“A brilliant summation,” said Fernando, grinning.
“I mean, the bathroom run palming is unnecessary,” Bede went on. “There’s plenty of room down here on the floor to put a fourth and even a fifth table. Then they could put marble busts of Tom Paine and Elmer Fudd up on the dais, surrounded by orchids and lilies.”
“The one who really dislikes being palmed on a bathroom run is our new Head Scholar,” said Carmine, winking at Desdemona, whose eyelids were beginning to droop. Come on, M.M., turn down the thermostats!
“According to Jim and Millie, Tinkerman despises the whole world,” said Patrick. He sipped, grimaced. “Oh, why do they always fall down on the coffee?”
“C.U.P. doesn’t like its new Head Scholar,” said Manfred Mayhew, contributing his mite. “It’s all over County Services that he’s a Joe McCarthy kind of fella — witch hunts, though not for commies. Non-believers.”
“I fail to see how the head of an academic publishing house can conduct witch hunts,” said Commissioner Silvestri.
“That’s as may be, John, but they’re still saying it.”
“Then why haven’t I heard the slightest whisper?” the Commissioner demanded.
“Because, John,” said Manfred, taking the plunge, “you are an eagle in an eyrie right up in a literal tower, and if it’s built of brick instead of ivory, that’s only an architectural reality. To those of us who live below you, John, it is a genuine ivory tower. If Carmine and Fernando don’t tell you, you don’t know — and don’t say Jean Tasco! She’s got a titanium zipper on her mouth.”
Gloria Silvestri’s coffee had gone down the wrong way: Carmine and Fernando were too busy fussing around her to make any comments — or let their eyes meet. Masterly, Manfred!
Mawson MacIntosh had slipped the cord holding his reading half glasses around his neck and had gathered his notes together; he was a wonderful speaker and as extemporaneous as he wished to be — tonight, judging from his notes, only partially. Not before time, thought Carmine, feeling the cool air on the back of his neck. M.M. had turned the thermostats down, which meant no naps in a warm hall. Desdemona would wake up in a hurry, as would all the women, more scantily clad than the enrobed men.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” M.M. said, on his feet and using the most democratic form of address, “we meet tonight to celebrate in honor of two men and one institution …”
What else M.M. said Carmine never remembered afterward; his attention was riveted on Dr. Thomas Tarleton Tinkerman, still seated, and looking very distressed. His crisp white handkerchief was out, fluttering at his face, beaded in sweat, and he was gasping a little. The cloth billowed down to the table as he put his hands up to his neck, wrenching at his tie, more constricting than usual because it held his hood on and kept his gown in perfect position.
“Patsy!” Carmine rapped. “Up there, up there!” Over his shoulder he said to Desdemona as he followed his cousin, “Call an ambulance, stat! Resuscitation gear on board. Do it, do it!”
Desdemona was up and running toward the banquet supervisor as Carmine and Patrick mounted the dais, scattering its occupants before them. M.M. had had the good sense to be gone already, his chair thrust at a startled waiter.
“Down, everybody, off the dais!” M.M. was shouting, “and get your chairs out of the way! Women too, please. Now!”
“Nessie will have sent someone young and fast for my bag, but we’re parked over on North Green,” said Patrick, kneeling. The new Head Scholar’s gown, hood and coat were removed and the coat rolled into a pillow; Patrick ripped open Tinkerman’s dress shirt to reveal a well muscled, laboring chest; he was fighting desperately to breathe. Came a very few weak retches, some generalized small jerks and tremors, then Tinkerman lay staring up at Patrick and Carmine wide-eyed, in complete knowledge that he was dying. Unable to speak, unable to summon up any kind of muscular responses. Eyes horrified.
Millie hovered in the background: Patrick turned his head. “Is there any antidote? Anything we can at least try?”
“No. Absolutely nothing.” She sounded desolate.
The ambulance arrived three minutes from Desdemona’s call, bearing resuscitation equipment and a physician’s associate.
“His airway’s still patent,” Patrick said, slipping a bent, hard plastic tube into Tinkerman’s mouth. “Everything’s paralyzed, but I was lucky. I’m in the trachea. I can bag breathe him and keep oxygen flowing into his lungs, but he can’t expand them himself, not one millimeter. The chest wall and the diaphragm are totally nerveless.” Again Patrick turned to Millie. “Is he conscious? He seems to be.”