Page 153 - Psychoceramics and the Test of Fire
P. 153

Operation Belshazzar

          My suggestion cured his vacillation. “Mr. Lee: have you had lunch
        yet? I haven’t and I’d like to invite you to be my guest over there at
        Wings ‘n’ Beans.”
          Five minutes later we were both squinting at the graffiti-like menu
        on  a  chalkboard  over  the  mummified  cake  and  pie  vitrine  at  the
        eatery.  Evidently  my  guest  had  not  patronized  the  establishment
        often enough to memorize the handful of dishes semi-intelligibly on
        offer.  After  an  unsuitable  interval  the  cook  staggered  out  of  the
        kitchen and wiped the counter around our elbows.
          “Getcha somethin’?”
          “I’ll have the lunch special,” said I brightly, my choice combining
        adventure into the unknown with admirable thrift.
          “Same for me,” chimed in Cyrus Lee.
          That  bit  of  business  concluded,  I  opened  the  discussion.  “Mr.
        Lee,” I intoned in all seriousness, “The MRS has been endowed by its
        creator—who  prefers  to  remain  anonymous—with  a  fund  from
        which  to  make  occasional  but  significant  awards  to  Biblical
        researchers. We have followed your career for quite a while, and are
        aware of the ill treatment you suffer at the hands of some  of your
        colleagues. Therefore, if it is appropriate, we would be honored to
        confer upon you one of those awards.”
          He digested that, perhaps more easily than he would his lunch. I
        was  thinking,  between  verbal  slathers  of  undeserved  praise  and
        mimed gestures subliminally suggesting an ego massage, of how this
        might be my last bad meal for quite a while. And his, too, if he didn’t
        spend all of Magnus’s money on cockeyed tracts and the means of
        delivering them to the unconvinced.
          “Appropriate?” barked Lee, seizing my weasel-word by the scruff
        of  the  neck.  “What  does  that  imply?  Some  hoop  I  have  to  jump
        through? Or an inquisition into my doctrinal purity?”
          “Neither,  I  assure  you.”  I  was  playing  him  like  a  fiddle  at  a
        hoedown. It was easier to let the air out of his mistrust when it was
        directed at the paper tiger of abstract argument than at the elephant
        in the room of my bona fides. “We must obey the spirit and the letter
        of our charter by assuring our benefactor that your theories are both
        original and important.”

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