“Yaagghh.” Wrapped in his tattered sheet, helped to his feet by solicitous croqueteers, Slothrop goes limping after Bloat, off the turf and into the Casino. They stop first at Slothrop’s room. He finds it newly cleaned, perfectly empty, ready for new guests. “Hey…” Yanking out drawers empty as drums: every stitch of clothing he owns is gone, including his Hawaiian shirt. What the fuck. Groaning, he rummages in the desk. Empty. Closets empty. Leave papers, ID, everything, taken. His back muscles throb with pain. “What is this, Ace?” going to check out the number on the door again, everything now for form’s sake. He knows. Hogan’s shirt bothers him most of all.

“First put on something respectable,” Bloat’s tone full of head-masterish revulsion. Two subalterns come crashing in carrying their valises. They halt goggling at Slothrop. “Here mate, you’re in the wrong theatre of operations,” cries one. “Show a bit of respect,” the other haw-haws, “it’s Lawrence of Arabia!”

“Shit,” sez Slothrop. Can’t even lift his arm, much less swing it. They proceed to Bloat’s room, where they put together a uniform.

“Say,” it occurs to Slothrop, “where’s that Mucker-Maffick this morning?”

“I’ve no idea, really. Off with his girl. Or girls. Where’ve you been?”

But Slothrop’s looking around, tightening rectal fear belatedly taking hold now, neck and face beading in a surge of sweat, trying to find in this room Tantivy shares with Bloat some trace of his friend. Bristly Norfolk jacket, pinstripe suit, anything… .

Nothing. “Did that Tantivy move out, or what?”

“He may have moved in, with Françoise or What’s-her-name. Even gone back to London early, I don’t keep a file on him, I’m not the missing-persons bureau.”

“You’re his friend… .” Bloat, with an insolent shrug, for the very first time since they met, now looks Slothrop in the eyes. “Aren’t you? What are you?”

The answer’s in Bloat’s stare, the dim room become rationalized, nothing to it of holiday, only Savile Row uniforms, silver hairbrushes and razor arranged at right angles, a shiny spike on an octagonal base impaling half an inch of pastel flimsies, all edges neatly squared… a piece of Whitehall on the Riviera.

Slothrop drops his eyes away. “See if I can find him,” he mumbles, retreating out the door, uniform ballooning at the ass and too tight at the waist. Live wi’ the way it feels mate, you’ll be in it for a while… .

He begins at the bar they talked in last night. It is empty except for a colonel with a great twisted mustache, with his hat on, sitting stiffly in front of something large, fizzing, opaque, and garnished with a white chrysanthemum. “Didn’t they teach you at Sandhurst to salute?” this officer screams. Slothrop, hesitating only a moment, salutes. “Damned O.C.T.U. must be full of Nazis.” No bartender in sight. Can’t remember what— “Well?”

“Actually, what I am is, uh, is an American, I only borrowed the uniform, and well I was looking for a Lieutenant, or actually Leftenant, Mucker-Maffick… .”