I'm not quite sure why we hid him. I think it must have been to simplify the tableau.

As for Newt's and Angela's and Frank's tale of how they divided up the world's supply of _ice-nine_ on Christmas Eve--it petered out when they got to details of the crime itself. The Hoenikkers couldn't remember that anyone said anything to justify their taking _ice-nine_ as personal property. They talked about what _ice-nine_ was, recalling the old man's brain-stretchers, but there was no talk of morals.

"Who did the dividing?" I inquired.

So thoroughly had the three Hoenikkers obliterated their memories of the incident that it was difficult for them to give me even that fundamental detail.

"It wasn't Newt," said Angela at last. "I'm sure of ihat."

"It was either you or me," mused Frank, thinking hard.

"You got the three Mason jars off the kitchen shelf," said Angela. "It wasn't until the next day that we got the three little Thermos jugs."

"That's right," Frank agreed. "And then you took an ice pick and chipped up the _ice-nine_ in the saucepan."

"That's right," said Angela. "I did. And then somebody brought tweezers from the bathroom."

Newt raised his little hand. "I did."

Angela and Newt were amazed, remembering how enterprising little Newt had been.

"I was the one who picked up the chips and put them in the Mason jars," Newt recounted. He didn't bother to hide the swagger he must have felt.

"What did you people do with the dog?" I asked limply.

"We put him in the oven," Frank told me. "It was the only thing to do."

"History!" writes Bokonon. "Read it and weep!"

When I Felt the Bullet Enter My Heart 114

So I once again mounted the spiral staircase in my tower; once again arrived at the uppermost battlement of my castle; and once more looked out at my guests, my servants, my cliff, and my lukewarm sea.

The Hoenikkers were with me. We had locked "Papa's" door, and had spread the word among the household staff that "Papa" was feeling much better.

Soldiers were now building a funeral pyre out by the hook. They did not know what the pyre was for.

There were many, many secrets that day.

Busy, busy, busy.

I supposed that the ceremonies might as well begin, and I told Frank to suggest to Ambassador Horlick Minton that he deliver his speech.

Ambassador Minton went to the seaward parapet with his memorial wreath still in its case. And he delivered an amazing speech in honor of the Hundred Martyrs to Democracy. He dignified the dead, their country, and the life that was over for them by saying the "Hundred Martyrs to Democracy" in island dialect. That fragment of dialect was graceful and easy on his lips.

The rest of his speech was in American English. He had a written speech with him--fustian and bombast, I imagine. But, when he found he was going to speak to so few, and to fellow Americans for the most part, he put the formal speech away.

A light sea wind ruffled his thinning hair. "I am about to do a very un-ambassadorial thing," he declared. "I am about to tell you what I really feel."

Perhaps Minton had inhaled too much acetone, or perhaps he had an inkling of what was about to happen to everybody but me. At any rate, it was a strikingly Bokononist speech he gave.

"We are gathered here, friends," he said, "to honor _lo Hoon-yera Mora-toorz tut Zamoo-cratz-ya_, children dead, all dead, all murdered in war. It is customary on days like this to call such lost children men. I am unable to call them men for this simple reason: that in the same war in which _lo Hoon-yera Mora-toorz tut Zamoo-cratz-ya_ died, my own son died.

"My soul insists that I mourn not a man but a child.

"I do not say that children at war do not die like men, if they have to die. To their everlasting honor and our everlasting shame they _do_ die like men, thus making possible the manly jubilation of patriotic holidays.

"But they are murdered children all the same.

"And I propose to you that if we are to pay our sincere respects to the hundred lost children of San Lorenzo, that we might best spend the day despising what killed them; which is to say, the stupidity and viciousness of all mankind.

"Perhaps, when we remember wars, we should take off our clothes and paint ourselves blue and go on all fours all day long and grunt like pigs. That would surely be more appropriate than noble oratory and shows of flags and well-oiled guns.

"I do not mean to be ungrateful for the fine, martial show we are about to see--and a thrilling show it really will be . . ."

He looked each of us in the eye, and then he commented very softly, throwing it away, "And hooray say I for thrilling shows."

We had to strain our ears to hear what Minton said next.

"But if today is really in honor of a hundred children murdered in war," he said, "is today a day for a thrilling show?

"The answer is yes, on one condition: that we, the celebrants, are working consciously and tirelessly to reduce the stupidity and viciousness of ourselves and of all mankind."

He unsnapped the catches on his wreath case.

"See what I have brought?" he asked us.

He opened the case and showed us the scarlet lining and the golden wreath. The wreath was made of wire and artificial laurel leaves, and the whole was sprayed with radiator paint.

The wreath was spanned by a cream-colored silk ribbon on which was printed, "PRO PATRIA."

Minton now recited a poem from Edgar Lee Masters' the _Spoon River Anthology_, a poem that must have been incomprehensible to the San Lorenzans in the audience--and to H. Lowe Crosby and his Hazel, too, for that matter, and to Angela and Frank.

I was the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge.

When I felt the bullet enter my heart

I wished I had staid at home and gone to jail

For stealing the hogs of Curl Trenary,

Instead of running away and joining the army.

Rather a thousand times the county jail

Than to lie under this marble figure with wings,

And this granite pedestal

Bearing the words, "_Pro Patria_."

What do they mean, anyway?

"What do they mean, anyway?" echoed Ambassador Horlick Minton. "They mean, 'For one's country.'" And he threw away another line. "Any country at all," he murmured.

"This wreath I bring is a gift from the people of one country to the people of another. Never mind which countries. Think of people . . .

"And children murdered in war.

"And any country at all.

"Think of peace.

"Think of brotherly love.

"Think of plenty.

"Think of what paradise, this world would be if men were kind and wise.

"As stupid and vicious as men are, this is a lovely day," said Ambassador Horlick Minton. "I, in my own heart and as a representative of the peace-loving people of the United States of America, pity _lo Hoon-yera Mora-toorz tut Za-moo-cratz-ya_ for being dead on this fine day."

And he sailed the wreath off the parapet.

There was a hum in the air. The six planes of the San Lorenzan Air Force were coming, skimming my lukewarm sea. They were going to shoot the effigies of what H. Lowe Crosby had called "practically every enemy that freedom ever had."

As It Happened 115

We went to the seaward parapet to see the show. The planes were no larger than grains of black pepper. We were able to spot them because one, as it happened, was trailing smoke.

We supposed that the smoke was part of the show.

I stood next to H. Lowe Crosby, who, as it happened, was alternately eating albatross and drinking native rum. He exhaled fumes of model airplane cement between lips glistening with albatross fat. My recent nausea returned.

I withdrew to the landward parapet alone, gulping air. There were sixty feet of old stone pavement between me and all the rest.

I saw that the planes would be coming in low, below the footings of the castle, and that I would miss the show. But nausea made me incurious. I turned my head in the direction of their now snarling approach. Just as their guns began to hammer, one plane, the one that had been trailing smoke, suddenly appeared, belly up, in flames.

It dropped from my line of sight again and crashed at once into the cliff below the castle. Its bombs and fuel exploded.

The surviving planes went booming on, their racket thinning down to a mosquito hum.

And then there was the sound of a rockslide--and one great tower of "Papa's" castle, undermined, crashed down to the sea.

The people on the seaward parapet looked in astonishment at the empty socket where the tower had stood. Then I could hear rockslides of all sizes in a conversation that was almost orchestral.

The conversation went very fast, and new voices entered in. They were the voices of the castle's timbers lamenting that their burdens were becoming too great.

And then a crack crossed the battlement like lightning, ten feet from my curling toes.