'Speaking professionally,' the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, 'as a nurse, I mean, with what you've got to shake, honey, you don't need much talent!'

'What do you mean, speaking as a nurse?'

'You heard me, honey - R.N., as in Registered by God Nurse!' the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, slight pique appearing in her otherwise dulcet tones.

'You? A nurse? That's a laugh!'

Reverend Mother Emeritus hiked up the skirt of her silver lamé gown. Strapped to her leg, above the knee, was a sort of purse. From it, she took a leather wallet. The silver lame gown (more properly, cassock) was form-fitting, and there was no place on or in it for a wallet or anything else that a lady might need.

'Have a look at that!' she said triumphantly.

The wallet was handmade. On one side, a medical caduceus, superimposed on the insignia of the United States Tenth Army Corps (Group), had been carved; below this was the word 'Korea.' The other side bore the carved legend, 'Presented to Major Hot Lips Houlihan, U.S. Army Nurse Corps, by the boys in Ward Three.'

The well-bosomed blonde looked at it intently.

'How do I know this is yours ?' she asked.

'Open it up, open it up,' the Reverend Mother Emeritus snapped. When opened, the billfold revealed a fan of plastic envelopes, each holding, back to back, two photographs.

The blonde looked at the photographs, and then back at the Reverend Mother Emeritus. The years had taken their toll, of course, but there was no question that the Army nurse in the photographs was the woman sitting beside her. One of the photographs showed her in surgical greens posing with two tall chaps and a somewhat smaller one, similarly clad. The nurse in the picture had an arm draped around the smaller man.

That's Dago Red,' the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, pointing with a long fingernail painted with gold-flecked purple nail polish to the smaller fellow. 'Now the Archbishop of Swengchan. Ask him whether I'm a nurse or not!'

Her fingernail moved to the other two men in the photograph. 'And that's Dr. Hawkeye Pierce, now chief of surgery of the Spruce Harbor Medical Center. And the other one is Dr. Trapper John McIntyre, the second-best chest cutter north of Boston and east of Chicago. Ask either of them, why don't you!'

The blonde nipped through the rest of the photographs. They showed the woman now sitting beside her in a variety of situations. There was one showing her poised like the Statue of Liberty (instead of a torch, she held a bottle of Scotch) atop a Russian T-34 tank. Others showed her in a hospital. The last photograph showed her in a Jeep. On the back of that was a red Department of Defense identification card, issued to Houlihan, Margaret J., Lt. Colonel, Army Nurse Corps, Retired.

‘I owe you an apology,' the blonde said. 'I'm really sorry.'

‘You damned well should be,' the Reverend Mother Emeritus said. 'Telling someone like me that you're working your way through nursing school by prancing around the bar in Sadie Shapiro's Strip Joint taking off your clothes.'

'But that's true,' the blonde said. ‘I am studying nursing. I hope to graduate in a year.'

'Then what are you doing in Sadie Shapiro's?'

'Earning my way,' the blonde said. .'I told you before.'

'Where I come from, they have such things as scholarships,' the Reverend Mother Emeritus said suspiciously, but the white fire of her enraged pride had visibly cooled - it now merely smouldered menacingly.

'The truth of the matter is ... what do I call you?'

'You call me Reverend Mother, that's what you damned well call me,' that worthy replied.

'The truth of the matter, Reverend Mother, is that before I knew what I was meant to be in life, I was already a stripper.'

'I see.'

'And you can imagine how the scholarship committees reacted when they came to the spot on the form that asked about previous employment.'

'Yes, I can,' the Reverend Mother Emeritus said, now very much softened. 'Tell me . . . what's your name ?'

'Betsy Boobs,' the young blonde said, and then, hurriedly, 'Oh, you mean my real name. Barbara Ann Miller.'

'How are you doing in nursing school, Barbara Ann? Grade-wise, I mean. That sort of thing.'

'I have an A average. I hope to become an operating-room nurse, and I try as hard as I can.' Barbara Ann replied. 'What kind of nurse were you ?'

'I am an operating-room nurse,' the Reverend Mother Emeritus said. 'Tell me, Barbara, can't your parents help you out?'

'I don't have any parents,' Barbara Ann replied.

'Would you mind if I checked on your story ?' the Reverend Mother Emeritus asked. Without waiting for a reply, she snapped her fingers to catch the bartender's attention. 'Give me a phone, Charley,' she ordered. 'And set the little lady and me up again.'

The waiter delivered the telephone, and the Reverend Mother got the number of the hospital from Barbara Ann, dialed it, and drummed her fingers impatiently. It was not possible to tell whether the impatience was with regard to the time it took the hospital to answer the telephone or the time it took the bartender to mix the martinis.

'Give me the chief of nursing services,' she said to the telephone. 'Margaret H. W. Wilson, chief nurse, the MacDonald School of Nursing, calling.' Pause. 'Yes, I know what time it is. What's the matter, don't you have a watch ?' Pause, this time a long one. 'Sorry to bother you this time of night, but I felt it necessary,' she began. 'My name is Margaret H. W. Wilson, R.N., chief nurse, MacDonald School of Nursing.' Pause. 'Oh, you've heard of us? Good. Then you know we're associated with the Gates of Heaven Hospital, right?' Pause. 'What I need is some information, out of school, about one of your students. A girl named Barbara Ann Miller.' This time there was a long, long pause, during which the Reverend Mother nodded her head from time to time, but said nothing.

Finally, however, she spoke again. 'Well, your problems about that are over. First thing in the morning, you send all her records to us. You can consider her transferred as of right now.' Pause. 'I'm sure there won't be any trouble, even though Gates of Heaven does have a religious connection. Not only have I got a religious connection myself, but the Archbishop owes me a couple of favors. There will be no trouble, you can take my word for it. Nice to talk to you.' She put the telephone down, picked up her martini glass, and touched it to the martini glass in Barbara Miller's hand.

'Welcome to the Ms. Prudence MacDonald Memorial School of Nursing,' she said.

'Is this for real ?' Barbara Ann asked.

'You can take my word for it, honey. Would the Reverend Mother Emeritus fool around about something as important as this?'

CHAPTER EIGHT

It did not go quite as smoothly as the Reverend Mother Emeritus had believed it would. From the very first, Barbara Ann Miller was anything but a typical anonymous student nurse.

When the GILIAFCG, Inc., pilgrims returned to the Crescent City, bringing Barbara Ann with them, they were greeted by members of the news media - not particularly because their return was of such earth-shaking importance, but because Colonel Beauregard C. Beaucoupmots, publisher of the New Orleans Picaroon-Statesman and owner of WOOM-TV ('The Voice of the Cradle of the Confederacy'), was one of the Reverend Mother Emeritus' greatest admirers.

His admiration was not for her theological achievements nor for her medical skills. Colonel Beauregard Beaucoupmots was enamored of the lady he called 'Miss Margaret' as a lady. He had first encountered her at the final rites of the Blessed Brother Buck. When she had spread her arms wide in a final gesture to the mourners, a strong gust of wind from Lake Ponchartrain had pressed her gown tightly against her body. The colonel hadn't seen such an exciting sight since he was fourteen, when his father had taken him to see Sally Rand and her Dance of the Bubbles at the New York World's Fair of 1939-40. As soon as what he considered to be a decent interval had passed (that is to say, the next day), he had proposed marriage. Upon rejection, he had repeated the offer to take her as his bride on the average of once every eighteen hours ever since, and showed no signs of discouragement whatever.

If getting publicity for either the GILIAFCC, Inc. (which organization the colonel referred to privately as 'Miss Margaret's faggots'), or the Ms. Prudence MacDonald Memorial School of Nursing was the way to Miss Margaret's heart, then the Picaroon-Statesman and WOOM-TV were at her service.

Although there had been at first some resistance from the editor about such round-the-clock coverage of the GILIAFCC, Inc., it had soon passed. The editor learned that his readers were far more interested in reading about the day-to-day undertakings of the GILIAFCC, Inc., membership than they were in, for example, the things columnists Evans and Novak wrote about. Evans and Novak seldom provided a smile, much less hysterical laughter.

And so, when the door of the airplane opened, and the Reverend Mother Emeritus emerged to raise her shepherd's crook and offer a blessing to the inhabitants of the Crescent City, the ladies and gentlemen of the print and electronic media were on hand. Their cameras saw, and their sharp little pencils recorded, the new addition to the Reverend Mother Emeritus' entourage.

In the mistaken belief that Miss Barbara Ann Miller was a member of the GILIAFCC, Inc., faithful, four reporters, two cameramen, and the anchorman of the seven-thirty news - none of whom had been inside a church in a decade - showed up that same day at the International Headquarters Temple begging for admission.

When the photograph showing Miss Barbara Ann Miller standing behind the Reverend Mother Emeritus was printed in the evening edition of the Picaroon-Statesman, and the edition, in the quaint cant of the trade, 'hit the streets,' there were so many would-be applicants for membership of the GILIAFCC, Inc., milling around Bourbon Street that horse-mounted police were required to maintain order.

It cannot be said that the Reverend Mother Emeritus did not do her best to dispel the interest in her transfer nursing student and to permit her to pursue her nursing studies in peace and quiet. But even the loan of twelve sturdy Knights of the Bayou Perdu Council, Knights of Columbus, guarding the doors of both the MacDonald School of Nursing and the Gates of Heaven Hospital were of no avail in keeping out the hordes of Miss Miller's admirers.

