He’s been ossified in oceans of grog,

In the haunts of the wobbly whale—

He’s been half-seas over from Durban to Dover,

Wiv four shaky sheets to the gale.

For in London fog or Sahara’s sun,

Or the icebound steeps of Zermatt,

Loaded up for a lark to ’is Plimsoll mark

He’s been game to go off on a bat!

Yes, Tantivy’s been drunk in many a place… &c.

After dinner Slothrop gives Tantivy the high-sign. Their dancers go off arm in arm to the marble lounges where the toilet stalls are equipped with a network of brass voice-tubes, all acoustic, to make stall-to-stall conversation easier. Slothrop and Tantivy head for the nearest bar.

“Listen,” Slothrop talking into his highball glass, bouncing words off of ice cubes so they’ll have a proper chill, “either I’m coming down with a little psychosis here, or something funny is going on, right?”

Tantivy, who is feigning a relaxed air, breaks off humming “You Can Do a Lot of Things at the Sea-side That You Can’t Do in Town” to inquire, “Ah, yes, do you really think so?”

“Come on, that octopus.”

“The devilfish is found quite commonly on Mediterranean shores. Though usually not so large—is it the size that bothers you? Don’t Americans like—”

“Tantivy, it was no accident. Did you hear that Bloat? ‘Don’t kill it!’ He had a crab with him, m-maybe inside that musette bag, all set to lure that critter away with. And where’d he go tonight, anyhow?”

“I think he’s out on the beach. There’s a lot of drinking.”

“He drinks a lot?”

“No.”

“Look, you’re his friend—”

Tantivy moans. “God, Slothrop, I don’t know. I’m your friend too, but there’s always, you know, an element of Slothropian paranoia to contend with… .”

“Paranoia’s ass. Something’s up, a-and you know it!”

Tantivy chews ice, sights along a glass stirring rod, rips up a small napkin into a snowstorm, all sorts of bar business, he’s an old hand. But at last, in a soft voice, “Well, he’s receiving messages in code.”

“Ha!”

“I saw one in his kit this afternoon. Just a glimpse. I didn’t try to look closer. He is with Supreme Headquarters, after all—I suppose that could be it.”

“No, that’s not it. Now what about this—” and Slothrop tells about his midnight date with Katje. For a moment they might almost be back in the bureau at ACHTUNG, and the rockets falling, and tea in paper cups, and everything right again… .

“Are you going?”

“Shouldn’t I? You think she’s dangerous?”

“I think she’s delightful. If I hadn’t Françoise, not to mention Yvonne to worry about, I’d be racing you to her door.”

“But?”

But the clock over the bar only clicks once, then presently again, ratcheting time minutewise into their past.

“Either what you’ve got is contagious,” Tantivy begins, “or else they’ve an eye on me too.”

They look at each other. Slothrop remembers that except for Tantivy he’s all alone here. “Tell me.”

“I wish I could. He’s changed—but I couldn’t give you a single bit of evidence. It’s been since… I don’t know. Autumn. He doesn’t talk politics any more. God, we used to get into these— He won’t discuss his plans after he’s demobbed either, it’s something he used to do all the time. I thought the Blitz might have got him rattled… but after yesterday, I think it must be more. Damn it, it makes me sad.”