Part 5

Stew Macon came in. "I see by the daily press there have been a number of developments since I left the shop last Friday," he said to John and me. "Good morning, Nancy."

"Don't talk to them, Stew," Nancy said. "They'll corrupt you, the old lechers."

"Now what's this all about?" Stew asked.

"Tell you in the taxi," I said. "Don't take your coat off. We're on detached service."

"Good enough. But I hope you have a big cash reserve, Sam. I happen to have spent--and I use the term advisedly--a very expensive week end."

"Keep in touch," John said. "There are two of you, so let's have a phone call every so often even if nothing's doing."

I filled Stew in as the cab driver wended us uptown.

"I wasn't kidding about being broke, Sam. This little babe I met had very expensive tastes."

"I'm good for about thirty bucks," I said. "Then I'll have to get a refill from petty cash."

"There's nothing petty about cash," Stew said.

* * * * *

Eurydice Playfair's suite was crowded to its expensive walls with reporters, State Department people, Pentagon people--including some high brass in uniform--and waiters. A bar was set up along one wall.

"At this hour of the morning?" I asked her.

"It's there for them as wants it," Riddie said. She was drinking coffee herself.

There didn't seem to be any Monolithians present yet, but then no one could tell for sure. I asked Riddie.

"No," she said. "We're saving them for the floor show."

"Something big?"

"I didn't lay on this spread just to say hello."

"Do they know what's going to happen?" I said, meaning the U.S.A. contingent from Washington.

"No, they're just liaison. But, believe me, they're fairly perishing to know."

"Whatever it is, will it make them gasp in the Ginza?" I asked.

"Sam," she said, "this'll pierce them in the Place Pigalle."

"Ah," I said, "but will it crush them in the Kremlin?"

"I have no more to say right now. Why don't you have some coffee?"

"I think I'll have a weak little Scotch and soda, if it's all the same to you."

"It's not the same as coffee, that's for sure."

A man from the _Journal-American_ took her away and I went to the bar. Stew was already there with a glass of something that was neither small nor weak.

"Did you pump her, Sam?" he asked.

"She's a dry well."

"I have circumnavigated the room and there is nothing. Sealed are the lips. Or blank are the minds, I don't know which."

"You sound as if you've been talking to the man from _Time_. Give John a call, will you, Stew? He might want a little color story."

"He always wants a little color story." He went off to one of the two-dozen telephones Riddie had provided.

I asked the barman to weaken up my drink with more soda. Caterers are always very generous with the customer's whiskey.

Riddie got up on a chair at the end of the room and clapped her hands.

"I guess everybody's here," she said. "I've asked you to come here this morning, ladies and gentlemen, to meet two other members of the ambassadorial staff from Monolithia. They will enter through this door on my right in a moment. Before they do, you may wish to make a note of their names. They are Mr. Quy--spelled Q-u-y but pronounced 'Key'--and Mr. Brown."

Stew, back from the telephone, whispered, "Have you noticed how all of them have one-syllable names?"

I nodded as I wrote them down.

Somebody asked Riddie, "Would it be correct to assume that these gentlemen hold a higher position in the Monolithian government than the ones we've previously met?"

"Not at all," Riddie said. "Everyone in Monolithia is equal. Each has the rank of Ambassador."

"But," the questioner persisted, "maybe these new ones intend to apologize for the incidents of yesterday in Middle Valley."

"Certainly not," Riddie said. "The Ambassadors who visited Middle Valley acted in complete accordance with the law. There is not the slightest doubt in any Monolithian mind on that score."

"So much for John Hyatt's hunch," I muttered.

Stew spoke up. "Would you say, Riddie, that there was complete and unanimous support for the Middle Valley delegation among the Monolithians?"

"Yes, I would. To them, laws were made to be obeyed."

"How about the groundswell of protest ..." somebody else started to ask, but Riddie raised her hands.

"Please," she said. "What happened yesterday has no connection with this meeting. In fact, I think you'll have a bigger story today if you'll just let me get on with it. I'll now ask the Ambassadors I've named to step into the room."

The door opened. The two men came in. They were dressed in the same conservative style as their predecessors. But their faces were different. Mr. Quy was an Oriental. Mr. Brown was a Negro.

