Chapter Eight

Consider, ye lads und lasses, a hole; a unique hole out of the whole hole-infested space-time continuum vacuum, which hole enjoys a particular special spacial relativity to a certain yellow ulcer we call Sun. There is nothing unusual, really, about this particular hole, except for the fact that an insignificant kind of obloidy-spheroidy doohicky often found underfoot was a-rotatin' and a-revolutin' - as if aware of what it was doing - right through this particular void during the historic and emotional first board meeting of Assholes Unanimous. Be it considered? The next thing that occurs to the normal mind, of course, is to lassoo this rock and whip it around into another hole smack on the opposite side of said ulcer. Naturally, the temptation arises to walk the dog, make a cat's cradle, and perform any number of other tricks named after housepets with this cosmic yo-yo. Go ahead. Indulge. Horace Aeiouaey did.

Six months after, Horace's idea was become fact. He no longer trod the world; the world dangled, fascinated, on his fob. He was getting used to that good mood thing. Dame Fortune was smiling flirtatiously down on him again this morning; to the extent that he recognized Lolita O'Roarke roaring past him on the expressway into town in time to return the bird she had bestowed upon him 180 orbital degrees ago. "It can't," thought Horace, "go up from here."

It had all happened so fast, in retrospect, that he could hardly take it all in. Cruncher and Miller Demographics had flown to their models. the lower caseworks, ltd had fiendishly devised strategy. Mr. Spracken had underwritten the concern for but three weeks when Dr. Raul Paola's low-interest loans magically began flooding in. Antonio, establishing a new fund, racked up sudden and obscene gains in his intricate and labyrinthine blend of investments. And Jay "Make my day, call me Jay" McKay, the executive general manager wunderkind hired by Mr. Schwirltz, had set up a stunningly competent staff seemingly overnight.

Horace didn't know what to think of Jay McKay. He was nauseatingly handsome, apparently had total recall, and was dedicated to the cause with a fervor one could only compare to nuclear fusion. No amount of diverse information seemed too much for his multiple-parallel mind to process, and no number of words seemed too great for him to force through his lips in any given minute. Horace felt that nothing would be out of this man-boy's reach if he could just learn to get his mouth shut. Jay was constantly moving, constantly talking, directing, exhorting, berating; reading and signing papers while talking on the telephone and talking to someone in the room, all at once. He wore a cordless headset. Horace never knew, for certain, whether Jay was talking to him or to someone on the phone. He only knew he was talking.

"How old are you, anyway, Jay?" he had forced in edgewise once.

"Old? How old am I? Age is relative, time is relative, you know, Horse," he had answered. Horace presumed "Horse" took less time to say than "Horace", although he never actually timed it. "What do you mean? Do you mean How old chronologically, historically? Or do you mean How old physiologically, ticks left in the old body clock? Or do you mean professionally, capability-wise on the average? Or do you mean by experience - clean out the old memory-hole? Maturity-wise? Mentally? How many years have I spent asleep? Ups! Phone. Yeah Jay!" Horace could only assume that `ups' took less time to say than `oops'. Less lip movement, he guessed.

Most irritating about Jay was the fact that he could not, or should not, be ignored. The stream of his speech so resembled pink noise it was almost hard not to listen right past it, but the endless dialogue was intermittently laced with suggestions of the most inspirationally turgent insight. Jay obviously possessed the stuff it took to separate his ears. His jaws just lacked brakes.

The board had convened every month during the gestation period. Horace, Editor-In-Chief of The SFFYNKS; a Monthly Periodical, reported on the excesses of that rag. Bob reported on the excesses of his consumer-oriented campaigns, Wendy reported on the excess of recruits, and Linda reported on the excess of potential civil liabilities amassed by the corporation's various tactics. At that time, Mr. Spracken would read a report sent in from Antonio, who was invariably in absentia while sniffing out some bargain in Tbilisi or doing some laundry in Sao Paola or somewhere, which would reassure everyone on the state of the corporate assets almost to the brink of orgasm.

The remainder of the meeting time was then spent suspended in the amber of Jay's report. The first meeting Jay attended, Sam fought off writer's cramp far beyond the bounds of human endurance until his arm finally buckled like a rubber band twisted tight as Hitler, then whipped loose like a fire hose for an instant, before riveting itelf to the back of his head. After that, the sound of Jay's voice brought tears to his eyes. The board tried to help him by straining to pan Jay's ramblings for nuggets and signaling Sam which to scratch and which to scotch. Even so, it was an effort. Sam began toting a taper instead of paper.

