garbage disposal unit.
"Ellen!"
But only a stiff back answered him, and presently even that disappeared
when a sudden wail from the direction of the nursery summoned it, armed
with bottle and burp-rag.
* * * * *
Nicholson met him in the waiting room of his office. "You sure went and
put your foot in it," the explorer said.
"When did I do what?"
"Telling the Denebian Ambassador how Qui Dor was snafuing everything
and why we couldn't do a thing about it. If they don't take away your
explorer's papers too, you're always welcome on my ship, Bryan."
"I didn't even see the Denebian Ambassador."
"That's not what Julie says."
Julie looked up from her desk in exasperation. "You're still the boss,
so maybe I shouldn't talk like this, but honestly chief, how could you?"
"Damnit! How could I what?"
"I almost fainted when that, that monster from Deneb walked in here.
You always tell me to keep the intercom open when you have an important
visitor and take everything down in shorthand. So I did. Then you
walked out of your office with the Denebian Ambassador, smiling and
practically holding hands--if you call what he's got a hand."
"I went home around midday. I never saw the gentleman from Deneb."
"You use the word gentleman loosely," said Nicholson. "And unadvisedly."
It was then that State stormed in, his face almost mauve. "Channing,
pack your junk. You're fired."
"Now, wait a minute--"
"Miss Marshall here had the good sense to send me a transcript of your
little meeting. Of all the achesonian gall...."
"Who, me?"
"Fired. Out. Now."
"But what am I supposed to have done?"
State pulled some papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Here,
you rat. Try page three."
Channing took the papers and turned to the third page. He read:
CHANNING: Exactly what I was saying.
DENEBIAN AMBASSADOR: Then we ought to bide our time?
CHAN: Sure. Right now, Earth's becoming the laughingstock of the
galaxy. And later on it will be worse.