* * * * *

I'd dictated my story and turned the phone over to Stew to elaborate on it. Riddie came over carrying two drinks. She handed one to me. "It's not weak this time," she said. "I figured you could use it."

"Thanks," I said, taking a good swallow.

"Well, Sam," she said. "Is this a story or isn't it? Do you think it'll fracture them in France?"

"Baby," I told her, "you're too far out. This will lay them low in Little Rock!"

8 (JULY 29, TUES.)

Scientists have reached general agreement in recognizing that mankind is one: that all men belong to the same species, _Homo sapiens_.

--UNESCO Statement on Race, 1950

We'd already had the highlights of the Mount Pelley story from the local wire service but it had left a number of questions unanswered. I looked in the stringer book to see who we had in Mississippi. To my surprise I found that we had a Mr. Elbert Patterson right in Mount Pelley. I sent him a wire asking for at least a thousand words, with good color and quotes. His story was on my desk in less than two hours. Here it is:

Mount Pelley, Miss., July 29.--The bus driver said, "Move to the back of the bus." When the Negro passenger failed to obey, the driver shouted at him: "That's a white man's seat you're in, nigger. Get back where you belong or I'll throw you off."

The Negro, a neatly dressed man of about thirty, carrying a briefcase, replied quietly, "This is an interstate bus. Under Federal law I have a right to sit where I please."

Eleven other passengers were on the bus, which was due to pass through this town on its way to Biloxi. Six were whites. The other five Negroes sat without objection in the rear section, traditionally reserved in this state for "colored."

The Negro man who refused to move was sitting alone in a double seat three rows back from the door. He turned and looked out the window.

His attitude infuriated the driver, Merle Cagle, who pulled the bus to the side of the road, slammed on the brakes and strode down the aisle.

"I'll give you one last chance, black boy," Cagle said. "Move back or get off."

There is confusion among the other passengers who reported this conversation today as to whether the Negro replied, "Don't touch me" or "You'll be sorry."

A great deal of confusion surrounds the ensuing incidents. The bus driver claimed the Negro passenger hit him with both fists and kicked him. The white passengers said the Negro man hit the bus driver with his briefcase, which they presumed contained something heavy, using it like a club. The Negro passengers said the lone Negro man sat still, making no effort to defend himself.

Whatever happened, Cagle was severely cut and bruised on his hands. In addition, the big toe of his right foot was broken, a hospital report said late today.

Cagle went back to the driver's seat and brought the bus here. He parked it in front of the office of Sheriff Ellis Grout, whose name became nationally known several years ago in connection with the fatal beating of a 13-year-old Negro boy who was said to have "sassed" a white woman. Grout had refused to arrest or question the two white men who boasted that they had administered the fatal beating, saying they were just big-mouths "trying to take credit" for the crime.

Grout, an admitted Kleagle in the Ku Klux Klan and a leader in the local White Citizens movement, was sitting in front of his office in a chair tipped back against the wall when the bus stopped.

Cagle jumped out and pointed to the Negro man sitting at the front of the bus. "I got somebody for your jail, Sheriff," Cagle said.

Grout asked a few questions, then said through the bus window: "You must be one of them northern niggers. Well, this ain't the north, so suppose you just come out of that bus."

When the Negro passenger gave no sign that he had heard, Grout went into the bus, drawing his pistol.

"I gave you an order, nigger," he said. "Get your black ass up off that seat."

When again there was no reply, Grout, using his pistol as a club, brought it down toward the man's head.

Here again eyewitness accounts differ. Some say the Negro raised his briefcase and the gun hit it, going off. Others say the Negro did not move at all and that the gun went off as the Sheriff was bringing it down to club him.

What is known is that the bullet ricocheted off something and struck Grout in the left shoulder.

Grout staggered out of the bus, bleeding profusely and shouting that he'd been shot. A crowd gathered quickly.

It became a mob. Somebody shouted, "That nigger shot the Sheriff!"

The mob of whites surrounded the bus. The white passengers got off. The Negro passengers, frightened, huddled in the rear, with the exception of the one Negro man who remained in his seat. He seemed utterly calm and some said he smiled slightly.

The mob started to throw rocks at the bus. Soon all the safety plate windows were spiderwebbed and it became difficult to see inside.