And so, it was with a combination of panting anticipation and resigned dread that Horace walked into the seventh meeting, the last to be held in the familiar stuffy atmosphere of Anderson Johnson and so Onson. Assholes Unanimous was busily moving into its new corporate headquarters even as they sat, and next month's battles would be fought on virgin turf. An entire floor of the new complex was outfitted for telecommunications, another for The SFFYNKS, and a third for executive perquisites. The ground floor bore Rejection (complaints), Research (in-house psychologists strapped to loud people), Reception (two suites; one for "Hold, Please" and one for "Please Have a Seat Over There"), and Recreation (offering, among many corporate innovations, a dunk tank full of sourdough, and underwater showers). Secret catacombs hid the hedge vault, in which seventeen percent of the net accreted in bullion.

"Horse! National League expansion in five years on the news this morning. What say we put in for a team? D. C.'s gotta be prime for one - the Wash'n'ton Assholes! waddaya think? I know - belongs in the American League - can't help that. Big bucks, membership bonus, TV - say! we get a satellite up by then and go nationwide - "

"We get a satellite up - "

" - and call it the American Assholes! Great hook, huh? Got the last trunk in yesterday. Damn tecs stand around all day - not when I'm there - on-line full bore by next Tuesday or it's costing them a bundle; it'll be great: a hundred forty-four stations. Get it? Gross? All networked. Contracted with some mom and pop for doughnuts. If they're not losing their ass I want to monitor their operation for pointers. They'll deliver every morning by seven. Save floor crews stopping outside. Bus 'em with coffee right to the stations. Lots of coffee. Where'd my cup go? Had one just - there it is. Ups! Yeah Jay. No. No! I'm in with the Board. Yeah. Yeah right. Right right right. Look, look! Can't talk. Yeah. Two hours. OK. So I said to 'em `Look folks, big break room downstairs, whole cafeteria, relax, it's in the contract, everything, but you're not on break now and when you're up here in here get something done! We need this 'quipment set up yesterday, last month, really, bad. Not their problem, of course, between you'n me, Horse, but I'm their problem if I catch 'em pocket-poolin' again."

Mr. Spracken cocked a mild glare at Horace and lifted his palms.

"Ah, Jay?" Horace broke in by force. "Jay, well done and put a sock in it. Time to get started.

"Thank you all for coming; attending today are Mr. Robert T. Spracken IV," Horace glanced at Sam's micro-corder, "Mr. Robert T. Spracken V, Mr. Manny Schwirltz, Miss Linda Thompson Simpson, mr. r f plaski, Miss - "

"Ms."

" - Mizzzzz Wednesday Miller, Mr. Raul - "

"Dr."

"Paola, Mr. Jay - " Horace paused, anticipating correction, but receiving none - "McKay, Mr. Sam Windsor, and myself, Horace Aeiouaey, Esquire. Now. Moving, and assuming seconding, to dispense with the reading of the minutes of last month's meeting of this board, I now ask: Are there any additions or corrections to those minutes? Of course not. Close enough.

"We have three issues of The SFFYNKS in the can, now, and I'm pleased to say the reception has been on the high side of mixed. I'd like to report on a particular essay of mine which appeared in the second issue and attracted some notoriety."

"It made the networks, in fact," Wendy volunteered.

"Are you talking about your article on manners, Horace?" Sam leaned toward his tape recorder.

"That's the one. I wrote that if refinement and politesse was such a great thing, then people should be willing to pay for it. Rather than try to tax it directly, I proposed that a more informal but efficient system of user's fees be set up; under which, for instance, a stranger passing you in the street would signal his appreciation for civilised behavior by simply putting his hand into his pocket on your approach. If you felt like it, you would then accost him with "Beautiful weather, isn't it?" or "Hello, you're looking well," or "Nice to see you!" at which time he would be compelled to slip across some of the folding crinkly. Of course, in all fairness, I also proposed that bleating "Have a nice day" at someone was sufficient cause for compulsory laryngectomy. The article seemed to strike a chord. I was buried in mail."

