Who's on First by William F. Buckley Page A

issued from the motor. The delegation filed out in some excitement; the bus driver gesticulated wildly while attempting to open the hood of the bus without success. Viksne and Nesmayanov were animated as they spoke and one or two cars passed the bus, no one volunteering any help.
    Now! thought Blackford—and guided his taxi to that part of the street where Tamara stood, stopping within a foot of her.
    Smiling, he said in French: “Where are you headed?”
    Tamara looked at Viktor for guidance. Viktor approached the ingratiating languid taxi driver, and in awkward French, managed to say: “To the Hôtel-Grand, at Rue Scribe. Are you by any chance going by there?”
    â€œSure,” said Blackford. “That’s on my way. Hop in.”
    Viktor looked over at Viksne. “Shall I report the breakdown at the hotel?”
    â€œNever mind,” Viksne snapped. And, raising his voice to address the other stranded passengers, “Everyone get cabs and we’ll meet in the hotel. We’ll have a fresh bus for the afternoon session.” To Blackford he said in grotesque French, “Can you make room for me?”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir, just two. You can see, I’m delivering parcels.”
    Tamara stepped in, followed by Viktor, and they began instantly babbling in Russian, although only after Tamara had addressed the driver: “ Merci beaucoup, monsieur .”
    Blackford drove forward, recording the time. 12:25:-35. It was three minutes, at thirty miles per hour, to that first light on St.-Antoine. It changed on even minutes. He ran his finger down the column of figures on the notebook by his side. He should average either eighteen or thirty-six miles per hour. The fine tuning would be done for him after he arrived at the beginning of the next block—by his escort, Anthony Trust.
    And there was the blue Mercedes, moving slowly. To synchronize with it Blackford had to reduce his speed abruptly. He braked, and leaned out the window muttering to a bicyclist something in French which Tamara did not understand, the bicyclist did not understand, and Blackford did not understand; but it motivated the slowdown. The Mercedes picked up speed, as did Blackford.
    He had speculated: When would his passengers become suspicious? How would they express their suspicion? Some people come instantly to terms with large cities. Others spend lifetimes visiting them and continue to depend on others to guide them about. Even Vadim did not hazard a guess as to whether Viktor would bother to study the map of Paris. As for Tamara, they had no idea. Certainly, given the distances involved, it would be seven or eight minutes at least before one or the other expressed any concern over the failure to reach the hotel. By that time, five of the fifteen lights would have been passed. Blackford would tell them amiably that one of the packages had to be delivered before 12:30, so he was taking a little detour, did they mind? Predictably they would not. If they did, he would go instantly into Phase 3.
    It was seven minutes after he had picked them up that Tamara said rather reticently to the driver, “You did understand us to say the Hôtel-Grand? At Scribe and Capucines?”
    â€œYes, madame. But I must leave”—he pointed to the bulky parcel on top of the heap—“that first at the other address, because they expect it by 12:30. You do not mind a little detour?”
    â€œCertainly not,” she said, her lifetime’s training in docility taking instant command. And after all, they were in Paris. She resumed her bantering with Viktor.
    Five more lights and Blackford popped out of the car, parcel in hand, and smiled. “ Un petit moment! ” Tamara returned the smile. He went around the corner, and deposited the empty parcel in the waste bin.
    He returned to the cab and drove off. Five more lights . Five more minutes? In fact his passengers did not grow restive until eight full