“The thing that is most comforting about this culture,” he declared, “is the abundance of the food. Back in the old days we had our ups and downs. We’d bag a mastodon and we’d eat until we vomited and then we’d eat some more and-”
“I doubt,” Ghost said warningly, “that this is a proper subject for dinner conversation.”
Oop glanced at Carol.
“You must say this much for me,” he insisted. “I’m honest. When I mean vomit, I say vomit and not regurgitate.”
The waiter brought the liquor, thumping the bottle and the ice bucket down upon the table.
“You want to order now?” he asked.
“We ain’t decided yet,” said Oop, “if we’re going to eat in this crummy joint. It’s all right to get liquored up in, but-”
“Then, sir,” the waiter said, and laid down the check.
Oop dug into his pockets and came up with cash. Maxwell pulled the bucket and the bottle close and began fixing drinks.
“We’re going to eat here, aren’t we?” asked Carol. “If Sylvester doesn’t get that steak you promised him, I don’t know what will happen. He’s been so patient and so good, with the smell of all the food…”
“He’s already had one steak,” Maxwell pointed out. “How much can he eat?”
“An unlimited amount,” said Oop. “In the old days one of them monsters would polish off an elk in a single sitting. Did I ever tell you-”
“I am sure you have,” said Ghost.
“But that was a cooked steak,” protested Carol, “and he likes them raw.
Besides, it was a small one.”
“Oop,” said Maxwell, “get that waiter back here. You are good at it. You have the voice for it.”
Oop signaled with a brawny arm and bellowed. He waited for a moment, then bellowed once again, without results.
“He won’t pay attention to me,” Oop growled. “Maybe it’s not our waiter. I never am able to tell them monkeys apart. They all look alike to me.”
“I don’t like the crowd tonight,” said Ghost. “I have been watching it.
There’s trouble in the air.”
“What is wrong with it?” asked Maxwell.
“There are an awful lot of creeps from English Lit. This is not their hangout. Mostly the crowd here are Time and Supernatural.”
“You mean this Shakespeare business?”
“That might be it,” said Ghost.
Maxwell handed Carol her drink, pushed another across the table to Oop.
“It seems a shame,” Carol said to Ghost, “not to give you one. Couldn’t you even sniff it, just a little?”
“Don’t let it bother you,” said Oop. “The guy gets drunk on moonbeams. He can dance on rainbows. He has a lot of advantages you and I don’t have. For one thing, he’s immortal. What could kill a ghost?”
“I’m not sure of that,” said Ghost.
“There’s one thing that bothers me,” said Carol. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all,” said Ghost.
“It’s this business of your not knowing who you are the ghost of. Is that true or is it just a joke?”
“It is true,” said Ghost. “And I don’t mind telling you, it’s embarrassing and confusing. But I’ve just plain forgotten. From England -that much, at least, I know. But the name I can’t recall. I would suspect most other ghosts-”
“We have no other ghosts,” said Maxwell. “Contacts with other ghosts, of course, and conversations and interviews with them. But no other ghost has ever come to live with us. Why did you do it, Ghost-come to live with us.”
“He’s a natural chiseler,” said Oop. “Always figuring out the angles.”
“You’re wrong there,” Maxwell said. “It’s damned little we can do for
Ghost.”
“You give me,” said Ghost, “a sense of reality.”
“Well, no matter what the reason,” said Maxwell, “I am glad you did it.”
“The three of you,” said Carol, “have been friends for a long, long time.”
“And it seems strange to you?” asked Oop.
“Well, yes, maybe it does,” she said. “I don’t know really what I mean.”
Sounds of scuffling came from the front of the place. Carol and Maxwell turned around in their chairs to look in the direction from which the scuffling came, but there wasn’t much that one could see.
A man suddenly loomed on top of the table and began to sing:
Hurrah for Old Bill Shakespeare;
He never wrote them plays;
He stayed at home, and chasing girls, Sang dirty rondelays
Jeers and catcalls broke out from over the room and someone threw something that went sailing past the singer. Part of the crowd took up the song:
Hurrah for Old Bill Shakespeare;
He never wrote them…