Then someone shouted, "Let's get him!" And there was a surge toward the door of the bus.

But no one went in. Some said no one was _able_ to get in--that some sort of invisible shield hurled back anyone who mounted past the first step.

The frustrated, howling mob, seemingly in a lynching mood, raged around the bus for half an hour until they were dispersed by the arrival of the state police.

Cagle, the driver, was located and, with the state police escorting him, he drove the bus to Biloxi.

There the Negro man was questioned and finally released. He gave his name as Brown. He went to the home of the Rev. James Evander, a prominent Negro clergyman, to spend the night.

Cagle was reprimanded by the bus company, which said the Negro man had been entirely within his rights. A company spokesman said he did not know at the moment what it planned to do about the damage to its bus.

Sheriff Grout was reported to be in fair condition in the hospital.

I made only minor changes in the story before I sent it on to London, under a byline. I don't know what color Mr. Patterson, our Mount Pelley stringer, is. It isn't one of the questions we ask at World Wide. I suppose he'd have to be white in a place like that. But I'm sure Mr. Brown would have been glad to know he existed, to help balance Sheriff Grout.

9 (JULY 30, WED.)

All the people like us are We, And every one else is They.

--Rudyard Kipling

High Tor, N.Y., is a pretty enlightened place. It's the hometown of artists, writers and theater people, budding and blooming. It has a syndicated political cartoonist whose satire is just a shade less biting than Herblock's. It has a playwright who has won a Pulitzer prize. It has a socially conscious novelist whose books are best-sellers in spite of their Messages. Then there's the Chinese-American artist who not only prospers but (or perhaps I should say "and therefore") is a respected and socially accepted member of the community.

High Tor is progressive, forward-looking. It's quaint and countrified--though it's only 35 minutes from Times Square--because of its strict zoning laws. It has been written up in _The Exurbanites_ as a place neither as intellectual nor as stuffy as Fairfield County, Connecticut, possibly because it doesn't have as many advertising men. It's not as rich, either, which is why Mae and I can afford to live there on the minimum plot allowed--one acre.

As I say, High Tor is no slouch of a town. If you're a New Yorker, but can't stand the city for the hundred-odd reasons I'm sure I don't have to list, High Tor is the place for you.

Therefore Mae and I were pretty shocked when we went out pub-crawling and did some unintentional eavesdropping.

I'd come home worn out from the eight-hour grind at WW, which had seemed like twelve, and suggested to Mae that we eat out and relax. She had the lamb chops back in the freezer and her second-best dress on in the same time it took me to luxuriate in an armchair over one dry martini.

All unwound, I put Mae in the Volkswagen and headed for Armando's, one of those quaint, but not too quaint, restaurants where the owner himself comes over and suggests. He suggested the veal cacciatore and we were agreeable.

As we were chewing the last mouthful, Armando came over to ask how it was.

"Great," I told him.

"Out of this world," Mae said.

"Delighted," Armando said. "But please don't mention those out-of-this-worlders to me."

"You mean the Monolithians?" I said. "What could they have possibly done to you?"

"Two of them came in for lunch today, disguised as Negro people."

"Oh?" Mae said.

"They weren't disguised," I told Armando. "There are Negroes on Monolithia, just as there are here."

"Well, anyway, I put them near the kitchen door and tell the girls to bump the chairs every time they come out. You know."

I hadn't known. I looked at Mae, who looked down at the remains of her veal cacciatore.

Armando went on: "So after a few bumps the one nearest the door makes with a finger to me. I ignore him, of course. Then he hollers, 'Armando!' The place is full of the luncheon trade. I frown, but what can I do? I hurry over to keep him quiet.

"'You are unhappy here?' I say to him. 'You would prefer to leave?' But he says 'No, we prefer a better table.' I tell him there are no other tables--the empty ones he sees are reserved. He says--he tells me this to my face--that this is a lie. I ask him to leave, so as not to create a disturbance."

"Sam," Mae said.

"Shh," I said. "Go on, Armando."

"Then he asks for the telephone, as if this is the Stork Club and I can plug it in at the table. I tell him the pay phone is near the cashier's desk, he can use it on his way out. Subtle, you see?"

"Then what?" I asked.