The straw that, so to speak, broke the back of the Reverend Mother Emeritus' firm intentions was the identification of Miss Barbara Ann Miller as Betsy Boobs. This was made by several New Orleans men whom business had taken to San Francisco.

It was impossible to continue nursing instruction in, say, 'sutures, their application and removal' when the streets outside the classroom were filled with hordes of young (and old) men screaming, 'We want Betsy Boobs!' and 'Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!'

It was at this point that Margaret H. W. Wilson, in her role as chief of nursing instruction, turned again to her old comrades-in-arms, Doctors Hawkeye Pierce andTrapper John McIntyre, and their chief nurse (and her friend), Esther Flanagan, R.N.

It was not that the young men of Spruce Harbor, Maine, would be immune to Barbara Ann Miller's charms, but rather that they were all too familiar, from painful experience, with the Scottish wolfhound* owned by Nurse Flanagan, chief of nursing services at Spruce Harbor and semi-official housemother of the nurses' dormitory there.

It could be said, and indeed was said, that the virtue of a young woman resident in the Spruce Harbor nurses' dorm was as safe as (probably safer than) it was at home. Very few fathers, after all, no matter how dark their suspicions, are able to detect their daughter's foul-intentioned suitors' presence in the bushes simply by smell, much less to instill the fear of God in them by growling and holding them down with a foot in the middle of their chests.

And so Senior Student Nurse Barbara Ann Miller, her

* This was a litter mate of Prince, Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov's canine companion. How Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov and Nurse Flanagan came into possession of these animals has been reported, with careful attention to fact and the principles of animal husbandry, in M*A*S*H Goes to Vienna (Sphere Books).

In fairness, it must be stated that in the professional judgement of all three, Student Nurse Miller showed every indication of becoming, in Dr. Pierce's words, 'the finest kind of cutting-room helper.'

Nurse Flanagan once confided to Dr. McIntyre (after her fifth martini) that Barbara Ann reminded her very much of herself in her youth, with all the guys panting after me.'

So far as Doctors Pierce and McIntyre were concerned, what they referred to as Barbara Miller's 'extracurricular activity' in San Francisco had given her at least one ability not often found in student nurses. She could make a martini of such ice-cold perfection and earth-moving effect that even the master martini makers themselves eventually turned that great responsibility over to her at the regular afternoon staff conferences.

Martinis, however, were not on the agenda when the telephone rang in Dr. Pierce's office at ten-thirty this bright morning. He was paying a rare (for him) tribute to a fellow practitioner of the healing arts to whom he referred as a 'gas passer,' but whom Student Nurse Miller knew was more formally known as an anesthesiologist. The gas passer on duty during this morning's jerking of the gall bladder had plied his trade well, in fact better than well, and when the telephone rang, Dr. Pierce was explaining to Student Nurse Miller just how valuable the gas passer's contribution had been.

'Grab that, sweetie, will you?' Hawkeye said, and Student Nurse Miller snatched the phone before the first ring had finished.

'Office of the chief of surgery, Miss Miller speaking,' she said; then, 'One moment please.' She covered the phone with her hand. 'Some funny-talking broad says she's the international operator with a call for you from the Royal Hussidic Embassy in Paris. Is it for real ? Or is it just Trapper John horsing around again?'

'Would to God that it were,' Dr. Pierce said, taking the telephone. 'Trapper John, at his most fiendish, isn't up to the Royal Hussidic Embassy in their innocence.' He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.

'Dr. McIntyre,' Dr. Pierce said. 'I'm afraid Dr. Pierce is not available ... oh. So it's you, Omar. How they hanging?'

At this point, solely because she considered it her nursely duty to keep herself fully apprised of any situation affecting the chief of surgery, and not in the least because of her female curiosity, Student Nurse Miller pushed the button that caused both ends of the conversation to be amplified through a speaker.

'Very comfortably, thank you, Doctor,' the caller said, in British-accented English.

'I'm glad to hear that,' Dr. Pierce said.

'In the absence of His Royal Highness, Doctor, I am charged with rendering every service at my disposal to His Excellency El Noil Snoil the Magnificent.'

'Where's his nibs ?' Hawkeye asked curiously.

'His Royal Highness is in San Francisco, Doctor, on an affair of state.'

‘What kind of affair of state? The kind you write down, or the other kind?'

'His Royal Highness has not seen fit to make me privy to his agenda, Doctor,' Sheikh Abdullah said.

'Well, what's on your mind ?'

'As I said, in the absence of His Royal Highness, I am charged with taking care of El Noil Snoil the Magnificent,' Sheikh Abdullah said. 'I am calling at his instruction, Doctor.'

‘I really am reluctant to say this,' Hawkeye said. 'But go on.'

'His Excellency, his two gentlemen friends, and of course, Prince, departed Orly Field two minutes ago for the United States, Doctor. His Excellency asked me to tell you that he regretted not being able to call you himself before he left, but that he felt you would understand.'

‘Well, you just tell Old Bull Bellow that I understand completely, and that I'm sorry that I can't meet him in San Francisco,' Hawkeye said.

'Oh, he's not going to San Francisco, Doctor. His Excellency is going to Spruce Harbor.'

'Oh, no!'

The young gentleman with him requires immediate surgery,' Sheikh Abdullah said. 'I am instructed by His Excellency to inform you to do whatever is necessary. Cost is no object. Send the bill to our Washington embassy.'

'Wait a minute. What young gentleman?'

The one with the Russian guitar,' Sheikh Abdullah said.

'What's wrong with him?'

'I do not know the precise medical terminology, Doctor. When he was examined at the Maestro's apartment, there was no room for me in the Maestro's bedroom. I do recall what the Maestro said just afterward, however.'

'And what was that?'

'I wrote it down,' the sheikh said. 'Here it is. Quote, "My God, his insides are coming out!" Unquote.'

'You don't happen to have this young man's name, do you?'

'Yes, Doctor, I do. His name is Pancho Hermanez.' 'I thought you said he was a Russian guitar player?' 'He is.'

'Well, Abdullah, thank you for calling,' Hawkeye said.

'I am just doing my duty as Allah and His Royal Highness have given me the light to see that duty,' Sheikh Abdullah said. 'It wasn't really what I had in mind when I was a student at the Georgetown School of Foreign Service.'

'Well, we all have our cross — in your case, scimitar — to bear, Omar.'

'One more thing, Doctor,' the sheikh said. "They're coming in the Royal Le Discorde. That should put them in the United States in three hours. But since the only place Le Discorde is permitted to land is on the salt flats in Utah, that will mean another five hours flying from Utah to Maine in a conventional aircraft.'

'Got it,' Hawkeye said. 'That will give me time to make some arrangements. Thanks again for the warning, Omar. Give my regards to the little women.'

He broke the connection with his finger.

'Women ?' Student Nurse Miller asked. 'As in more than one?'

'The sheikh is required to have at least two wives,' Hawk-eye explained. 'As a gesture of his patriotism, he has four.'

Student Nurse Miller's mouth opened, but there was no chance to pursue the matter further, for Dr. Pierce had told the operator to connect him with the hospital administrator, Mr. T. Alfred Crumley.

'Crumbum?' Dr. Pierce said. 'I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that your old friend Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov will be with us shortly.'

'Over my dead body!' Mr. Crumley replied. 'The bills have been guaranteed by the Royal Hussidic Embassy.'

'As I've always said, Doctor, we must stand prepared to render whatever medical attention is required without regard to race, creed, color, national origin, or the personal, all-around gross and offensive personality of the patient.'

'I would suggest that we take over the entire isolation ward,' Dr. Pierce said. 'But aside from that suggestion, I leave the whole thing in your hands, Crumbum.'

'Once again, Doctor, that's Crumley, Crumley, Crumley !‘

'Gotcha.'

'Is that revolting little prince coming, too ?'

'Not as far as I know. The patient's name is Pancho Hermanez. The only thing I know about him is that he's a Russian guitar player whose insides are coming out.'

'You mean that Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov is not at death's door?'

'Not as far as I know,' Dr. Pierce said.

'Pity,' Mr. Crumley said, and the connection broke.

Dr. Pierce replaced the telephone in its cradle, and turned to Student Nurse Miller.

'Sweetie,' he said, 'how do you feel about six-foot-five-inch men generally regarded by the gentle sex as handsome beyond words and utterly devastating?'

'I understand them,' she said.

'You do?'

'The poor things have the same problems that I do,' Barbara Ann said. 'You have no idea what a drag it is to be - like Hot Lips and me, now, and Nurse Flanagan in her prime - nothing more than a sex object.'

'If such a creature,' Dr. Pierce went on, 'should, you should excuse the expression, make a pass at you, could you handle it?'

'I'm sure that such a man would not make a pass at me, but - as painful as the memory is, Hawkeye - I've had a good deal of experience in turning away passes. Under the most difficult of circumstances. What are you leading up to, Hawkeye?'

'We are about to be blessed with a visit from Old Bull Bellow, also known as Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov. He may or may not be the world's greatest opera singer, but he is without doubt the loudest and largest,' Hawkeye said. 'One of his friends... I didn't get this too clearly... is either suffering from a terminal illness or a newly discovered social disease. In any event, Boris and his pal are about to come here.'

