"Well," I said.
"And well may you say 'Well,'" said Ian. "A pretty stinking kettle of
fish, you might say."
I tried to look at it another way. "Maybe it's not so bad. Look at
France Presse. That's government-subsidized."
"This isn't France," Ian said. "We happen to do things differently
here."
"Vive l'Amérique," I said. "Once upon a time, eh?"
I toyed with a pretzel from a bowl on the bar. Ian watched me and
said, "That pretzel is as straight as a string compared with what's
been going on in the last couple of weeks." He picked up a pretzel of
his own and bit it in two. "That is, if you want my opinion, Mr. Press
Secretary."
I had always valued the opinion of Ian McEachern and I told him so.
"I don't like it," I said. "I don't like it at all. But what can we
do? I mean what can I do? You've already done it--you've quit, honest
journeyman journalist that you are. But what can I do?"
"Don't laugh at my principles," Ian said. "They happen to be sincere."
"I wasn't laughing, Ian." I felt like patting him on the shoulder, but
thought better of it. I swallowed half my drink instead. "I admire your
integrity," I said, then took the sincerity out of it by adding, "if I
can make such a statement in the bar of the National Press Club."
"Are you laughing at me again?" Ian looked hurt and I became absolutely
sober.
"Ian," I said, "whatever happens, believe this: you're one of
my favorite people. I'm just not in a position now to be as
straightforward as you are. I just can't explain, but I want you to
know that I haven't sold out to the aliens, and...."
Ian looked surprised. "I never thought you had. For heaven's sake, man,
I haven't questioned your patriotism!"
He hadn't, of course. He didn't know all that I knew about the
invisible links between the Monolithians and the President.
Suddenly I felt like getting very drunk. "Two more," I said to the
bartender. To Ian I said, "You certainly don't owe anything to World
Wide. You don't have to go back, do you? Let's get loaded, then get a
bottle and go home to Mae and Ann and start all over again."
Ian solemnly finished his old drink. "Sam," he said, "you've had some
great ideas in the past, but I am prepared to say that this is the
greatest. Bartender, two more."
"I've already ordered two."
"Yes," Ian said. "But two and two make four. I still know that much.
Drink up."
"When they don't make five," I said. "I already did. Finish yours and
have a pretzel."
He picked up one of the twisted, baked, salted pieces of dough and
looked at it critically. "It's an honest piece of work," Ian said. "I
now perceive its simple integrity. I shall eat a bowlful while I get
drunk with you. Forgive me, pretzel, while I consume you."
Inwardly pretzel-like, I forgave him and proceeded to drink a large
number of rum cokes.