Chapter 11 -- Preturn of Doctor Y.

As the limousine pulled up beside the curb, its left front tire hit a bump, partially rolling them up onto something.
"Back up a little," commanded the tall man in the back. The mechanical chauffeur did as he was told, without any static. The dapper passenger, already out of the car, gazed in a bit at his driver,
left hand with its long fingernails extended, (absently), like a bird's claw.
"He was supposed to reply", thought Doctor Y. "He must need an adjustment."

As the tall doctor straightened and turned, he looked down at the object, bent and picked it up.
"One of those paperbacks", he muttered.
But as he stood in the street, (there was almost never any traffic), trying to take in the title, the
sunlight was too bright on the book's yellow cover to make it out in the instant he was willing to give to it. What's more, as he squinted, he was also beginning to sweat on his upper lip and simply had to check the spirit gum under his catfish mustache with the nails of his right middle and index fingers.
Satisfied the glue was holding, and now aware the book was interfering with his overall persona,
he tried, (again absently), to set the book down on the limo's fender half-thinking its owner or
some interested passerby might collect it before his quick return.
As he moved away from the car it slid back into the street.

Recovering his real purpose, he strode quickly into the club entrance.


The flattish little box was still right there on the corner of the desk. It even had a thin coating of
dust. How foolish of him to leave it here after all of that precise planning!
Jampers appeared as though he were asleep, his head on the desk.
Doctor Y. lifted the box carefully, using the nails of his hand (like a carnival claw machine),
raised it to his 'gleeful visage' and slid the damnable thing into his jacket pocket.
He hurriedly exited, before anyone else might arrive.


Emerging again, he lightly touches his lapel area to be sure this time of its content, skirts past the black dog nearby, and seats himself in the back of the limousine, immediately calm and collected.
The mechanical chauffeur winds out with the ragged, "a--round--the--block--ik?"
"Rudimentary, my dear 235X12", the living one effuses. As the two pull away and proceed up
the avenue, taking the peeling right turn at the Bridge toward the ocean, just in view, and around the coast road to his personal sanctum.