holes. So, in the almost unbearably brilliant blue sky, they soared and roared aloft in a giant iridescent bubble. The ship was steady as a bathtub, the stewards were preparing lunch, there was a tantalizing scent of coffee. Everybody said everything was wonderful.
The casual arrangement of the seats and the roar of the engines made conversation difficult. So the company sat for the most part in asplendor of aerial isolation, earthly mortals helplessly caught up in a godlike environment.
The canny and taciturn Gabe Target, who was said to hold the mortgage on every skyscraper in Texas and to own at least half of all the oil leases, now turned conversationally to the royal pair. His face was benign and mild, his abundant white hair parted very precisely in the middle, he resembled a good old baby until he lifted the hooded eyelids and you saw the twin cold grey phlegms through which his ophidian soul regarded the world. His voice was low and somewhat drawling. Understand you’re fixing to buy a ranch, you and the—uh—your good lady here. Takes a powerful sight of work, ranching. What you aiming to stock? Herefords?
Frantically the King snatched at the one familiar word which had emerged audibly from the rest.
“Ah yes, work! Everyone in your country works that is one of the wonderful things.” In a panic lest Gabe Target should make further inaudible offerings he turned to encounter the fascinated stare of Lona Lane’s husband seated just across the way. His royal training, drilled into him from the age of six, had taught him to file diplomatically in his memory names faces careers. At a loss now he regarded the tall moonfaced man smelling faintly of antiseptic. The eyes were myopically enlarged behind thick octagonal lenses, his maroon necktie matched his socks, his socks matched the faint stripe of his shirt. His beautifully manicured fingernails bore little white flecks under their glistening surface.
The King’s voice was high and plangent, it had the effect of a hoot in a cave. “I know of your charming wife’s career of course who does not but tell me what is your work your profession. Everyone works in this marvelous country of yours. And your name—I did not quite——”
The man, caught off guard, took a too hasty sip from the glass in his hand, coughed, managed to bow apologetically though seated. Recovering, “Lamax!” he roared. “G. Irwin Lamax. Oral specialist.”
An expression of absolute incomprehension glazed his listener’s face. Noting this, G. Irwin Lamax smiled and nodded understandingly.“Say, pardon me . I clean forgot you were a foreigner. I didn’t go for to get you buffaloed with American talk.” Smiling still more broadly he tapped his large even front teeth with a polished fingernail. “Oral specialist. Extractions. Teeth. Dentist.”
The King stared, stiffened, remembered, smiled a frosty smile, he was trying hard to say democracy democracy in his mind. He glanced at the lovely Lona Lane, he looked out of the window at the seemingly endless reaches of Bick Benedict’s empire, he closed his world-weary eyes a moment and wished himself quietly dead.
Bick Benedict, in response to a summoning glance from Leslie, came swiftly up the broad aisle between the seats. “Feeling all right, Sir? Well, I just thought…We’re flying over the south section now, we always buzz them a little when we go over.” He turned to face the assembled company, he stood an easy handsome figure in his very good tropical suit and his high-heeled polished tan boots; that boyish rather shy smile. He raised his voice. “Hold your hats, boys and girls! Hang on to your drinks. We’re going to give the south section a little buzz. Here we go!”
For perhaps thirty seconds then the huge ship did a series of banks, swoops and dives. It was an utterly idiotic and wantonly frightening performance, Leslie thought. Unadult and cruel. Some of the women visitors from outside Texas screamed. The Texas men
Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar