Bligh considered. "Well," he said, "Virginia's pregnant."
Mundin was genuinely shocked. "Norvie, I am sorry!" he exclaimed. "I hope you're not going to do anything fool—"
Bligh grinned. "Oh, no, nothing like that," he said cheerfully. "The kid's mine. First thing I did was drag her to an immunochemist and get that settled. Good thing; I would've broken her back. And how's your girl?"
"Huh?"
"Norma. Or Lavin."
"Oh, no, Norvie. You're dead wrong there. We can't stand each other and—"
"Sure, boss," said Bligh soothingly. "Say, Charles, can we raise the allowance for the Wabbits? Lana's been hinting. And my kid says they've really been working."
"Why not? How is your foster-daughter, by the way?"
Bligh grinned. "I'm almost proud of her. Came home five days running, beaten to a pulp. Sixth day, not a mark on her. She's a Burrow Leader in the Wabbits now. And she closes her mouth when she chews, and she calls me sir."
Mundin felt a sudden flash of insight. "That's why you're still living in Belly Rave, isn't it?"
Bligh got defensive. "Well, now, maybe that's part of it. But actually there's something to be said for Belly Rave. When you can install a water tank and a generating system and fix your place up—it's kind of lively." His voice rang with civic pride. "I'm looked on as a kind of community leader, Charles. We've organized a real volunteer police force in our block—not one of those shakedown squads. And—"
Mundin, grinning, said, "Who knows? One day it may be Norvell Bligh, first mayor of New Belly Rave!"
The little man was suddenly gray. He fiddled defensively with the earpiece of his hearing aid. "Well, make a joke out of it if you want to," he said slowly. "The fact is they like me, I'm doing something for them, in a small way, sure, but something. And something has got to be done for these millions of outcasts. From the inside, Charles! I'm a funny-looking little man and I'm deaf and you automatically thought Virginia put the horns on me when I said she was pregnant. So what are you doing for Belly Rave, big man?"
Mundin choked and started to apologize; but Bligh waved him to silence. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Here's Washington."
The Museum of the National Association of the Builders of the American Dream was the by-blow of a long forgotten public-relations campaign with an added dash of non-profit-foundation tax evasion. The slickers who had sold the campaign to the businessmen were dust; the inspirational ads forgotten; but what can you do with a granite building full of junk and professors and janitors? You can ignore it and go your sensible business way. Of all this Mundin was reminded as he entered the shabby anteroom of the director's office.
His withered secretary said to the gentlemen from Monmouth, "Dr. Proctor is a very busy man. You must go away and telephone for an appointment."
Mundin said gently, "Please tell the director that it is in connection with a rather substantial donation. We don't expect to be in the city long. . . ."
The director came flying out of his office, beaming.
The attorney introduced himself. "Of the law firm of Ryan and Mundin," he explained.
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Munsen! Even here, even in our remote and dedicated corner of the world, we have heard of your firm! Might one ask the name of—?"
"Sorry."
"Oh, I quite understand, Mr. Munchkin! And the, ah, amount—?"
"Flexible," Mundin said firmly. "My client has commissioned me to inspect the museum and report to him on which departments seem most deserving of additional support."
"Ah! Pray allow me to guide you, sir. Just through here is the Collection of Coelenterates—"
Mundin said blandly, "I think we would prefer to see the Hall of Basics first."
Dr. Proctor very nearly frowned. At the last minute he changed and merely looked confidential. "For the general public," he said, nudging Mundin. "Mere engineering. Gimmicks and gadgets, eh? Not important, though perhaps of some limited interest to the engineer, the sociologist, that sort of quasi-scientist Now, our Collection of Coelenterates, just through—"
"The Hall of Basics, please?"
"Mr. Monkton! A tourist trap, I assure you. On the other hand, the Coelenterata—which happen to be my specialty, I might add—"
Mundin said sadly, "Norvell, I'm afraid Dr. Proctor isn't really interested in our client's bequest."
Bligh said, "Too bad. Well, luckily the copter's waiting."
Dr. Proctor sputtered and led them to the Hall of Basics. They gravely studied the spinning jenny, the first sewing machine, the first telegraph, the first telephone, the first airplane, the first Model T, the first atomic pile, the first G.M.L., the first segment of Belt Transport.
They stopped before the G.M.L. bubble-house, beaming approvingly—except for Dr. Proctor. Tourists were ambling through it. It was a minute or so before they could get close enough to read the plaque.
#342371
The First G.M.L. Home Ever Erected Donated by Mr. Hamilton Moffatt, "Father of the Bubble-House."
This G.M.L. Home, moved to the Institution from its original site in Coshocton, Ohio, was fabricated in the plastics factory of Donald Lavin. Electrical circuitry and mechanisms are designed and installed by Bernard Gorman. It has stood for more than five decades without a scar or a malfunction. Chemists and Engineers estimate that, without any sort of maintenance, it will last at least 1,000 more years, standing virtually forever as a tribute to the immortal genius of—
Mr. Hamilton Moffatt
"Do tell," murmured the attorney. The crowds of tourists began to thin out and the director glumly started to lead them through the bubble-house.
"Hell with it," said Mundin. "Let's go back to your place."
In Dr. Proctor's private office Mundin looked at the small, dusty, and dubious bottle the director exhumed from an umbrella rack, and shuddered. He said decisively, "No, nothing to drink. Dr. Proctor, I think I can definitely state that my client would be interested in donating one hundred thousand dollars as a fund to be divided at your discretion between the Hall of Basics and the Coelenterata."
"Dear me!" Dr. Proctor leaned back in his chair, fondling the bottle, his face wreathed in smiles. "Dear me! Are you sure you wouldn't care to—just a very small—no? Perhaps, do you know, perhaps I will, just to celebrate. A very wise decision, sir! It is, believe me, most unusual to find a layman who, like yourself, can at once perceive the ecological significance and thrilling morphology of the humble coelenterate!" He tipped the bottle into a dusty water tumbler and raised ft in toast. "The Coelenterata!" he cried.
Mundin was fumbling in his briefcase. He produced a check, already made out, a typed document in duplicate and a flat can that gurgled. "Now," he said matter-of-factly, "pay close attention, doctor. You, personally, are to dilute the contents of this can with one quart of ordinary tap water. Fill an ordinary garden sprayer with the solution and spray the G.M.L. Home in the Hall of Basics with it, covering all plastic parts from the outside. It shouldn't take ten minutes, if you have a good sprayer. Naturally, you will make sure nobody sees you doing it. That should be easy enough, in your position; but make sure of it. And that will be that."
Dr. Proctor, eyes bulging, coughed and spluttered four ounces of tinted grain neutral spirits over his desk. Choking and wheezing, at last he got out, "My dear sir! What on earth are you talking about? What is in that container? Why should I do any such preposterous thing?"