"He goes to the phone and calls SCAD in Albany!" SCAD is the state commission against discrimination. "He tells them the whole story at the top of his voice. It is mortifying. And now I am likely to lose my license and have to close up--or else cater to the colored trade. Mr. Kent, you are with a powerful news service. You know about these things. Tell me--what can I do?"

"You can give us our check, Armando," I said.

Armando became upset. "You are late. I am sorry. I should not tell you my troubles and take up your time. No--there is no check. You have been my guests. My pleasure."

"But not mine, Armando." I said. I dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. "If you don't want it, leave it for the waitress. Good-by, Armando. Come on, Mae."

In the car Mae said, "Ten dollars was too much. I saw the menu. Seven-fifty, maybe."

"All right," I said. "Consider it a two-fifty contribution to the NAACP. We'll make it up by not eating there again."

"Okay," she settled back in the seat. The financial end of it settled, Mae said, "Good for you, Sam. The nerve of him, taking it for granted we thought the same way he does. Why it wasn't so long ago that he was a minority himself."

"The hell with him," I said. "Let's go get a drink."

Reno's Roost has a bar and a band and serves fried chicken or shrimp in a basket. It's run by an old army buddy of mine, Paul Reno. He gambled on the county opening up when they began building the Tappan Zee Bridge across the Hudson and his gamble paid off. The place was jumping.

We went in and looked around for a place to sit. The bar was filled. So were the booths and tables.

Paul came over from nowhere and said, "Sam! Where the hell you been? Hello, Mae. How's the gestation?"

"He's fine," Mae said. "Big crowd tonight."

"The biggest, now you're here. Here you are. Reserved for the Kents."

"This looks like your table, Paul," I said. "We don't want to send you back to work."

"Sit down," he said. "I'll come sit with you when my feet get tired. What'll you have? First round's on the house."

"I'll have a very weak Tom Collins, Paul," Mae said, "and I mean weak."

"Right you are, Mrs. K. Sam?"

"Scotch and soda, thanks."

"Strong, to even it out. Okay, Max!" He called a waiter and gave the order. He had Seven-Up himself. Paul never drinks on the job till 1 A.M.

"I see Oliver's still with you," I said. Oliver is one of the bartenders. He's a Negro. "We should have come here for dinner, Mae."

"Oliver's my right-hand man." Paul said. "Where did you eat, chumps?"

"Armando's," Mae said. "But I'd just as soon not talk about it."

"Armando's!" Paul said. "That ptomaine domain! What's the matter--you don't like chicken? If you don't like chicken we got shrimp. For you we even got tablecloths, if you insist. Armando's! Has he got a band?"

"He's got nothing," Mae said. "Who's playing tonight, Paul?"

"Tonight as always we have the Trans-Hudson Five, the finest aggregation west of Ossining, augmented by that rising young cornet star, Pete Kato."

"Japanese?" I asked.

"The rising son himself."

"Never heard of him."

"Just off the plane. He's here for kicks. I don't pay him, but maybe I will. He's not bad."

"Jazzman?" I asked.

"I don't know," Paul said. "Sometimes he sounds like Harry James. Sometimes he's Max Kaminsky. He's obviously listened to a lot of records. He's pretty derivative."

That's one of the things I appreciate about Paul Reno. Most of the time he sounds like Mr. Night Club himself, but then he comes out with a word like "derivative."

Paul went off to see how things were in the kitchen. As I mentioned, the place was crowded, with little space between tables. The band was between sets and I could over-hear the people at the table behind me.

"... deliberately soften us up with all that mumbo-jumbo in the UN," a man's voice was saying. "Then they smuggle in a boat-load of colored behind our backs, as if we didn't have enough of our own already."

"And Chinks," another man's voice said.

"And Chinks," the first man agreed. "And Japs. I'll bet that was their plan all along. They're dumping their unwanted surplus population on us. It's a sneaking subversive thing to do and I wonder when Old Fathead Allison will wake up to the fact that they're playing him for a sucker."

"You used to think Gov was pretty good," a woman's voice said. "You voted for him."

"Never again. The country's going to the dogs. It has been for years, ever since Roosevelt. My God, Earl, do you know a Spic family is trying to move in down the road from us? Bunch of jabbering foreigners--must be a dozen of them. Can't even speak English."

