He’s driven out, away, east over Vauxhall Bridge in a dented green Lagonda by his batman, a Corporal Wayne. The morning seems to grow colder the higher the sun rises. Clouds begin to gather after all. A crew of American sappers spills into the road, on route to clear some ruin nearby, singing:

It’s…

Colder than the nipple on a witch’s tit!

Colder than a bucket of penguin shit!

Colder than the hairs of a polar bear’s ass!

Colder than the frost on a champagne glass!

No, they are making believe to be narodnik, but I know, they are of Iasi, of Codreanu, his men, men of the League, they… they kill for him—they have oath! They try to kill me… Transylvanian Magyars, they know spells… at night they whisper… . Well, hrrump, heh, heh, here comes Pirate’s Condition creeping over him again, when he’s least expecting it as usual—might as well mention here that much of what the dossiers call Pirate Prentice is a strange talent for—well, for getting inside the fantasies of others: being able, actually, to take over the burden of managing them, in this case those of an exiled Rumanian royalist who may prove needed in the very near future. It is a gift the Firm has found uncommonly useful: at this time mentally healthy leaders and other historical figures are indispensable. What better way to cup and bleed them of excess anxiety than to get someone to take over the running of their exhausting little daydreams for them… to live in the tame green lights of their tropical refuges, in the breezes through their cabañas, to drink their tall drinks, changing your seat to face the entrances of their public places, not letting their innocence suffer any more than it already has… to get their erections for them, at the oncome of thoughts the doctors feel are inappropriate… fear all, all that they cannot afford to fear… remembering the words of P. M. S. Blackett, “You can’t run a war on gusts of emotion.” Just hum the nitwit little tune they taught you, and try not to fuck up:

Yes—I’m—the—

Fellow that’s hav-ing other peop-le’s fan-tasies,

Suffering what they ought to be themselves—

No matter if Girly’s on my knee—

If Kruppingham-Jones is late to tea,

I don’t even get to ask for whom the bell’s…

[Now over a lotta tubas and close-harmony trombones]

It never does seem to mat-ter if there’s daaaanger,

For Danger’s a roof I fell from long ago—

I’ll be out-one-day and never come back,

Forget the bitter you owe me, Jack,

Just piss on m’ grave and car-ry on the show!