'I've heard Hot Lips speak of him,' Barbara Ann said. 'Poor fellow.'

'Poor fellow?' Hawkeye repeated incredulously.

'Forgive me for saying this, Hawkeye,' Barbara Ann said. 'But someone like you simply can't understand what it is to be a male version of Hot Lips and me.'

'And I was just starting to like you!' Hawkeye said. He got up and headed for the door. 'One more crack like that, sweetie, and it's back to one-for-the-boys-in-the-back-row for you!'

As he reached the door, Chief Nurse Flanagan, also in surgical greens, pulled it open from the corridor.

'I was just coming to get you, Doctor,' she said. 'We're about ready for you. It's time to scrub.'

'That's not all it's time for,' Hawkeye said. 'Guess which six-foot-five 280-pound warbler's coming to dinner?'

'There's nothing wrong with Boris ?' Nurse Flanagan hastily inquired.

'Not with him. One of his friends, however, has a certain unspecified delicate condition that requires our attention. A male friend, I hasten to add.'

The telephone rang. Hawkeye was closest to it, and picked it up himself.

'Well, that figures,' he said. 'OK, Crumbum, thanks for calling.' He hung up and turned to Barbara Ann Miller. 'We at Spruce Harbor, unlike people at some medical establishments, do not normally extend a glad hand to potential customers. But in this case, and since I can't go myself, I think you had better change clothes, sweetie, and get in my car and go down to the airport. Dr. Grogarty's patient is about to arrive.'

'You want me to meet him?'

'Right, and tell them I'll be with them just as soon as I can.'

'But why me ?' Barbara Ann asked.

'Because right now, sweetie,' Hawkeye said, 'about the only thing of value this hospital can offer him is a look at a good-looking blonde to take his mind off his troubles.'

'Boston area control, Learjet Double-O Poppa,' the gentleman occupying the copilot's seat of the trim little jet said into his microphone.

'Go ahead, Double-O Poppa,' the Boston air controller replied.

'Double-O Poppa over the Cambridge Omni at three zero thousand. Request that you close out our instrument flight plan at this time.'

'Roger, Double-O Poppa. What is your final destination ?'

'Spruce Harbor International, Maine,' the copilot said.

'Double-O Poppa, say again your aircraft type?'

"This is an F-Model Learjet aircraft.'

'Double-O Poppa, are you aware that the main . . . and only ... runway at Spruce Harbor International is dirt and only 4,800 feet long?'

'Affirmative,' Double-O Poppa's copilot replied.

'You're going to try to put that Learjet down in that cow pasture ?'

'Affirmative.^,

'Go with God, my son,' Boston said. 'Boston area control closes out Learjet Double-O Poppa at heading of zero one five true. Change to frequency 121.9 megahertz at this time.'

'Understand 121.9 megahertz,' the copilot said. 'Thank you, Boston.' He made the necessary adjustments on the radio control panel. 'Spruce Harbor International,' he then said. 'Learjet Double-O Poppa.'

'Go ahead, Double-O Poppa.'

That you, Wrong Way?'*

'That you, Radar?'

'How are you, Wrong Way?'

*Where are you, little buddy?'

*We just passed over Boston, airspeed 480, descending through two-zero thousand, and about to take up a heading of due north.' The copilot turned to the pilot. 'Turn a little

* The founder, proprietor, and control-tower operator of Spruce Harbor International Airport, Spruce Harbor, Maine, was Mr. Michelangelo Guiseppi Verdi Napolitano, who, after a distinguished career as a PFC gunner-radio operator with the Eighth United States Air Force during World War II (every other gunner-radio operator who had completed seventy-five missions was at least a sergeant), returned to Spruce Harbor to found the Napolitano Truck Garden and Crop-Spraying Service.

'Roger, Wilco,' the pilot said. 'If I start screwing up, take it, will you, Radar? I haven't flown since I came home from Korea.'

'You're doing fine, Colonel,' Radar said. 'Take it right down to the deck. I always like to buzz the clinic when I'm on final.'

‘You still there, Radar?' Spruce Harbor asked.

'We're here. We should be on the deck in about five minutes,' J. Robespierre O'Reilly said. 'We filed an in-flight advisory about thirty minutes ago, Wrong Way. Did you pass it to Hawkeye?'

'Yeah,' Wrong Way replied. 'And you should see who he sent to meet you.'

‘Who's that?'

'Stacked like a you-know-what, Radar,' Wrong Way said. 'Oh, she wants to know do you need an ambulance?' 'No.'

'Your patient can walk?'

‘Not only can he walk, he's flying,' Radar replied. 'OK, Colonel, there it is, straight ahead. That red barn-like thing. That's the Finest Kind Fish Market and Medical Center. Don't get any closer than twenty feet. They've got a high TV antenna that you can't see until you're right there.'

'Roger, Wilco,' Colonel Whiley said.

'Gee,' Radar said. 'You sound just like Errol Flynn in Eagle Squadron!’

Moving at close to five hundred miles per hour, the Learjet, perhaps two hundred feet off the white-capped ocean, faced in toward the rockbound coast of Maine, on which perched a red building.

Dr. Cornelius E. Sattyn-Whiley, who was, truth to tell, more than a little nervous on several accounts - not the least of which was that, taking into consideration that his father was both a very sick man and hadn't flown for twenty-five years, his piloting this airplane wasn't a very good idea now had something else to trouble him.

The little red building perched on the rockbound coast they were approaching at five hundred miles per hour had a sign painted on the roof that said, 'Finest Kind Fish Market and Medical Clinic'

Although distracting the attention of Mr. O'Reilly under the circumstances was obviously not such a good idea, curiosity got the better of him. 'Is that what we've flown from San Francisco to go to? That converted barn, surrounded by lobster traps and a mountain of beer cans?'

'Right,' Radar said. 'But only because Aloysius Grogarty knows Hawkeye and Trapper John. Otherwise, you'd probably have to go to the Spruce Harbor Medical Center.'

Dr. Sattyn-Whiley now steeled himself against a crash. When it never came, he finally opened his eyes again.

'OK, Colonel,' Radar was saying. 'Get the nose up a little and stand by for when I cut power and reverse thrust. I'm going to lower the flaps and the gear.'

'Got it,' Colonel Whiley said. Dr. Sattyn-Whiley was aware that his father was more excited - and visibly happier - than he had ever seen him before.

'Flaps down,' Radar called. 'Gear down!'

A runway was suddenly directly in front of them.

'Put her down as close to the threshold as you can, Colonel,' Radar said. 'There's only 4,800 feet.'

The nose dipped to the ground, and, for a moment, Dr Sattyn-Whiley was sure they were going to crash. But at the last split-second, his father pulled back ever so slightly on the wheel, and the plane seemed to bounce on a cushion of air and then sink through it slowly, so that there was only a slight bump when the wheels made contact.

'Hold onto your teeth!' Radar called. The engines suddenly roared with power, and Dr. Sattyn-Whiley felt himself thrown against his shoulder straps as the Learjet decelerated; the jet-thrust had been applied in reverse.

The plane, however, continued to eat up the runway at an alarming speed.

‘Brakes!' Radar called, and there was another horrifying hydraulic noise from the innards of the plane.

No more than twenty feet from Spruce Harbor International's control tower, the Learjet finally slid to a halt.

'Very good for your first time,' Radar said professionally. Colonel Whiley looked at him with quiet pride, some gratitude, and a great deal of satisfaction.

'My wife didn't like me to fly,' he said. 'So I gave it up.'

'You should have done what I did,' Radar said.

'What was that?'

'I taught my pumpkin how to fly,' Radar said.

'Madame Korsky-Rimsakov is a pilot ?' Dr. Sattyn-Wiley asked incredulously.

'Well, she busted her Airline Transport Rating exam when she took it,' Radar said. 'But she's still got her multi-engine jet instrument ticket, and she's checked out in this, of course. And our friend Horsey said she can practice on her vacation on one of his 747's and then take another shot at the Airline Transport exam.'

'I never thought of teaching Caroline to fly,' the colonel said wistfully. And then he looked out the window. 'Gee, that's really like old times,' he said. 'Looking out the cockpit window and seeing something like that !'

He referred, of course, to Miss Barbara Ann Miller, who stood beside Wrong Way Napolitano, waiting for the cabin door to open.

Dr. Sattyn-Whiley was aware that his father was looking at the best-looking female he'd seen in a very long time as a good-looking female, period. He himselfwas very much aware that the good-looking blonde was in nurses' whites. And that made him very painfully aware of what they were doing here.

CHAPTER NINE

At just about this time, another member of the healing profession, Francis Burns, M.D, and his wife and helpmate, Sweetie-Baby, were checking into the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco, California

Dr. Burns was attired in a blackish suit and wore a black shirt and a reversed collar.

'I believe you have a reservation for Dr. and Mrs. Burns,' he said to the desk clerk.

'Just a moment, Reverend,' the desk clerk said.

'Just call me "Doctor," son,' Burns said. 'If you please.'

'Of course, Doctor,' the desk clerk said.

'What real meaning have earthly titles?' Burns inquired. 'Our reward will come later... upstairs.'

'I understand perfectly, Doctor,' the desk clerk said. 'Oh, here it is. A nice little suite, and I see that our vice-president for charitable affairs has authorized a fifty-percent discount.'

'Only fifty-percent?' Frank Burns inquired.

'I don't believe that he realized you were a man of the cloth, too, Doctor, so there will be another twenty-percent discount.'

'That's better,' Frank Burns said. 'God bless you, son.'

'Is Mrs. Burns with you, Rev - Doctor?'

‘Yes,' Frank Burns said, nodding toward Sweetie-Baby, who was sort of hiding behind a potted palm, holding her purse in front of her face. 'There she is, God bless her.'

The desk clerk banged his little bell and a bellboy appeared to carry the luggage. Frank Burns did not speak to Sweetie-Baby Burns all the way up to their suite. There were times when she annoyed him, and when he didn't understand her at all, and this was one of these times. She was being unreasonable and annoying about his clerical collar.

It wasn't as if he wasn't entitled to wear the clerical collar.

He was a duly licensed minister of the Universal Church of All Faiths, and had a certificate from the Universal Church of All Faiths & Job Printing Company to prove it, a certificate that had cost him ten whole dollars.

Under the circumstances - since he had, out of the goodness of his heart, given the Universal Church people the ten dollars - it was only right and fair that he take advantage of the twenty-percent discount the airlines gave the clergy. And if it made airline porters and bellboys feel good to refuse a tip from a clergyman, would it be the Christian thing for him to do to deny them that simple pleasure ?

Once they were inside their nice little suite, Sweetie-Baby, her face flushed, fled into the bedroom. Frank was left alone with the bellboy.

'You with GILIAFCC, Inc., Rev. ?'

'Just call me "Doctor," son,' Frank Burns said. 'Odd that you should ask.'

'Are you ?'

'One of the reasons I am in your charming city is to re-establish a relationship with one of the GILIAFCG, Inc., clergypersons,' Frank Burns said. 'Would you be good enough, son, to give me directions to their place of worship?'

'Certainly,' the bellboy said. 'Any cab driver can tell you, of course, but if you're walking, just head down Market Street until you come to the neon sign.'

'What neon sign ?'

'It's a rather large, one, Rever - Doctor. It says "Welcome Sinner!"' 'I see.'

'Under the words, there's the Reverend Mother Emeritus, shooting the first arrow,' the bellboy went on. 'From there, just follow the arrows.'

'I beg pardon ?'

'Not really the Reverend Mother Emeritus, of course,' the bellboy explained. 'A sign of her. You can't miss it. It's four stories high, and it's in four colors.'

'And the arrows ?'

'The sign shows her shooting a bow and arrow. They flash on and off, so it looks like the arrow's in flight. You understand?'

'I think so.'

'And then when you get close to the Temple, actually the First Missionary Church - you can't miss it.' , 'Why not?'

'There's a thirty-foot statue of the Blessed Brother Buck being welcomed into Heaven by Saint Peter and Saint Michelangelo.'

'Saint Michelangelo ?'

The GILIAFCC, Inc., thinks of him that way,' the bellboy said. 'As one of their own, so to speak.'

'And you think I could find the Reverend Mother Emeritus there?'

'Not today,' the bellboy said. 'Tomorrow you probably could.'

'Why not today?'

'She's not there today,' the bellboy said reasonably. 'That's why you couldn't find her there today.' 'Where could I find her today?'

'New Orleans, probably,' the bellboy said. 'That's where she lives. But she's coming here tomorrow. Here, look in the paper.' He handed him a newspaper. There was a story on the front page, beneath a formal portrait of the Reverend Mother Emeritus:

San Francisco, Calif. Police Commissioner Boulder J. Ohio today threatened 'quick arrest and even speedier trials' for anyone misbehaving during either the arrival ceremonies for the Reverend Mother Emeritus M. H. W. Wilson of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., or during the annual triumphal Sinner's Procession tomorrow night.

'I have cancelled all leaves and off-days for the entire force,' the commissioner said in an interview, 'and extra security will be in force both at the airport and all along the procession route. I will not tolerate this year the scandalous behavior that has unfortunately occurred in the past.'

The commissioner, as an example of the tight security he plans to enforce, said that only bona fide travelers, with tickets to prove it, will be admitted to the terminal building at San Francisco International Airport after 3:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon. He also said his men in blue will be equipped not only with standard riot gear, but also with cameras to photograph those who throw bottles and other objects at members of the procession. The photographs will be used as evidence in court.

'In cooperation with the GILIAFCG, Inc., officials,' the commissioner went on, 'we will check the identity of anyone who wishes to march in the procession. Only bona fide members of the GILIAFCC, Inc., will be permitted to march or to enter the picnic grounds on the Embarcadero.'

Sweetie-Baby Burns walked back into the room just as Frank finished reading this newspaper story.

'Good news, Sweetie-Baby,' Frank Burns said to her. 'The pressing business that brings me to San Francisco can be delayed until tomorrow.'

'Oh?'

'And I will thus be able to go with you when you ride the cable cars,' he said. Turning to the bellboy, he said, 'Clergymen, I believe, ride for free ?'

'No, Rever - Doctor. They have to pay just like everybody else.'

'In that case,' Frank Burns said, 'we'll save the cable cars for tomorrow. This afternoon we can just wander around the streets, looking at the sights.'

About an hour after this fascinating interchange of information took place, Police Commissioner Boulder J. Ohio sat at his desk in the picturesque police headquarters building with two problems on his hands, neither of which he quite knew how to deal with.

His wife had just been arrested as a 'suspicious hippie,' and try as he would not to, he had to agree with the arresting officer that he, too, would have found it suspicious if he had seen the commissioner's official limousine cruising slowly down Grant Avenue (one of the streets bordering Chinatown) with a scantily dressed young woman riding on top, alternately quoting Confucius and throwing handfuls of rice at passers-by.

The second problem was more pressing, because the pressee was at that moment in his outer office, while his wife was, at least for the moment, safely out of the way in the Chinatown Precinct drunk tank.

The commissioner was quite sure that he knew what was on the mind of Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley, and equally sure that she was going to give him the benefit of her thinking in her own inimitable manner. He had on his desk a copy of the same newspaper the bellboy had shown to Frank Burns. It was obvious to him that the story had come to Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley's attention, and that she was going to inquire of him what his reasons were for permitting the Reverend Mother Emeritus and her faithful flock to return to San Francisco at all.

From his past experience with Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley, he knew that there was no point in bringing up such Constitutional things as freedom of religion, assembly, or speech. He had been accused of nitpicking before. The bottom line was that the Reverend Mother Emeritus was coming back to town, and Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley disapproved.

The commissioner reached into the drawer of his large and highly polished desk and withdrew from it a small brown paper bag, through the top of which stuck the capped neck of a bottle of spiritous liquor. The commissioner took a healthy pull at the bottle, grimaced, shook his head, looked thoughtful, and then took another pull.

He then replaced the bottle in the drawer, sprayed his open mouth with some Booze-B-Gone - a patented, rather aptly named product - and, steeling himself for the ordeal, ordered his secretary to show Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley in.

He walked from behind the desk toward the door as the door opened.

He winced when he saw that Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley was accompanied by her attorney, the dean of the San Francisco Bar, J. Merton Gabriel.

'Good afternoon, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley,' the commissioner said. 'How good of you to come to see me!'

'You've been drinking again, Mr. Ohio,' she said. 'I can smell the Booze-B-Gone.' And then she started to sniffle into her hankie. Somewhat confused at this reaction to his having had a little nip and been caught at it, the commissioner did what any politician does when confused - he smiled at the other party and shook hands.

'Good to see you, counselor,' he said.

'We have a bad situation here, Commissioner,' Mr. Gabriel said. 'A bad situation.'

'I'm sure that we, as reasonable people, can reach a reasonable resolution of our differences,' the commissioner said.

Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley blew her nose, rather loudly, and then spoke.

'My husband, Commissioner, is missing,' she said. 'And I know who's responsible.'

'I didn't know he even knew her,' the commissioner said. 'Knew who?'

'The Reverend Mother Emeritus of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc.,' the commissioner said. 'Who else?'

'I was referring to that outrageous Irish charlatan, Aloysius J. Grogarty,' she said. 'How dare you suggest that my Edward knows that terrible woman?'

'Perhaps we had better start at the beginning, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley,' the commissioner said. 'I'm a little confused.'

'That's not surprising,' she said. 'May I offer you a cup of coffee?'

'I'd rather have some of whatever it is you simply reek of,' she said. 'My world has collapsed around me.'

'You want some of my Booze-B-Gone ?' the commissioner asked.

'I need something to steady my nerves,' she said.

Somewhat hesitantly, the commissioner took the brown paper bag from his desk.

'That'll do,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. She took it from him and took a healthy pull from the neck of the botde.

The commissioner was now really worried. He would never have dreamed it possible that Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley would take a healthy belt from the neck of a bottle in the privacy of her mansion, much less in his office.

‘I come to you, Commissioner,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said, 'a lonely and frightened woman with nowhere else to turn.'

'Tell me what I can do, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley,' he said. 'How may I be of assistance?'

'You can throw that Irish scalawag in jail,' she said. 'Quiedy, of course. I wouldn't want this to get out.'