"I analyzed it," Wendy said, "and I found some significant patterns. In particular, this: even though, due to our start-up strategy, at this point about fifty-seven percent of our membership is from the New York - Boston axis, only three percent of the mail for this article came from there. This implies two things. One, easterners didn't know what the article was about; and two - and most significant - we can target audiences with the editorial content of the newsletter. Mr. Aeiouaey has been receptive to my investigating how this might best be exploited."

"The circulation of the last mailing broke ten million for the first time," Horace said proudly. "Advertisers are calling us."

Jay sifted a printout. "Old news. As of yesterday, membership stands at . . . here it is: Sixteen million, eight hundred and twenty-seven thousand, three hundred forty-two, and counting. We bag upwards of four hundred thou a day. Our temps in New York, Hartford, Trenton, Annapolis, and Tallahassee are buried. Phone company loves those toll calls, r f!"

"i bet you do, too, since they collect the dues through their billings."

"No doubt about it: saves me tons of work."

"Our efforts to secure our intellectual rights abroad are continuing," Linda said. "In an attempt to head off an Assholes Unanimous piracy scam in Belgium we have initiated civil complaints and argued for criminal indictments against the group, and have succeeded in being awarded what passes for a restraining order pending an official investigation. It looks, though, that they may have beat us to the punch there. As a result, we have filed for trademark and copyright registration in virtually every nation which recognizes these protections worldwide, in an effort to restrict these pirates to Belgium. There is no way they can compete with us once we begin our overseas operations. We feel that, for now, we will just let them accrue members locally, and we will merely absorb them when we go full-scale in Europe."

"perhaps a fun little introductory campaign in, say, london, paris, stockholm, berlin, rome, and bucharest, give or take, would be in order?" r f hinted.

"We don't want to whip up more - "

Before Jay could finish his thought, the door to the conference room flew open and a swart figure clutching an envelope trotted in.

"Mistew Awayway?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Thompson Simpson, but I couldn't keep her out!" the receptionist, running in after her, tried to apologize.

"Mistew Howace Awayway?"

"See here, woman, what is the meaning of this intrusion?" Mr. Spracken demanded.

"Awe you Howace Awayway?"

"Yeah, Susie? Jay. Hi." Jay began talking. "Listen, we've got an intruder up here interfering with our meeting - yeah, ran right into the room - would you? Yeah, exactly. Ciao."

The stranger wove around the room, inspecting faces. Horace had had his back to her at first, and was the last to be inspected. Something about her behavior made him expect to see a heavy black mustache painted on her lip.

"You awe Howace Awayway, awen't you?" she leered at him.

"Props," Horace dodged. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I don't know."

"But why should you know?"

"Because it's my job."

"It's your job to know who Howace Awayway is? Sounds rather pud."

"Wathew what?"

"Cush. Soft. Simple. Easy." Horace looked her in the eye. "Perhaps not, though, in your case."

A large person dressed custodially squeezed through the door with a gleam in her eye. "This the trespasser?" she grunted, affixing her beady littles on Horace.

The receptionist became alarmed. Disaster, it appeared to her strong-as-a-blink-and-quick-as-a-vice mind, loomed. Seizing the moment, she blurted out: "No, no, Katy; that's Mr. Aeiouaey!"

"Who is?" the mystery maid croaked.

"Him is, I guess," Katy rippled a few muscles at Horace.

"Mistew Howace Awayway," the envelope was thrust if not actually into his face, then close in front of it, "you have been sewved!"

"Not well, I assure you!" Horace touched his index finger and thumb together three inches from his cheek and wiggled his little finger. At the same time, Katy laid hold of the smirking courier and effectively removed her from the room, returning only once to pick up the latter's shoes.

"Ah - domestic troubles, Aeiouaey?" Mr. Schwirltz fished.

"It doesn't appear at first glance to be international," Horace answered, turning the envelope over and back. "Blank."

"Very possibly there is a message of some sort inside."

“Devious!" Horace was suitably impressed. He opened the envelope. "It appears to be a legal excommunication of some sort. I find myself the defendant in a civil suit seeking . . . unspecified satisfaction. Here it is: plaintiff one `Anti-Misogynism Committee' of something called the `Mandibular Research Foundation'. Hm."

"It must file an individual's name for the plaintiff somewhere on that thing," Mr. Schwirltz said, coming around the corner to Horace's side. "Ah, yes. Do you know an `O'Roarke, Lolita L.'?"

