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The Knights of Arthur
written by "Martin, Donald, 1931-2000" long waiting and I wouldn’t want to leave Arthur alone again—after all, he was partly right. I thought of the telephone. On the off-chance that it might work, I picked it up. Amazing, a voice from the desk answered.  I crossed my fingers and said: “Room service?” And the voice answered amiably enough: “Hold on, buddy. I’ll see if they answer.” Clicking and a good long wait. Then a new voice said: “Whaddya want?” There was no sense pressing my luck by asking for anything like a complete meal. I would be lucky if I got a sandwich. I said: “Please, may I have a Spam sandwich on Rye Krisp and some coffee for Room Fifteen Forty-one?” “Please, you go to hell!” the voice snarled. “What do you think this is, some damn delicatessen? You want liquor, we’ll get you liquor. That’s what room service is for!” I hung up. What was the use of arguing? Arthur was clacking peevishly: WHATS THE MATTER SAM YOU THINKING OF YOUR BELLY AGAIN Q Q “You would be if you—” I started, and then I stopped. Arthur’s feelings were delicate enough already. I mean suppose that all you had left of what you were born with was a brain in a kind of sardine can, wouldn’t you be sensitive? Well, Arthur was more sensitive than you would be, believe me. Of course, it was his own foolish fault—I mean you don’t get a prosthetic tank unless you die by accident, or something like that, because if it’s disease they usually can’t save even the brain. The phone rang again. It was the desk clerk. “Say, did you get what you wanted?” he asked chummily. “No.” “Oh. Too bad,” he said, but cheerfully. “Listen, buddy, I forgot to tell you before. That Miss Engdahl you were expecting, she’s on her way up.” I dropped the phone onto the cradle. “Arthur!” I yelled. “Keep quiet for a wh...

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