Now images from his memory, triggered by the line of troops, came to Ward’s aid. Once more he was a Ranger captain commencing inspection. Unconsciously his musculature made adjustments. He drew in his stomach, squared his shoulders, set his face in officious lines, and contracted his sphincter. Fifty yards from the troopers and inwardly counting cadence, Ward stepped smartly from the yoke of the peace symbol doing a right oblique away from the leader’s end of the column. His military pace alerted the Patriots and he caught a visible stiffening, a surreptitious dressing to the right.
Striding directly toward the left pivot man, a lard-bottomed Patriot with the hip spread of a female, Ward found him repugnant before he got within nose shot. The man’s eyes were blue gimlets buried in a ball of dough from which jutted a thin, aristocratic nose as out of place on the face as a yacht’s prow on a garbage scow. Sweat oozing from his fat streaked the dirt on his skin, making him look greasier than the oil-splattered motorcycle he stood beside. A blond fuzz which could have been removed with one swipe of a depilatory grew above his lip. Ward had seen mustaches grown with more authority by old maids.
Stenciled in flaking yellow above the pocket of the Patriot’s jacket Ward could read the name “No Balls,” and suddenly he was fighting to conceal his astonishment. These thirteen bulls and one heifer were letting a steer run with their herd. Ward’s kick had done it. The toe he had planted three months ago had borne this bloated fruit. Beneath the dewlap jowls and flatulence of No Balls were hidden the once patrician form and features of the two-star, Ball Bearing.
Down the column Ward walked, slapping the rolled orders against his thigh in the manner of a British officer with a swagger stick. Slowly his eyes traveled from top to bottom of each Patriot and flicked a glance at each machine. They were all there, Sprocket, Razor, Hoot Owl, the Loon, Lefty, Muffler, Breeches, Drain Oil, Crotch Job, the Barber, Arms, and Brazos, and then Ward came face to face with Big Papa.
Face to face but not front to front. Big Papa had taken a step forward, swiveling on his hips with his left thigh foremost, guarding his crotch. Ward halted before the barrier but his eyes continued their inspection of Little Mama. She wouldn’t recognize him. The bemused smile and vacant eyes beneath his crash helmet told him that. Dolores was flying so high she needed an oxygen mask. But for a split second Ward’s gaze lingered on the pneumatic outthrust of her breasts.
Then he was clicking his heels and handing Big Papa the scroll.
“These are your orders with the schedule for the exhibition of the groupies. Permit no spectator to pinch or stroke until the promenade in the nude commences. Prior to the program there will be an election by acclamation of a Festival Queen, who will be seated on the throne.”
Big Papa didn’t unroll his orders. He handed them to Brazos, who handed them to Arms, who handed them to the Barber.
“We brought the queen with us.”
“Reposing special trust and confidence in your ability to judge feminine pulchitrude, I then hereby cancel the acclamation of a queen and install your choice on the throne.”
“What’d he say, Barber?”
“I don’t know, Big Papa, but it sounded like a compliment.”
Ward spoke to Big Papa, “Before the festivities commence, move your men among the crowd and confiscate all pot or hard stuff. When Miss Aphrodite comes on stage, clear the gravel paths and station your men according to the written procedure. Permit no premature grouping before the Bach processional. Understood?”
“You dig him, Barber?”
“Got him.”
“The queen will be crowned with a golden crown during the first promenade.”
“She’s got her crown,” Big Papa rumbled.
“Want a golden crown, Big Papa,” Dolores mumbled.
“Nobody touches your head but me, Little Mama.”
Big Papa was wrong, Ward thought, as he saluted, did a left face, and strode back to the shell. Little Mama would get her crown and more besides, for her world lines had once again swung Ward into her orbit. He had never felt such affinity for a female.
Propelled by pneumatic thrusts, he tripped lightly onto the stage, calling, “Back to the earphones, Freddie.”
Once more in the sound control room, Ward flicked on switches, setting the amplifiers for a maximum interference, and said, “Once more to the repertoire, Freddie. Ah, one, ah, two, ah, three… Hit it.”
But no sounds caterwauled from the amplifiers. Instead, Freddie’s voice came over his earphones. “All right, Al. When are you going to quit this she-it and play ball?”
“Freddie, how’d you know it was me?”
“When you cakewalked across the stage after you left Dolores. What’s this all about?”