"Not in the Biblical or any other sense, but yes, I know what she is."

"`Rude behavior' . . . `fraud' . . . `public humiliation' . . . `obstruction of traffic' . . . nothing to it," Mr. Schwirltz professionally scanned the document. "Oh, wait a minute! Linda, are you familiar with a complaint called `wape'? Wape . . . wape . . . is that Latin?"

"Lolita O'Roarke?" Horace would have started to his feet had he been sitting. "That's `Rape'! What the hell does she think she's up to?"

"She, and Judge - oh god - Thisby Bruce - "

"Oh God!" Linda moaned.

" - apparently think she is suing you for physical, psychological, and emotional damages due to verbal and, er, vehicular abuse, and rape."

He looked up at Horace. "The, uh, logical question here would be - "

"Of course not!" Horace shouted. He wanted to laugh, but he couldn't decide which was funnier: the ridiculous subpoena or the long faces in the board room. "I can't look at the troll without bursting out in hives. The very hypothesis that her clothes are removable is enough to send one screaming off the cliff. It's true that, six months ago, I may have behaved with some insensitivity to her gut-rending liplessness but that's the whole story, unless there has been some revision in the definition of `rape' that I missed."

"Isn't `rape' an odd charge for a civil suit?" Mr. Spracken asked.

"There is something odd about this whole thing," Mr. Schwirltz said thoughtfully. "Why would someone wait six months to instigate a rape claim? What is `vehicular abuse'?"

"Oh," Horace cleared his throat with some embarassment. "That was either this morning, or six months ago. She was, uh, stuck in the same traffic jam I was in back then, and today I . . . waved to her, on the highway."

"Not exactly actionable conduct." Mr. Schwirltz put his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes in concentration.

"I said one word to her."

"Only one?" Mr. Spracken asked.

"Six months ago."

"What word?"

"She subsequently called me a bastard and told a police officer to kill me. Then she fingered me."

"She pointed you out to the police?" Linda asked.

"For one word?"

"Ah - no," Horace explained to Linda. "It is generally construed as an obscene gesture."

"That kind of finger!"

"Must have been a doozy!" marvelled Spracken IV. "Tell us; what was this magic word?"

"Her name."

"Her name?"

"Yes."

"Her own name?"

"I believe the apt ejaculation is `Bingo!'"

"She must be touchy."

"Well, I sort of taunted her. I intentionally mispronounced it."

"I still say she's touchy."

"I mimicked her elocution. I called her `Wowita'."

“I still say she's touchy. If I sued everyone who mispronounced my name I'd be a rich man."

"You are a rich man."

"Don't twist my words."

"No need to.”

"I've got it!" Mr. Schwirltz snapped his fingers. "Horace, did this O'Roarke give you any reason to suspect, six months ago or any time since, that she might sue you?"

"No, I never dreamed - oh, well, she did ask me if I had a lawyer, but I took it to be a rhetorical question and never gave it a second thought."

"Never," Mr. Schwirltz said sternly, "never take that as rhetorical. It is a threat, every time. Am I right, Robert?"

"Not necessarily," Bob calmly said at the same time his father barked, "Damn right!" They looked at each other, gaze against glare.

"And this vehicular thing," Mr. Schwirltz continued, "this happened six months ago? Were there any incidents in the interim?"

"No. The traffic jam was entirely on the highway."

"I mean had you seen her in the meantime."

"Not at all. She had passed from my life like yesterday's asparagus. Or so I would have hoped, had I thought of her. Which I hadn't. Until this morning, when I repaid her compliment."

"Linda," Mr. Schwirltz looked excited. "What's our workload like for the next year?" Without waiting for an answer from her, he turned to r f. "plaski, I could ask you the same question. Gear up for free air, Spin Doctor." He eagerly reread Horace's subpoena, the light of joy radiating from his face.

“Manny," Mr. Spracken said. "I hear cash registers in that smile. What's up?"

"Linda," Mr. Schwirltz looked at his colleague. "Remember that Fenmire Heights case about five years ago?"

"Wasn't that the one where our client - Mr. Wrangle? wasn't it? - got reamed on the plea-bargain under duress of pending racketeering indictments?"

