Joy had changed from her severe lunchtime suit into a low-cut black
satin which matched her hair and did all kinds of things for her
figure. I cannot tell a lie and say I hadn't noticed this figure
heretofore, but hadn't had the opportunity to notice it to such
advantage. Bee-lining, I reached her side.
"Your recent acquaintance presents his compliments," I said, "and don't
you look lovely."
Joy smiled hello and said, "You look just the same as at the Algonquin,
which is all one could ask. Do you know Mr. Masters? Mr. Kent, formerly
of World Wide--Mr. Masters of Hollywood and all over."
Everybody knew Spookie Masters, the comedian, singer, dancer, dramatic
actor and husband of beautiful women.
"Not personally," I said, shaking hands, "but I'm a long-time fan. How
do you do."
"It's a pleasure, Kent," Masters said. "Joy tells me she's taken the
vows and joined the Martians. I envy her. Their coming is probably the
most exciting thing that's happened since the wheel."
"They're a pretty lively bunch, all right," I said. "I don't know where
it's all going to end, but it should be fun while it lasts."
"They sure beat the beatniks," Spookie Masters said, and I remembered
that he'd been on a beatnik and bongo drums kick for a while. "I've got
half a mind to take out a card myself. Who's the head alien, Joy? Where
do I get the poop?"
"I think you're pulling my leg, Spookie," she said ("Love to," he
said), "but if you're serious I'll speak to Frij. Just what is it you'd
like to do?"
"Oh, just be an altar boy. Sit at the feet of the high priests and
absorb their philosophy. I did that in Tibet once and I've never got
over it. There's something more to life than chasing the old dollar.
I've learned that much."
This Spookie Masters was a pretty charming guy. He was about forty,
maybe five-feet-ten, and slender. Not handsome, but honest-faced.
A sort of cult had grown up around him. Spookie Masters was more than a
million-a-year (net) entertainer. He was, to innumerable moviegoers and
TV fans, a way of life. They'd followed his career from his beginning
as a poor boy whose father had died in the electric chair. They knew
about his several marriages to, and subsequent divorces from, some of
the world's most glamorous women. They'd followed his rise to fame and
plunge to obscurity and his comeback.
They knew about his coterie of big-name hangers-on, and they parroted
the group's own special language. They marveled that his intimates
and admirers included not only the mayor of a big city, the head of
the philosophy department of an Ivy League university, the president
of one of the world's biggest industries and the pretty sister of a
reigning queen, but that he also had plenty of time for people who rode
in subways and went to ball games and boxing matches. Spookie usually
dressed like a prince, but when the whim took him he got into sport
shirt, dungarees and sneakers and lounged through the streets, keeping
in touch, as it were, with the life he'd known before fame struck. He'd
browse in book stores, talk to panhandlers and sit in the bleachers
and boo the Yankees. He had a man-next-door face and wasn't often
recognized when he didn't want to be.
Spookie, Joy and I had wandered off the subject of the Monolithians
and were discussing old movie stars when somebody banged a gong to get
attention, then announced:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States."