“You’ve been assessed punitive damages for an overcharge on my rent and board… So, we can knock it off, Sherlock, and I’ll take you to lunch.”
But Ward was talking to an embryonic lawyer.
“Where’s your old man with my bread?”
“He’ll be here at two-thirty.”
“Make sure he is,” Freddie chuckled. “Those crackers out front are looking for a blond-haired pussyfooter who owes them a crotch job.”
Ward and the trio lunched in the east wing amid a twitter of females, and Freddie recalled his encounter with the FBI. “That Culpepper kept smelling my Aqua Velva and jerking my Afro.”
After lunch, the trio returned to work and Ward went to the penthouse office, which he had to himself since Diana was assembling the rejuves for the grand march to the pavilions. He called and reserved a seat on the five o’clock flight to San Jose and then dialed Ester to arrange for her to pick him up at the airport and to permit Cabroni’s wiretap to record his conversation.
Ester bubbled with the latest news. She had flown to Stockholm, where she had “wired” him into the Nobel Committee. Carrick dropped by occasionally to see her and to talk over his problem. He had approved Ward’s request for a lower research grant, which Ward had expected, but Carrick’s problem interested him more because it seemed similar to Diana’s. “His psychiatrist says he doesn’t want to make love or war,” Ester said. “He wants to make money.”
Finally she asked, “How’s Mexico?”
“I’m on my way home, but I’m dropping by Ruth Gordon’s Adorable U Beauty Ranch, at 2:30, just to say hello.”
“You’re supposed to have done away with her,” Ester said accusingly.
“In a way I have,” he assured her, knowing Ester and Cabroni would read different meanings in his remark, “but I’ll be at the San Jose airport at six. Can you meet me?”
“Love to. I’ve been longing for a little domestic peace ever since you left. But, darling, don’t get any more underwear. I found a deal on boxer shorts and bought you two dozen pairs.”
So she had brushed off Cabroni and gotten a bodyguard in the bargain. Clever woman, Ester, Ward thought, as he hung up.
And he couldn’t find a better wife, as his recent experiences had taught him. Any husband who stepped out on his wife was a fool for compounding his original error.
His call should get Cabroni to the ranch by 2:30.
Ward showered and shaved for the second time today, carefully combed his wavy blond hair, buffed his fingernails, and put on his denim jeans, the pink suede shirt, and his boots.
At ten minutes to one, he laid out his gray suit, shirt, matching tie and socks, and a pair of shoes. Regardless of his presence or absence, Diana’s horological ethics would hold her to the programmed schedule, and he didn’t wish to make an appearance on the grounds until ten minutes into the Brahms
Fourth
. His experiment was scheduled to start a little later than Diana’s.
Ward took his auburn wig below and stuffed it into the side bag of his motorcycle with the Atascadero identification papers. From the store room he removed the papier-mâché queen’s crown and six inches of dynamite fuze he had salvaged from a blasting project. He lashed the crown to the fender rack and taped the fuze to the top of the gas tank of the motorcycle, inserting one end into a percussion cap which he stuck inside the gasoline tank.
Clearly revealed as the boy who, in trust and friendship, had first pussyfooted into the parking lot of the Daisy Chain, Ward rolled his machine onto the parking lot, jumped astride it, and coasted down the approach road to the bend where he swung into the grove, following his plotted path which exited behind the restroom. Below he could hear Brahms, played with Diana’s metronomic skill, rising over wolf calls and whistles. From rehearsals, Ward could tell by the music he had almost five minutes before the advent of the forties.
Crouching low with Little Mama’s crown, he parked behind the restroom and sprinted to the line of Patriot motorcycles, where he paused to scout downslope. Through a bright golden haze over the meadow, he saw the two lines of Grecian shepherdesses, flinging poppies left and right, had split at the yoke of the Y and were moving toward the perimeter of the circle. All Patriots were on station, pacing back and forth inside the restraining ropes, their star-spangled clubs at the ready.
A shirtless boy slipped under the rope as Ward watched and made a lunge at a blonde thirty-eight, but before a finger could touch a thigh, Sprocket, patrolling the area, moved with the speed of a riot policeman to club the youth to the ground. The whomp of the club could be heard by Ward. Waddling over at top speed, No Balls dragged the body off the path.