'What is it, exactly, that you wouldn't want to get out?'

'Never underestimate the Irish, Commissioner,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. 'There is apparently no depth to which they will not sink to gain revenge!'

‘I suppose that's so,' the commissioner said. 'Exactly what has Dr. Grogarty done, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley ?'

'He's kidnapped my Edward, that's what he's done!' she said. 'And my son, too!'

'Let me see if I have this straight,' the commissioner said. 'Dr. Aloysius J. Grogarty, chief of staff of the Grogarty Clinic - that Grogarty?'

'That one!'

'Has kidnapped Colonel C. Edward Whiley and your son?'

'My son the doctor,' she said. 'Dr. Cornelius E. Sattyn-Whiley.'

'And do you have any idea why Dr. Grogarty has kidnapped your son and husband ?'

'You bet I do!' she said. 'He's done it to make a laughing stock out of me before my friends.'

'Would you mind explaining that?'

'You tell him, Merton,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. 'I don't have the strength.' She uncorked the bottle and took another pull at it.

'It goes back to the days of World War II,' J. Merton Gabriel said, 'when Colonel Whiley, then Major, fell under the evil influence of Dr. Grogarty while in the service.'

'Oh?'

'My Edward was nothing more than a boy - in fact, he was known as the Boy Major,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. 'And he was obviously naive, impressionable, and vulnerable to that awful man's influence.'

'I see.'

'Major Whiley made the acquaintance of Dr. Grogarty, then a lieutenant of the medical corps, when he sought his professional services,' the lawyer said.

'Was he ill?'

'He was under a great mental strain,' J. Merton Gabriel said.

'You don't get to be a nineteen-year-old major with fifteen kills without undergoing a certain strain,' Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley said.

'I see. And he went to Dr. Grogarty for treatment?'

'And at his hands, received the first liquor that ever passed his innocent lips,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. 'That's what that charlatan prescribed for my little Eddie.' She began to sniffle again.

'And when the war was over, and they came home, he insisted on maintaining the relationship. Can you imagine the effrontery of that shanty-Irish charlatan, that Barbary Coast ne'er-do-well, imagining that he could remain friends with C. Edward Whiley, simply because he had saved his life during the war ?'

^‘He saved his life? By giving him booze?'

'Eddie was shot down in the jungle behind enemy lines,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley explained. 'That awful Irisher parachuted into the jungle to set his broken leg. He and some sergeant then carried Eddie back through the lines to safety. But that's what doctors are for, aren't they ?'

‘I suppose you could look at it that way,' the commissioner replied. 'And you say he presumed on this casual wartime acquaintance when they both returned to San Francisco ?'

'I can't prove it, of course,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. 'It was before we were married and I began to manage my poor little Eddie's affairs, but I have reason to believe that my poor little Eddie was cajoled into providing Grogarty with the money to start the Grogarty Clinic'

'I see'

‘I told Eddie that I would not become his bride unless he shut off, once and for all, any connection with that awful man.'

'And he, of course, did ?'

'Not at first,' she said, and blew her nose again. 'At first, he told me to go to hell - he was still very much under his influence, you sec I was wise enough to see that, of course, and withdrew my objections until after we were married.'

'I sec'

'And do you know how that Irishman responded to my big-heartedness ?' 'I have no idea.'

'He and the sergeant from the jungle showed up at the wedding,' she said. 'Between them, they made indecent proposals to five of my bridesmaids.'

'Shocking!' the commissioner said. 'It was then that you were finally able to sever the relationship ?'

'No, I am ashamed to say,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. ‘I was blind with love at the time and let it pass. Besides, there were other considerations.'

'Oh?'

There's no accounting for tastes, you know,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley replied. 'Cynthia Forbes Robinson, one of my bridesmaids, eloped the day after my wedding.' 'What's that got to do with it?'

'She eloped with the sergeant,' she said. 'At the time I thought she was mad. It was only years later that I found out he owned a 200,000-acre ranch and 375 oil wells in Texas. Under the circumstances, I thought it best to let things ride awhile.'

'That's understandable.'

'It was only when that awful man... I'm a lady and refuse to repeat what he said about me at Cornelius Dear's second birthday party - suffice it to say that Eddie was brought to his senses, and that man was thereafter banished from our lives.'

'Forgive me, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley, but I'm a police officer, and we deal with facts. What has all this to do with what you say is the kidnapping of your son and husband?'

'Grogarty did it!' she said. 'It's as plain as the nose on your face, which is to say, very obvious, indeed.'

'How is that?'

'Cornelius Dear has just returned home from college,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. 'Tomorrow night, I was going to re-present him to society at my home. I invited all the eligible young women of San Francisco - and their parents, of course.'

'I still don't follow you.'

'Grogarty, who has smarted all these years under his rejection by his betters, is going to ruin not only my party, but also Cornelius Dear's and my poor Eddie's reputations forever!'

'How's he going to do that?'

'He's going to deliver my poor little Eddie and Cornelius Dear to the party dead drunk!'

'Fiendish idea,' the commissioner said. 'But how do you know this ?'

'He said so,' she said. 'Just two hours ago.'

'He told you this ?' the commissioner said. ‘I thought you didn't speak to him.'

'I don't,' she said. 'I had J. Merton Gabriel call for me.'

'I had spoken to Dr. Grogarty previously on this matter,' the lawyer interjected.

'Why did Mr. Gabriel call him in the first place ?' the commissioner asked Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley.

'Because my poor little Eddie and Cornelius Dear were seen leaving the opera with him, that's why!' she said. 'Madame Butterfly had barely begun when Cornelius Dear was summoned from his seat in the belief that his medical skills were required. My poor Eddie was immediately suspicious, of course, and went after him. That's the last time I saw either of them.'

'When they didn't return by the time Madame Butterfly was over, 'J. Merton Gabriel said, 'Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley contacted me.'

'Why didn't she contact the police ?'

'I told you, we don't want this in the papers,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley snapped.

'And all I could find out was that both had been seen leaving the building. Colonel Whiley was being supported by Dr. Grogarty, and at first, Dr. Grogarty would tell me nothing,' J. Merton Gabriel said. 'But two hours ago I telephoned Dr. Grogarty and ordered him to produce, instantly and forthwith, both of them.'

'And what did Dr. Grogarty say?'

' "Tell Caroline not to worry" is what he said,' Mr. Gabriel replied.' "With a little bit of luck, I'll have both of them back, dead drunk, in time for her party." '

That's all?'

' "And tell her that I might just be with them, and just as drunk," is what else he said,' Gabriel concluded.

'So now you know why we're here,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. 'We want you to get them back for me as soon as possible . . . and as quietly as possible.'

'Unfortunately, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley,' the commissioner began, 'and as I'm sure Mr. Gabriel will tell you, both your husband and your son are over twenty-one. If they choose to get drunk with Dr. Grogarty, there's nothing, as much as I would like to help you, that the San Francisco Police Department can do about it.'

Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley drew herself up to her full height.

'Commissioner,' she said, pronouncing each syllable carefully, 'I am prepared to pay any price, make any sacrifice, to have my husband and son restored - sober, of course - to me without any vulgar mention of their absence and return in the press.'

'Precisely what are you saying, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley?'

'I happen to know, Commissioner,' Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said, 'that your mother, that sainted woman, as well as many other people of refinement, are distressed at your own choice of a wife.'

'Loving Seagull is a little hard to understand until you get to know her,' the commissioner admitted. 'But how can you help me out with my mother?'

'You get my son and husband back to me, Commissioner, in the condition I described, and I personally will put your weird wife up for membership of the Opera Guild,' she said. 'That will certainly shut up even your sainted mother.'

'Go home, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley,' the commissioner said, 'and put this small little problem from your mind. Boulder J. Ohio himself will take personal charge.'

He flipped the switch on his intercom.

'Get me Dr. Aloysius J. Grogarty on the line - immediately !' he snapped. Then he ushered Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley and Mr. J. Merton Gabriel from his office.

As she left, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley turned and smiled and offered a final word. 'And if you don't, Commissioner, I wouldn't run for office - even for dog-catcher - again, if I were you.'

It took fifteen minutes to get Dr. Aloysius J. Grogarty on the telephone.

'Sorry it took so long to get back to you, Ohio,' Dr. Grogarty said, 'but I was busy looking out the window at the birds. What's on your mind ?'

'I have a certain emergency matter of a delicate nature,

Doctor,' the commissioner began. 'Not another dose of cl—'

'Nothing like that, sir. This is a genuine emergency.'

'Commissioner, I have nothing but the most profound respect for the San Francisco Police Department, those underpaid and overworked stalwart defenders of law and order, and I always place myself completely at their service whenever asked. You, Boulder J. Ohio, however, are nothing but one more lousy politician with his hand out, so get to the point - I'm a busy man.'

As delicately as he could, Commissioner Ohio explained why it was important that Colonel Whiley and Dr. Sattyn-Whiley be instantly sobered up and quietly and immediately returned to the Sattyn-Whiley mansion.

'Mind your own business, Ohio,' Dr. Grogarty said, and hung up.

The commissioner, of course, tried to call him back, to let him know that you just didn't hang up on the police commissioner. The Grogarty Clinic informed him that Dr. Grogarty had just left for Antarctica.