"Exactly. And Chuckie Wrangle was a sixty-three year old ice cream vendor. Do you recall the plaintiff of record in that case? I'll tell you. The Anti-Misogynism Committee of the Mandibular Research Foundation. The name sticks in the mind for some reason. His ice cream consistently froze the front teeth of one of their members. It was this consistency over time that enabled them to convince - guess who? - Judge Thisby Bruce - "

"Oh my God that's right!" Linda exclaimed.

" - that it was premeditated conspiracy on Mr. Wrangle's part. Horace!" Schwirltz looked him in the eye. "We blew that one bad! We should have gone to jury. There was no way they would have brought the kind of award that poor old man's suppliers and insurance companies had to dish out. But the old gent was scared witless. Never again. I anticipate these man-haters - "

"Mr. Schwirltz! Indeed!" Wendy was offended.

"Woman-lovers, then?" Mr. Spracken countered leeringly.

" - to go after the district attorney to convene a grand jury to investigate you for organized crime and racketeering based on no more than this fabricated rape complaint. They've only been waiting for a second episode - I assume your `wave' to the plaintiff this morning could be interpreted as belligerent, demeaning or disrespectful in some way? - "

"In every way."

"Er - yes. That, then, is the additional episode to use as evidence of reiterated offense. As you can see, it only took them - " he glanced at his watch - "two hours to serve you with a subpoena once that episode took place. But this time," he scanned his audience with fire in his eyes, "this time we call their bluff, and raise them! No plea bargain, Horace. As soon as they throw you in jail - "

"HOLD ON THAR, Baba Louie!" Horace shouted."

" - we'll slap them with a counter-suit and corrupt organization allegations of our own! They'll never know what hit 'em! I foresee continuing appeals all the way to the Supreme Court. I don't know if they can afford it, but Assholes Unanimous surely can, and our name will blacken the papers for years with this." He rubbed his hands together.

"Dammit!" grinned Spracken IV. "Dammit!"

"Jail?" Horace croaked. "Years?"

"Don't worry, Mr. Aeiouaey," Linda said soothingly. "Even Thisby Bruce has to set bail for a first offender - er, you haven't got any prior convictions, have you?"

"No."

"Thank God!" she was obviously greatly relieved. Horace squinted at her. " - and once bail is set - "

"You're out!" thundered Spracken IV, "Whatever the amount! Dammit dammit dammit! This is more fun than I've had since I knew what fun was! Stickin' it to a dyke do-gooder! Jesus Christ I wish it was tomorrow!"

"The Mandibular Research Foundation has funded innumerable cleft palate reconstruction surgeries for poor families and orphans world-wide," Bob noted soberly. "I hope we aren't doing something here we will regret."

"I'm not!" Spracken IV declared happily. "How about you, rapist? Are you pretty keen on the tactics of the hare-lips? How about you, Manny? Do you suppose that Wrangler gink lies on his cot in catatonic remorse over that little brat's tingling incisors? I, for one, know goddam well I doubt it. Stick 'em, I say! Stick 'em! stick 'em! Stick 'em!"

"mr. schwirltz displays a marvelous instinctive grasp of the potential publicity such a conflict could generate," mr. plaski commented. “it’s a classic. Male against female! Lurid accusations! Big bucks! organized crime! rape! the sofa spuds will devour it wholesale. horace'll pull down bigger name recognition numbers than santa claus. from a p r aspect, mr. schwirltz, you can't mess this one up. just keep it in court, and let me feed you public statements on horace's behalf."

"Perhaps," Dr. Paola broke his silence, "there is a way to focus our actions on the - what is it? - Misogynist Haters' Club - "

"Anti-Misogynism Committee," Wendy corrected him. "They - uh - send me literature. I - that is - it seems - "

"Are you a man-hater?" Spracken IV demanded. "Treason!"

"No!" she quickly exclaimed. "I'm just, somehow, on their mailing list. Even to me, even before the advent of Assholes Unanimous, they seemed a little too, well, militant. Maintenance of sperm-slaves and annihilation of the rest of the male sex, that kind of thing. For myself, I'd settle for economic parity; which, I'm happy to say, as a member of this Board, I'm on the other side of, now."

"A little too militant?" Jay queried.

"Sperm-slaves, eh?" Horace daydreamed.

"They've got only themselves to blame if they expose their philanthropic endeavors by engaging in this kind of selective litigious harassment," Mr. Schwirltz maintained. "This is war!"

