"Smith," she said, "I want you to meet one of my oldest friends. This is Finch, you know, Smith Smith."
"Glad to know you," said Finch, extending his hand. It was ignored. "Unmutual," said Smith Smith. "Oh, Smith, please—"
"Adamant," said Smith Smith, and turned to grab at a tray of Cobra Milks flanked by hot dogs which a butler was passing.
"What's the matter with him?" asked Finch. "I'd say he had been milking a few cobras already."
"Oh, no, it's just because he's a monoverbalist, and he acts that way since he became famous. Let's ignore him, shall we?"
Finch was about to turn away with her, when his hand was gripped and violently pumped by a cadaverous looking man with thick eyebrows and a nose and chin so prolonged they seemed almost to meet.
"Well, well, well, how are you? I'm simply delighted to see you again, simply delighted," said this individual, and before Finch could reply: "I was talking to my wife about you just last night. How is your new book coming?"
"I'm afraid that—" began Finch, honestly.
"Oh, I understand. Quite, quite, very heavy research and a great deal of writing. Pity the novelists can't take as much trouble. Let's see, what were you going to call it— wait, don't tell ... ah, I have it. 'The History of the Military Button.' I remember that delicious but somewhat grisly anecdote about the two Russian officers and the seagull."
He paused for breath and Finch got in a few words. "I'm really afraid you have the wrong man. I'm Arthur—"
"Of course, of course. Stupid of me. I'd forgotten how modest you can be. Eunice!" He reached around, gripped the arm of a woman with the chassis of a prize pig, and went on: "May I present Arthur Greenspan Horowitz, the author of that remarkably fine work on the hagiography of Salome, which is all the more remarkable for betting couched in the form of—"
Before the introduction could be completed, another grip on Finch's arm pulled him away from the couple, leaving the man with the bushy eyebrows lecturing happily to empty space. Miss Maeder seemed to have disappeared, but perhaps that was the effect of the Cobra Milks. Finch perceived that his new conductor was Kretschmeyer. "It's old Cottonhead," he shouted in a voice that would have carried five blocks in the open, but was only a whisper amid the uproar of the literary tea. "Professor of literature at the university, you know. We had to invite him because he's a very influential reviewer, but he's very proud of his memory, and—"
He stopped and turned as he saw Finch's jaw drop and his eyes fix toward the door, through which had just entered a young man without a stitch of clothes, but with a swagger of perfect ease.
"Oh, don't you know him? I'll introduce you. That's Tattingrodt, the novelist. He's a conscientious objector."
"To clothes? I should think that the law—"
"What a romantic old notion! You poets! Do you mind if I offer it to Liam? He hasn't found a theme for his new novel yet. Oh, Liam! This is Arthur Finch, the poet. He's just had the most wonderful idea for a novel, about a law to make people wear clothes. Think of the effect on individuals!"
"Aw, let him go out back and eat what he finds there," said Tattingrodt, in a voice surprisingly high and squeeky for the message it delivered. "T'hell with individuals and society. Me, I write books about common ordinary bums like Jerry the bartender and myself."
Finch regarded him with disfavor. This was the second time he had been subjected to literary courtesy and he load' had about enough of it. "I beg your pardon," he said, "but if you don't mind my mentioning it, aren't your trousers unbuttoned?"
Before the naked novelist could reply, a bell rang violently and Smith Smith ascended a dais at the end of the room, laid a book on the lectern and looked out across the assemblage.
"He's going to read," said Kretschmeyer, above the terrific outburst of handclapping. "I'll call on you shortly. Excuse me." He sidled away through the throng.
The monoverbalist struck an attitude, swung up one arm, and ejaculated:
"See!"
then spread both arms wide and went through a series of movements that might have been those of a bellydance:
"Tree"
and finished by spreading both hands wide and looking up at the ceiling as he cried:
"Free!"
Without the slightest pause the conversation went on as before. Finch looked around as the bell rang again and a man wearing a Roman toga took his place, opened his book amid intense applause, and began to read in a strong Brooklynese accent:
Whether it was the words or the Cobra Milks, Finch found his head slightly swimming as he turned to his nearest neighbor, a man with a neatly trimmed Vandyke. "I liked the monosyllabalist better," he remarked, "but he really ought to confine himself to one word instead of spreading over three or four lines."
"Or a single sound," replied the Vandyke, "with appropriate gestures like o-o-o-o."
Finch glanced sharply at him, but the man in the Vandyke seemed to be taking his own suggestion with perfect seriousness. "Wouldn't it be better still if the sounds were not uttered at all?" he asked.
"Perfectly correct. You have the scientific attitude, which is rare. When you study the science of the mind, you will realize that poetry is a matter of profound emotional and intellectual harmonies for which words make a very poor vehicle."
The Brooklynese poet on the dais was sipping a drink, apparently waiting for the bell to announce another round.
"I wouldn't wonder but what you're right," said Finch. "I'm supposed to be a poet, and I've always found words made a poor vehicle for anything I had to say. I suppose there is somewhere some kind of individual with a fourth-dimensional brain that can pick up directly the harmonies you speak of."
"There is," said the Vandyke, simply. "By the way, I didn't catch your name. I'm Dr. Joseph Dunninger."
"Oh, indeed," said Finch, taking the proffered hand. "I'm Arthur Finch. Dr. Calioster of Memphis suggested I come to see you, though the problem that was perplexing me at the time seems on the way to solution."
"Yes, yes, Claude Calioster. Remarkably strong materializations, though his range of rapports is limited. As a matter of fact—" he looked at his watch, "—I have a few minutes this afternoon, and was just about to leave.
If you care to come along, I can at least give you a consultation."
"Why, I—" Finch was about to refuse, but at that moment his eye turned toward the end of the room and fell on an angular damsel fearsomely attired in a milkmaid's costume, who was apparently arguing with the Brooklyn poet as to who was entitled to the next tolling of the bell. To hell with this party; to hell with this whole ego-Centrist paradise, flashed his thought. Dunninger was at least a psychologist and perfectly right in saying that he; Finch, had the scientific attitude. It was the product of mingled temperament, training, circumstance, choice and experience. If through the carnelian cube or any other means, he could escape, he would return contentedly to his proper business of historical research. Even though it involved nothing more exciting than digging up bits of clay for the glorification of a movie magnate whose ancestors had planted them it was preferable to this.
"Thank you very much. I'd be glad to," he said.
Fifteen:
Dunninger's car slid along a street of mansions that had passed their first flush of magnificence, but were still above the level of the merely respectable, and came to a halt. The street-lights had come on; Finch noticed that although there seemed to be a good many passers-by on the opposite side, the one where they descended held but one, and that one decorated from head to foot in a sheet, like a member of the Ku Klux Klan.