Commissioner Ohio then called in his senior staff, all career policemen, and told them they had a little, ha-ha, problem. Colonel C. Edward Whiley and Dr. Cornelius Sattyn-Whiley, celebrating the latter's return, had taken one or two too many.

'Put out an all-points bulletin,' he ordered. 'Find them! I don't care how you do it, but when you find them, take them to the Sattyn-Whiley mansion. In strait jackets if necessary.' He had another thought. 'And take whoever is with them with you.'

He had a delightful mental picture of Dr. Aloysius J. Grogarty - he who had dared to hang up on him, the source of all the trouble - being delivered to the Sattyn-Whiley mansion in a strait jacket.

CHAPTER TEN

At just about this time in San Carlos, the sun-baked capital of San Sebastian, after months of careful planning, S-Second of M-Minute of H-Hour of D-Day arrived for the leaders of the legitimate government of San Sebastian, who had been thrown out of office when the government had, six months before, been overturned by the People's Democratic Fascist Republic.

With two-thirds of the nation's armored forces behind him, and three-quarters of the nation's air force in the skies overhead,* Colonel Jose Malinguez, leader of the junta, advanced on the Maximum Leader's (formerly President's) Palace, on horseback, and called for the unconditional surrender of the incumbents.

At first there was resistance - or, at least, no acknowledgement of his presence at all - but when Colonel Malinguez fired a round from his lead tank's cannon at the door of the palace (no damage occurred; the armored force had at its disposal only blank ammunition), the men who six months before had seized power came out with their hands raised high in surrender.

* The armored forces and the air force of San Sebastian consisted, respectively, of three M4A3 tanks (acquired from the United States Army as surplus in 1940) and four DeHavilland 'Beaver' aircraft on floats. The single-engine, six-passenger silver birds, which had a top speed of just over 100 miles an hour, had also been acquired from the U.S. Army. They had been used by a mapping and topographic team of the Corps of Engineers, and had been abandoned in San Sebastian when the pilots, feeling then unsafe, had refused to even try to fly them any more, much less try to fly them all the way back to the States. There were also, of course, the San Sebastian Artillery (two French 75-mm cannons, which could be taken apart so they might be carried on mule-back) and the San Sebastian Infantry (150 men strong) armed with Swiss rifles acquired in 1890 when the Swiss converted to weapons utilizing smokeless powder.

While members of the junta loaded their prisoners into trucks commandeered from the San Sebastian-American Jolly Jumbo Banana Company* for transport to the airport and exile from the country, Colonel Malinguez made his way to the basement of the President's Palace in search of the former President of the Republic, Señor El Presidente General Francisco Hermanez - who, it had been learned, had been held in durance vile since the revolution.

Seor El Presidente was located by following a dense blue cloud of cigar smoke to its source, a small cubicle in the far end of the basement.

'In here, my Colonel!' the officer with Colonel Malinguez said, as he raised the butt of his rifle and smashed at the door knob. The rifle stock snapped. As Colonel Malinguez and the officer stared at it with mute resignation, the door opened and a rather portly gentleman, wearing riding breeches held up with suspenders and a sleeveless undershirt, peered out.

'It wasn't locked,' he said.

'Señor El Presidente !' Colonel Malinguez cried. 'The revolution has succeeded! You are free again!'

'Well, thanks for nothing, Joseé!’ the chap in the sleeveless T-shirt and riding breeches said.

'You don't understand, El Presidente,' the colonel went on.

'I understand perfectly,' El Presidente replied. 'But I've had a lot of time to think since I've been here in the basement. And I made up my mind, José, that I'm through begging. If we can't make it with the bananas, then to hell with it. Let the People's Democratic Fascist Republic worry about it. Where is he, anyway?'

'Where is who, El Presidente ?'

'Gus.'

'Gus who?'

* Except for semiannual sales of bat guano for approximately $26,500, the banana trade, which had the year before grossed $117,500, was San Sebastian's sole source of foreign exchange.

'Gus El Maximum Leader, that's who,' El Presidente snapped.

'He has been exported to Costa Rica, El Presidente,' the colonel said.

'How, on a bicycle?'

'By aircraft of the San Sebastian Air Force, El Presidente.'

'And who's going to pay for the gas?'

'El Chancellor of the Exchequer, of course, El Presidente, who else ?'

'And what's he going to use for money?'

'Swiss francs, El Presidente,' the colonel replied.

"The only Swiss francs in the country, the last time I looked, were in the Nadonal Museum.'

'We are about to solve our money problems, El Presidente,' the colonel said. 'Under your leadership, of course.'

El Presidente looked at him with patient derision in his eyes. ‘You always were a little weird, José,' he said. 'I always said that. This country was bankrupt when my grandfather, may he rest in peace, took over. And things, money-wise, have gotten steadily worse since.'

'There has been a new development, El Presidente,' the colonel said. 'One of which you, since you have been in durance vile for these past six months, could not possibly have heard about.'

'The whole country has been repossessed?' El Presidente said. 'I've been hoping for that. Then we're on welfare? Who repossessed us ? What did they do, draw straws to see who got stuck with us?'

'If you will come with me, El Presidente ?' the colonel said, making a gesture and-a little bow toward the door.

‘Where?' El Presidente asked suspiciously.

'To the San Sebastian Hilton,' the colonel said. 'Formerly the Democratic Fascist House of the People. And before that, of course, the San Sebastian Hilton.'

‘What are we going there for?' El Presidente asked. But even as he spoke, he slipped into his riding boots and pulled his tunic on.

Fifteen minutes later, after passing through down-town San Carlos through hordes of recently liberated San Sebastianites, who shouted and screamed and threw over-ripe bananas at the Presidential Jeep, the colonel and El Presidente arrived at the San Sebastian Hilton.

Colonel Malinguez led El Presidente into the cocktail lounge, where six gloriously uniformed men were gathered around an electronic Ping-Pong game.

'Colonel,' Colonel Malinguez said to the next-to-largest of these men, whose uniform seemed to be an unholy marriage of that worn by the British Navy at the Battle of Trafalgar and that worn by doormen of better-class New York City high-rise condominiums, ‘I have the honor to present General Francisco Hermanez, recentiy liberated El Presidente of San Sebastian.'

'Welcome back from the slammer, General,' the man said. Instead of offering his hand, he offered a half-gallon bottle of Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon. 'Have a little snort,' he said.

‘Who is this man?' El Presidente inquired, somewhat haughtily, but taking the bottle nevertheless.

'Señor El Presidente, I have the honor to present Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux, Louisiana National Guard.'

'So, the Americans repossessed us,' El Presidente said. ‘I could ask for nothing more. How soon, Colonel, can we expect to start receiving foreign aid?'

'Colonel de la Chevaux—' Colonel Malinguez began.

'You can call me "Horsey," El Presidente,' the man interrupted.

'—has a little business proposition for us,' Colonel Malinguez finished.

'What kind of a business proposition ?'

'The colonel is in the oil business, El Presidente,' Colonel Malinguez said. He was facing away from Colonel de la Chevaux, so that Colonel de la Chevaux could not see him wink. 'He believes that beneath the fertile ground of our beloved country are untold oil reserves.'

El Presidente looked at Colonel Malinguez with newfound admiration. Perhaps he wasn't as stupid as he appeared. There was no oil whatever in San Sebastian. The entire country had been diligently searched half a dozen times, and there hadn't been enough oil to grease a Timex watch. And yet here was a Yankee, just about begging to be fleeced.

'And what is the nature of your proposition, Colonel ?' El Presidente inquired, helping himself to another belt of the Old White Stagg.

'The standard proposition,' Horsey de la Chevaux replied. 'We'll give you a little earnest money. Then, completely at our expense, we'll look for oil. If we find oil, we'll take ten percent for our share. We'll pay all marketing expenses, of course.'

'I see. You mentioned earnest money. What sort of figure did you have in mind? Just a rough figure, of course. In a business proposition of such magnitude, we could not come to a hasty conclusion, but we'll listen to your proposition.'

'Well, I thought a couple of million for openers,' Colonel de la Chevaux replied.

'You just made yourself a deal, Colonel,' El Presidente said very quickly.

'Just to see where we stand,' Horsey went on, 'two million for the right to drill six holes on 160 acres I happened to smell... I mean see.'

'At the current rate of exchange, Colonel,' El Presidente said, 'two million bananarios* would come to something around $2,500.'

'I was talking about dollars, El Presidente,' Horsey de la Chevaux said. 'I'll give you two million dollars for drilling rights on the 160 acres I have in mind. You would give an

* The San Sebastian currency system is based on the bananario. There are 100 pennarinos to one bananario. The currency has not been listed on any foreign-exchange market since 1937, when it became apparent that no one was willing to exchange hard cash of any variety for bananarios, no matter how favorable the rate.

option to drill more, once we get our feet wet.'

It was El Presidente's considered opinion that all this Yankee was going to get with his six holes - for that matter, with holes drilled at 50-foot intervals from border to border - was wet feet (the topography of San Sebastian is essentially swamp), but he refrained from offering this observation.

'Two million dollars? American dollars?'

'Either that, or the same figure in Swiss francs, whichever you want,' Horsey said.

'Colonel,' El Presidente said, ‘I pride myself on being a judge of character. I can tell, by looking into your somewhat bloodshot eyes, that you are a man of your word. It will, I am sure, be a pleasure to do business with you.'