Hypnotized by the parade, few spectators noticed the clubbing or another by the Owl on the opposite extender of the Y. Two spectators leaped at the same rejuve in Arms territory and were dispatched with a zap-zap. Then Brazos got three and Ward distinctly saw the sadist, Barber, club a youth who merely leaned too far over the ropes.
The lines of nymphs were beginning to weave around the obstructions. Big Papa had made an error by assigning only No Balls to the clean-up detail. Bodies were accumulating faster than the eunuch could drag them from the path.
But Ward could not be too critical of Big Papa’s planning when suddenly faced with an error of his own. The forties began to emerge from the tents, throwing their poppies in the style of shot putters and the quantum jump in the crowd noise was much greater than the arithmetic progression between breast sizes. Hooees, wolf yells, and whistles threatened to drown out Brahms. On the one hand, Ward wondered hopefully whether the sound signified that his obsession was the common lot of males, and on the other he was sickened by apprehension. The noise could destroy his plans by raising the decibel level higher than any he might generate from Dolores.
Now was the moment, and the moment might have come too late.
Ward stepped before the throne and leaned near the ear of the bemused queen gazing on her subjects below.
“Coronation time. Come, Little Mama, and get your golden crown.”
He backed away from her, standing with his heels almost to the edge of the dais, and held high her crown, its gilt gleaming and its glass rubies and emeralds glittering in the filtered sunlight.
Without removing Ward’s helmet, regal in her euphoria, Dolores rose from the throne, her breasts heaving as if her lungs were there. She saw the blond hair, the pink suede shirt, and desire in his gray eyes. Her lips formed a phrase he read, “BMW 280… Wow.”
Then she was floating toward him, her arms spread for a lover’s embrace, her smile dimpling, and Ward’s resolution wavered. In trust and in the joy of reunion, she came to him, and in an innocence that left her crotch unguarded. His nature revolted against the rejection of any woman offering the ultimate gift of womanhood, but coldly planned policy and the noises below demanded that he kick the gift-bearer in the gift.
Patriotism found the spur to his weakening resolve. The decal of Old Glory, still adhering to his azure helmet, was scratched and dirty. His left leg tensed. His right leg pivoted free.
Dolores was drifting closer.
Suddenly an insight struck him. A ritual kick should be sufficient; a fillip of contempt for her femininity would spare his chivalry, strike a blow for country, and rid him, symbolically at least, of breast obsessions. His offense to the girl’s ego would release a scream of indignation loud enough to draw attention to his deed.
With a swift but soft uncoiling Ward’s leg stroked out and up. His toe, held rigid, landed as lightly as a dove in a dovecote.
Instinctively the girl clamped her thighs, but his boot was there, and her unaccustomed action threw her backward, screaming, as Ward was catapulted forward. The crown went tumbling as he threw out his arms to break his fall. Chest over breasts, they fell, and Ward bounced upward to his feet again, rebounding from a resilience suspiciously like that of silicone, to barely escape her embrace.
Dolores’s continuing screams were squeals of delight.
Though free to flee, Ward held his position out of chivalry and from expediency. Arching over her mammoth heavings, Dolores’s squeals keened unnoticed to the crowd below. A few spectators on the upper fringes did, indeed, look back, but only in passing wonder at such a strange hang-up to have in one’s bag. From the sounds, it was easy for the viewers to assume that he and Dolores were merely doing their thing.
In a sense, Ward knew they were correct. Looking backwards, prancing in mark time, he knew he was hooked in a figurative sense, and her breasts had done it.
Then, that which had almost destroyed Ward’s plans saved them.
When E-44 emerged from the pavilion, a silence of awe and reverence fell over the multitude. Between the notes of Brahms, the shrieked urgings of Little Mama were clearly audible. “Faster, Little Papa. Faster.”
Suddenly the cry of the Loon quavered over the crowd, “That pinko’s back, Big Papa, and he’s pussyfooting Little Mama.”
The alarm from the Patriots’ lookout was Ward’s cue for an exit, but gallantry bade him stay.
“Brazos, Arms, front and center.” Rage lifted Big Papa’s voice into thunder. “Crotch Job, man your chains.”
The last bone-chilling order freed Ward from all claims of gallantry. This was no time for pussyfooting. Ward bounded toward the girls’ John with Little Mama’s plea trailing him.