"war. yes. i have found," r f, strategist, revealed, "in wars of this nature, that is, where the enemy is well-defined and not the public at large, it is invariably critical to make use of intelligence."

"I go so far as to attempt to employ it in peacetime as well," Jay reinforced. "Get it? I try - "

"i mean strategic, secret, covert intelligence."

"Dammit!" Spracken IV let slip.

"Have you, er, some operatives you can recommend along those lines?" Mr. Schwirltz seized upon the thought.

"my contacts have in the past been expert in the industrial aspects of the, ah, research," plaski admitted. "this seems to be in a somewhat different category. i, for instance, never had a judge investigated."

Linda Thompson Simpson, in an act of uncharacteristic resolve and haste, suddenly dove headlong onto the table and, sliding on her stomach heedless of coffee, reports, bagels and exposed calves, grabbed Sam's thing with both hands and immediately flicked it off. Sitting up on the table, panting slightly, eyes still somewhat reverberating in their bungs, she turned to Sam. "It's a pity you forgot your micro-corder today, isn't it, Mr. Windsor?

"Dammit!"

"Miss Thompson Simpson," Raul said in feigned indignation. "I am shocked! Shocked!"

"Linda!" Manny exclaimed glowingly. "Your instincts of self-preservation are being honed nicely. As are, apparently, your reflexes. Nevertheless, Sam did not forget his micro-corder today."

"He didn't?"

"No. As you can see, it's right there in your hands. And, more to the point, it sat out on the table the whole meeting."

"It did?"

"Yes. Just ask Mrs. Wills. Or Katy. Or, and in particular, our other little guest who left so precipitately as to be separated from her footwear. As I remember it, she made a rather thorough inspection of the whole room."

"Oh. Yes, she did, didn't she?"

"I believe so. But don't be disheartened," Mr. Schwirltz continued. "Your intentions were pure gold. How was Sam to know, after all, that the batteries in the thing were dead? It certainly looked like it was recording. Didn't it, Sam?"

"It sure did," Sam answered. "In fact, I'm almost sure - "

"Sam!" Dr. Paola interrupted suddenly, as Linda climbed down. "Sam, how susceptible are you to hypnotic suggestion?"

"Hypnotism! Mr. Paola, is that really necessary?" Bob asked.

"Doctor!" Raul emphasized with some exasperation. "Doctor, as it happens, for your information, Mister Spracken, of Forensic Psychology, an esoteric vein that I have mined to excess with no sign of depletion. It has endowed me with, I say with humility, enormous powers of persuasion."

"Sperm-slaves," Horace mumbled.

"Doc," Manny said, "could you enlist your persuasiveness in some way to spy out the Anti-Misogynism Committee? That thing is off, right?" he suddenly pointed at the recorder.

"Dammit!" The word "spy" was spark to powder in Spracken IV's brain.

"The batteries are dead," Sam said matter-of-factly.

Horace backed his head out of the guillotine at the last possible second. S-S-S-SSSHUNK! The blade buried itself in the block. "Dead?!" he shouted, sitting bolt upright and staring off into space. The others glanced at him for a moment. The mechanics of genius were, undoubtedly, mysterious.

"You would like some, ah, background information on the antagonistic litigators." Raul made eye contact with each of them and reclined in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. "Let us leave it at that, shall we?"

"Dammit!" Spracken IV thought, managing to suppress vocalizing it this time, although he grinned splittingly. "This, this is a job," he mused in the most dramatic way he could muse, which was dramatic enough to give him gooseflesh, "for Bill Smith! Dammit!" He ecstatically wrapped himself in silent planning.

"Excuse me, everyone," Horace coughed, wiping his forehead. "Where were we?"

"Yes," said Mr. Schwirltz, after a moment of pause. "Yes. As usual, our Founder is right. This is, after all, a board meeting, not a defense brainstorming session; even if it does directly affect Assholes Unanimous. We have allowed ourselves to be distracted." He picked up a loose pile of papers, shook and blotted some of the spilled coffee off them, and spread them out to dry. "We should return our thoughts to our scheduled agenda now."

"Where were we?" Horace reiterated, still at sea.

"I believe it was time," said Wendy with a sigh, "for Mr. McKay's report."

Everyone but Jay slumped in a pantomime moan.

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