'Fine,' Colonel de la Chevaux said.

'How long will it take you to draw up the contracts?' El Presidente said. 'And in the meantime, I don't suppose you could see your way clear to advance this country, simply as a gesture of your good intentions, a small advance. Say a thousand dollars ? How about five hundred ?'

'Francois,' Horsey said to the largest man in his group, Francois Mulligan, who carried the money bags around. 'Let me have a couple of million.'

'Francs ?' Mr. Mulligan inquired, as he unzipped a bag, 'or deutsche marks or dollars ?'

'If it's all the same to you, Colonel,' El Presidente said, 'how about some of each ?'

'Whatever you say,' Horsey said. 'We'll just make it three million down. That way Francois won't have to try to divide two million by three.'

Within a matter of moments, the currency had changed hands, and El Presidente had signed the necessary documents.

Then, overcome by emotion, he suddenly grabbed Colonel de la Chevaux by the lapels and kissed him, wetly, on each cheek.

'Hey, watch it!' Horsey said. 'Not only am I not like that, but you need a shave, El Presidente!'

'By the authority vested in me by the constitution of San Sebastian, written by my own grandfather, may he rest in peace, I name you a Commander of the Order of St. Sebastian, Third Class,' El Presidente said.

'Gee, that's nice of you,' Colonel de la Chevaux said as El Presidente snatched the medal of that order from the chest of Colonel Malinguez and pinned it on Horsey. Caught up in the emotion of the moment himself. Horsey snatched the Order of the Guardians of the Peace and Tranquility of the Knights of Columbus from Francois Mulligan's chest and pinned it onto El Presidente's tunic.

'By the authority vested in me as Grand Exalted Keeper of. the Golden Fleece, Bayou Perdu Council, Knights of Columbus, I name you herewith an honorary member of the K. of C.,' Horsey said. He did not, however, kiss El Presidente.

"When do you think you'll start looking for the oil, Colonel ?' El Presidente said, examining the medal with pleasure. He had to admit it was more impressive than the one he had given Colonel de la Chevaux. He wondered if the diamonds were real.

'It'll take a little time,' Colonel de la Chevaux replied. 'I'll get on the radio and order a drilling rig flown here from New Orleans. With the expected delay, we won't start digging until, say, day after tomorrow.'

'By then, regretfully, I will not be here.'

'Where are you going, El Presidente ?' Colonel Malinguez asked, at the same time putting one hand on the stack of bills on the table.

'Well, first things first,' El Presidente said. 'First, I will deposit this money in the national treasury. Then I will ask El Chancellor of the Exchequer for my six months' back pay. With what I have saved up, I should have enough money to buy a tourist-class ticket to Paris so that I can see my beloved grandson, Pancho.'

'Hell, El Presidente,' Horsey de la Chevaux said. 'I'm on my way to Abzug. Be no trouble at all to drop you off in Paris. The least I can do, after you gave me this pretty medal.'

'I don't want to impose,' El Presidente said. 'Not at all,' Horsey said. He extended the bottle again. ‘Have another belt, El Presidente.'

'Don't mind if i do,' El Presidente said.

Top Priority

From United States Embassy,

San José, Costa Rica

To the State Department, Washington

Attention: Banana Republics Desk

4.General Francisco Hermanez, who had been president of the republic prior to the people's Democratic Fascist Republic coup d'etat of six months ago, and who had since been held prisoner in the Maximum Leader's (formerly Presidente's) Palace ever since, has been released and has resumed control of the government.

5. Former Maximum Leader Gonzalo, however, in a press conference held immediately upon his arrival at San Jose (Costa Rica) International Airport, charged that the cia was clearly responsible for his being deposed. As proof, he pointed to the fact that immediately upon his release from prison, El Presidente Hermanez went to the San Sebastian Hilton, where he conferred with a group of Americans identified as Colonel J. P. de la Chevaux and his staff.

This message, when it reached the State Department in our nation's capital, did not, truth to tell, cause much of a stir. For one thing, the Banana Republics Desk was having its annual picnic in the Lyndon B. Johnson Memorial Gardens on the banks of the Potomac, and only a very junior foreign-service officer had been left behind to answer the phone and collect the pay checks.

She was so junior, in fact, that she possessed only a 'top-secret' security clearance, and the messenger who delivered the radio-teletype message, which was classified 'very top-secret,' at first refused to hand it over.

Once that had been resolved (the junior officer was given an interim 'very top-secret' security clearance, good only until one of her superiors got back from the picnic), other problems arose. For one thing, she could not find San Sebastian, either on the map or on the labels of the file drawers. She had not, of course, been entrusted with the keys to the file cabinets, both because they contained 'very top-secret' security information and because that was where the deputy assistant vice-chief of the Banana Republics Desk kept his gin.

But, although a newcomer, she had already begun to, as she put it, 'learn the ropes.' She had, in other words, already learned rule one for a bureaucrat: When presented with a paper you don't understand, mark it 'for your information' and put it as surreptitiously as possible in your immediate superior's 'in' basket.

This accomplished, the young foreign-service officer returned to her desk and resumed painting her finger nails, dreaming of the day when she would have enough seniority to go on picnics with the rest of the gang.

En route to Paris from San Carlos, San Sebastian, aboard Colonel Horsey de la Chevaux's 747, Horsey and General El Presidente Francisco Hermanez, recently restored President of San Sebastian, became close friends.

They had a good deal in common in addition to their fondness for Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon. Both had been born into, and spent long years in, poverty. Both had, on occasion, awakened to find themselves behind bars.

But it was more than this that brought together the two who had, in their heart of hearts, at first thought of each other as 'one more lousy gringo' and as 'a banana-republic Mussolini,' respectively. They were kindred souls, and it didn't take long for both of them to find this out.

When the general had boarded the 747, Horsey de la Chevaux couldn't have cared less about the general's grandson, who was all alone in Paris. But an hour after they had taken off - long before they had opened the second half-gallon of Old White Stagg - Horsey excused himself and quietly went to the cockpit, where he had the flight engineer send off a message:

From Chevaux Petroleum Number One En route Paris . To General Manager Franco-Chevaux Petroleum 118 Avenue de la Champs- Elysees Paris

Do whatever is necessary to locate and deliver to Orly Field to meet this aircraft one Pancho Hermanez, male San Sebastian, aged twenty-two years, last known address student hostel, university of Paris, Boulevard St. Michel. If necessary, contact Royal Husstdic Embassy and get their assistance.

J. P. de la Chevaux

Chairman & Chief Executive Officer

Normally, of course (for Chevaux Petroleum, International was actually just one big happy family), Horsey signed his radio messages 'Horsey.' He signed this one the way he did because he wanted Francisco's grandson found in time for him to be on hand when they got to Paris. From his own experience, Horsey knew that it was a heart-warming experience to have one's close family on hand when one was released from durance vile.

Three hours out, as the level of the second half-gallon of Old White Stagg had begun to drop alarmingly, General El Presidente Francisco Hermanez started to cry.

'Whassamatter?' Horsey asked, not very clearly.

'You're a good man, Honey,' General El Presidente said, draping an arm around Horsey. 'And I have been somewhat less than honest with you.'

'Don't let that bother you, Francisco,' Horsey replied. 'You're a pretty good guy yourself, and I haven't been exactly telling you the truth, either.'

'You mean, you never actually spent six months in the New Orleans Parish Bastille?'

"That isn't exactly what I meant,' Horsey said.

'A simple lie -I forgive you. What harm is there in saying you spent six months on the New Orleans Parish road gang when you haven't?'

'I did spend six months on the road gang,' Horsey said. 'I was number 87-32098. That's not what I meant.'

'Whatever you did, or said,' El Presidente said, the tears now coursing down his leathery, unshaven cheeks, 'it is not as bad as what I have done to you - before I knew you, and realized what a good fellow you are, Horsey ...'

'What did you do to me ?' Horsey inquired, his curiosity now aroused.

'I want you to understand, my friend, that if it were not for the absolutely beyond-rehabilitation state of the San Sebastian economy...'

'Whassat mean ?'

'If San Sebastian wasn't so broke,' El Presidente explained, 'if there had been any other way..

'If you're going to make a confession,' Horsey said, 'get to the point.'

'There is absolutely no oil in San Sebastian!' El Presidente said.

'Thass what you think,' Horsey replied.

'That's what I know,' El Presidente said. 'Every major oil company in the world but yours has explored San Sebastian for oil,' El Presidente said. 'From border to border, from sea to shining sea.'

'So what?' Horsey said, and he handed El Presidente the jug.

'They didn't find enough oil to grease a door knob,' El Presidente confessed, taking a little pull.

'Don't worry about it,' Horsey said.

'But I knew this, my friend,' El Presidente said, taking another pull at the jug and then looking into Horsey's eyes, 'when I signed the contract and took that money.'

'Put it from your mind,' Horsey said. 'There's a lot more where that came from.'

'You don't mind losing three million dollars ?Being cheated out of three million dollars ? American dollars ?'

'Who's going to lose three million?' Horsey asked mysteriously.

'But I told you there's no oil in San Sebastian,' El Presidente said.

'An' I tol' you, Francisco, thass what you think,' Horsey said, and he patted El Presidente consolingly on the back.