"Now, Harvey," the same woman's voice said. "How can you talk that way? You've always been very pleasant to our maid and you like Oliver over there behind the bar."

"Exactly," he said. "'Over there behind the bar.' In his place."

This might very well be Oliver's place one day, I thought to myself. Paul Reno was hoping to open another place, given the right breaks, and he'd spoken to me about the possibility of putting Oliver in charge of this one.

Feeling one up on the people behind me, I quit eavesdropping and gave Mae a big smile.

"Well," she said. "Welcome back. What pleases you so all of a sudden?"

"Nothing," I said. "Just the happy thought that that bunch of WASPS behind me are going to be stung themselves sooner or later."

"Wasps?"

"Capital letters. White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. It's a term applied in certain quarters to a certain type."

"_You're_ a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant," Mae said.

Paul Reno came back. "You will shortly be entertained by the greatest little combo this side of Suffern," he said. "I'll join you for the concert, if you're not engaged in pitching woo."

Mae laughed. "Sit down, Paul. The woo was pitched a long time ago. We've been discussing the state of the world."

"On your night out? Sam, can't you ever forget that deadline stuff?"

"I'm willing to now, if your Augmented Five ever get their horns out."

There were piano, drums, guitar, trombone and clarinet, plus Kato's cornet. The guitar man usually played trumpet. They did a good loud job, but I noticed that Kato appeared really comfortable only when he was taking a solo, such as the Berigan chorus of _I Can't Get Started_ or the James version of _You Made Me Love You_, where he was not only derivative but imitative. In ensemble work he was terrible.

We decided we'd better go home after the band closed with _The Saints_. I had my 6 A.M. alarm clock in mind.

10 (JULY 31, THURS.)

You came to me from out of nowhere so why don't you go back where you came from?

--Abe Burrows song title

I managed to shut off the alarm and get up without disturbing Mae. I was having breakfast when the back door slammed open. We don't lock our doors in countrified, law-abiding High Tor.

"Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam!" It was six-year-old Harry Tyler, the son of our neighbors. "There's a spaceship in the woods!"

"What were you doing in the woods at this uncivilized hour?" I said, the neighborly avuncular instinct grabbing the wrong end of his remark. Then I said, "What? A spaceship? In the woods?"

"I went out to pick some strawberries for my breakfast," Harry said. "That's why I was in the woods. It's big and black and nobody saw me, I don't think."

"How do you know it's a spaceship?"

"Everybody knows what a spaceship looks like. It's big and black, just the way it's supposed to be. Come on and see it."

"Is your daddy up yet?" I asked Harry. Len Tyler usually gets up a few minutes after I do. "Did you tell him?"

"He's on vacation," Harry said. I'd forgotten. "He's still asleep. So's Mommy. Come on and see the spaceship, Uncle Sam."

I always feel very martial when Harry and the other kids in the neighborhood call me Uncle Sam. I feel that I have to uphold the honor of the Republic and Set an Example.

"Son," I said, "you're on. Let us go investigate this phenomenon."

A telescope hung in the back hall where it had been gathering dust since I gave up being a satellite watcher. It was a pretty good Japanese telescope, not expensive, but not cheap either. I took it down and wondered whether to look for my old souvenir machete for protection. But I decided that would be overdoing it.

We have about an acre of clear ground behind our house, then the woods begin. It's really an abandoned apple orchard, with the apple trees grown tall and neglected and other trees grown to a respectable height between them. A lot of sticker-bushes live there, too--tough, nasty things with needle-sharp spines. I wished I'd brought the machete after all.

Harry and I had threaded our way a few hundred feet when I stopped. My left shirt sleeve was torn, my pants were wet up to the knees from the dew, and I was sweating.

"That's far enough, Harry," I said. "There's no spaceship here."

He was a few yards ahead, ducking under a spiny branch I'd have to lift out of the way at my peril.

"It's right over there, Uncle Sam," he said. "I think I see it now."

"Yeah? I'll go as far as you are, and if it's not there, young Marco Polo, we're turning back."

"Shh," he said. "Come on."

I joined him and looked. "Where?"

"Right there. Near that red apple there." He pointed.