concentration,
like a two-bit swami. Cam noticed a tiny, rodent-type nose thrusting
itself up from Everett's side pocket. "Fear ... I detect great
apprehension--panic--hysteria verging on the loss of reason ... third
booth this side of the runes ... Valhalla."

Cam rose and went to the Nordic banquet hall. Vikings with groaning
platters and great horns of mead almost knocked him down, but he fought
his way to the curtained stall described, and eavesdropped.

"He ain't gonna take no for an answer this time, Quiverton," rasped the
guttural tones of one occupant. "Gable has to host the new series, with
Jean Harlow for the first guest star--or, he gets a new agency."

"Bu-but Fred, they're both dead."

"He ain't gonna stand still for any more alibis. It's up to
you--produce, or else! You got a week."

There was a sound of blubbering from within, interspersed with piteous
cries like those emitted by a rabbit transfixed by headlights. They
sounded to Cam like an account man he knew over at GFR&O; and this in
turn meant that the ultimatum was probably proceeding from the fabled
throne room of Occidental Tobacco itself, which billed more in one week
than some of Cam's clients knew had been printed. Cam even had a
blinding inspiration as to the means by which Occidental's megalomaniac
prexy, William McKinley Krog, might be satisfied in this latest
necrophiliac whim: Spectaculars built around the classics of the Golden
Age of the Silver Screen ... (By Godfrey! Not a bad series title!) ...
using film clips of deceased movie greats, and emceed by Stanislaus Von
Gort, who everybody thought was dead and therefore might as well be.

With this melee raging in his skull, Cam dodged back to Everett. He
found that worthy sliding liquidly from the booth, his side-pocket
familiar now half-emerged and regarding his gross symbiote with
more-than-animal concern.

"Quickly," cried Cam to the slave-girl. "Stimulants!"

"We only serve rum drinks in this section," unctuously responded the
Nefertiti of the Horse Latitudes; but a blazing glance from Cam sent her
scurrying, every cheek a-dance.

"You can see what this takes out of me," said the patient, treating
himself with deep draughts of Cam's Sunrise. "I don't know how many more
of these I--we--can take."

"Take it easy, boy. I conditionally buy your bit. Save your strength."
The small inhabitant of the side pocket was regarding him with some
asperity. "Who's your little chum?"