‘I don't follow you, my friend,' El Presidente replied in some confusion.

'You know what's the difference between Chevaux Petroleum and, say, Mobil ? Or between Chevaux Petroleum and, say, Gulf?' Horsey asked.

'I don't quite follow you,' El Presidente said.

Horsey put his finger to his nose (and made it on the third try). 'Thass the difference, my friend!' he said with quiet pride.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Mobil's got geologists and engineers, all sorts of highly paid people,' Horsey said. 'And so does Gulf. But what does Chevaux Petroleum have that Gulf and Mobil don't have ?' It was a rhetorical question, to which he expected no answer, and which, indeed, he answered himself. On the fourth try, he managed to again connect his index finger with his nose. 'It's a l'il secret,' he said. 'But I'm sure I can trust you.'

'After the way I cheated you, how can you trust me?'

‘Let me lay a little philosophy on you, Francisco,' Horsey said. 'You can't cheat an honest man. Especially an honest man with a nose like mine.' 'With a nose like yours?'

'Ssssh!' Horsey said, swaying slightly and moving his finger from his nose to his mouth in the well-known gesture of secrecy. Thass my secret !'

'Your nose is your secret?'

'You got it, Francisco 1' Horsey said. 'But don't tell anyone.'

'I'm a little confused,' El Presidente confessed.

'You're a little plastered, thass what's the matter with you,' Horsey cried gaily. 'That Old White Stagg'll sneak up and kick you, if you don't watch out!'

'What about your nose?'

'I smell with it,' Horsey said triumphantly.

'Oh?

'Oil, I mean,' Horsey explained. 'All I do is take a good whiff, and I know, right then and there, whether or not there's any oil.'

'You do?'

'I had a little trouble in San Sebastian,' Horsey said. 'If you'll promise not to take offense, I'll admit it.' 'Why should I take offense?'

'Well, between the smell of all that Cheiroptera vesperlilionodae fecal matter* and all those rotten bananas, I had a hell of a time sniffing the oil.'

'I am sorry that the smell offended you,' El Presidente said, somewhat huffily, 'but that bat do-do and the bananas are San Sebastian's only exports.'

'I didn't say it offended me, Francisco,' Horsey said. 'Hell, wait till you smell Bayou Perdu. What I said was that I had to get used to it before I could sniff where the oil is.'

* Colonel de la Chevaux here actually used the vernacular names for the mouse-like quadruped Cheiroptera vespertilionodae and for its droppings, but this is, after all, a high-toned book, and the editors felt that the vernacular noun, no matter how precise, might unnecessarily offend some readers.

‘You're telling me that you can smell oil ?' El Presidente said disbelievingly.

'What I'm telling you is that I did smell oil,' Horsey said. 'I was not being exactly truthful with you when I said I wanted to explore for oil, Francisco, old buddy. I knew that there was oil there.'

'I find this hard to believe!' El Presidente said.

Horsey picked up the radio telephone.

'Hey, are we patched in to San Carlos yet?' he asked.

'Chevaux Petroleum, San Sebastian,' a voice came back.

'Horsey here,' Colonel de la Chevaux said. 'How we doing ?'

'Got a little problem, Horsey,' the voice replied.

‘What's that?'

'Well, as soon as we got here, I went out to the swamp where you drove the stake to tell us where to drill.' 'And?'

‘I run over the stake, Horsey.' ‘So?'

‘Well, first it made a little hissing noise. And then it blew. Turned the Jeep over on its back. It's flowing ten thousand barrels a day it looks like, good heavy sweet crude. Lost the Jeep, though, Horsey. There's sort of a lake of oil out there, and I don't know where it sank.'

‘Well, make sure it don't catch on fire,' Horsey said.

'What did that mean ?' El Presidente asked.

'It means that Chevaux-San Sebastian Number One came in at about three feet,' Horsey said. 'Flowing ten thousand barrels a day. Seven dollars and twenty-one cents a barrel, less our ten percent - that's about $68,500 a day for your government, Francisco.'

General El Presidentez Francisco Hermanez wrapped Colonel de la Chevaux in his arms and kissed him on both cheeks.

'It's a good thing I know you're a concerned grandfather,' Horsey replied, blushing a little. 'Let's have a little snort to celebrate. A ten-thousand-barrel-a-day well ain't much, but it's a start.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

'I'm Hawkeye Pierce,' Hawkeye said, entering his office. 'Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I had a little trouble jerking a kidney, and then, of course, I had to shower and dress.' He was wearing a sweat shirt with a drawing of Ludwig von Beethoven on it and a pair of well-worn khaki pants. 'I've always thought that it is very important to make a good first impression on a potential patient.'

'Charley Whiley, Doctor,' Colonel C. Edward Whiley said. 'And this is my son, Cornie - Cornelius. Dr. Sattyn-Whiley.'

Trapper John came into the office, trailed by Esther Flanagan. She was in crisp whites, and Trapper John was wearing a blue-and-white polka-dot jump suit.

'I would like to apologize, sir, for the shameful appearance of my colleague,' he said. 'I'm Trapper John McIntyre.'

'I would like to express my appreciation for your letting me come here like this,' Colonel Whiley said. 'And let's clear the air by saying I've known Aloysius Grogarty long enough and well enough to know when he's clutching at straws.'

'I'm Dr. Sattyn-Whiley, Doctor,' Dr. Sattyn-Whiley said to Trapper John.

'We're glad to have you here with us,' Trapper John said. 'We have something very important for you to do.'

'Yes, sir?' Dr. Sattyn-Whiley said eagerly.

'Nurse Flanagan ?' Hawkeye said.

'Right away, Doctor,' Nurse Flanagan said. She went to the bookcase, slid back a panel of phony books that concealed a refrigerator, and took from it a small plastic cooler. She placed this in Dr. Sattyn-Whiley's hands. He opened it.

'It's a six-pack of beer 1'

'How perceptive our young doctors are getting to be,' Hawkeye said.

'Over the next three hours,' Trapper John said, 'you are to administer at least two and no more than three of these to Student Nurse Barbara Ann Miller while you take a long walk along our picturesque mud flats with her. The other three are for you.'

'I'd rather stay here, if you don't mind,' Dr. Sattyn-Whiley said.

'And we'd rather you didn't,' Hawkeye said. 'We'll clue you in on what we find when you get back, but I don't want you breathing in my ear while we examine your father, got it?'

'Get out of here, Cornie,' Colonel Whiley said. He waited until his son and Barbara Ann Miller had left.

'That's a good-looking female,' he said. 'She looks familiar, somehow.' There was no reply to this. ‘Well, what happens now ?'

Nurse Flanagan handed him a glass of clear liquid. 'Drink this,' she ordered. He tossed it down.

'What was that ? Something for x-rays?'

'As a matter of fact, it was a martini,' Trapper John said.

'Very light on the vermouth and without a vegetable salad,' Hawkeye added. 'I'd like to have you as relaxed as possible.'

'In that case, I'll have another,' Colonel Whiley said. 'When we finish,' Hawkeye said.

'Isn't this sort of a waste of time and effort?' Colonel Whiley asked. 'Why bother?^’

'I have known Aloysius J. Grogarty long enough and well enough,' Hawkeye said, 'to do what he tells me to do.'

'Touche,' Colonel Whiley said.

‘We're going to run another electrocardiogram and take a bunch of x-rays,' Trapper John said. 'And since you confess to being a friend of Grogarty's, we're going to give you a blood test.'

Colonel Whiley chuckled.

'Let's take a walk down the corridor,' Hawkeye said, 'and give the patients' visitors something to talk about.' Radar O'Reilly was waiting in the corridor outside. 'Radar! Just the man I wanted to see,' Hawkeye said. 'Is there something I can do ?'

'In exactly one hour I want you to get in the swamp buggy and run it along the beach,' Hawkeye said. 'Do so until you find the young doctor and Student Nurse Miller.'

'And?'

'If they should happen to be holding hands,' Hawkeye said, 'or looking as if they would like to be holding hands, then you just keep driving. If, however, they are acting like total strangers, then pick them up and take them over to the Bide-a-While. Tell Stanley I said to give him some of that genuine Polish vodka.'*

When Radar had gone, Colonel Whiley said, 'I had the same feeling about those two. And what a relief!'

‘I beg your pardon?' Nurse Flanagan said.

'Cornie's never shown much interest in girls,' the colonel said. 'I was beginning to get a little worried.'

'Barbara Ann Miller,' Nurse Flanagan said, 'is a very nice girl. I'm sure he sensed that.'

'I have the strangest feeling I've seen her somewhere before,' the colonel said. 'I don't suppose there's any chance she's from San Francisco ?'

'Well,' Hawkeye said, 'here we are at the x-ray room!'

An hour later there was a bulletin from Radar.

*Where are you ?' Hawkeye asked.

'At the Bide-a-While,' Radar replied.

'Oh, there was no magic, huh?' Hawkeye said, obviously disappointed.

'That's what I called about, Hawkeye,' Radar said. 'You didn't say anything about crying.'

* Dr. Pierce here made reference to the Bide-a-While Pool Hall / Ladies Served Fresh Lobsters & Clams Daily Restaurant and Saloon, Inc., and Stanley K. Warczinski, its proprietor.