The Cat's Pajamas by Ray Bradbury Read Free Book Online Page A

“What’re we gonna do?”
    â€œMr. President.”
    â€œWhat’re we gonna do?” he cried again, quietly.
    â€œSir.”
    The president looked up.
    A Native American gentleman in a tall hat stood there. He was very short and resembled a squaw.
    The short Native American gentleman said, “May I make a suggestion, sir? The Chief of the Iroquois Waukesha Chippewa Council and owner of this casino and now proprietor of the United States of America wonders if you would want an audience with him.”
    The president of the United States tried to rise.
    â€œDon’t get up.” The short man in the tall black hat turned and opened the door and a great iron-eyed solemn shadow glided through.
    This man drifted in on soft wild bobcat feet, a tall shadow within a shadow. He was not quite seven feet tall, and the look on his serene face was the look of Eternity; the stare of dead presidents and lost Indian braves now come alive in the precipice face of this new visitor.
    Someone, perhaps the small squawlike pathfinder, seemed to be humming a celebratory tune under his breath, something about a chief, something about hailing.
    A great voice of muted storms spoke on high from this owner of many casinos.
    The small squawlike servant below translated.
    â€œHe asks, what seems to be the trouble here?”
    At this there was a collective impulse in the senators to hurl themselves at the exit, but something froze them in place: the small sounds of veins popping in the brow of the president of the United States.
    He massaged his head to calm his raging veins and gasped: “You have stolen our country.”
    The voice spoke above and was translated below.
    â€œJust one state at a time.”
    From that great height, a murmur fell upon the small Indian, who nodded several times.
    â€œHe now proposes,” said the small Indian, “one last game. The chief is willing to gamble like a good sport and maybe lose the country.”
    A trembling, as of a great earthquake, shook the senators. Smiles trembled on their lips. The president felt the need to faint but did not.
    â€œOne last game?” he moaned. “And if we lose again? What do we even have to offer?”
    The small Indian chatted up along the length of great redwood flesh and an utterance responded.
    â€œYou give us France and Germany.”
    â€œWe couldn’t do that!” cried the president.
    â€œOh no?” said the great storm voice.
    The president shrank two sizes within his suit.
    â€œAlso,” the shadow moved like winter above.
    â€œAlso?” piped the suddenly former president of the United States.
    â€œThe rules,” recited the small interpreter below. “If you lose, we keep the United States and you build casinos in all fifty states plus grade schools, high schools, and colleges throughout the Indian territories. Yes?”
    The president of the United States nodded.
    â€œAnd if you win,” the little man went on, “you get the states back, but the same things must happen: You build schools and casinos in all territories, even though you have won.”
    â€œIncredible!” the president cried. “You can’t apply the same rules win or lose!”
    Shadows whispered.
    â€œThat’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
    The president swallowed and at last said, “Let’s begin.”
    The great steam-shovel-size fingers of the owner of all fifty states’ Big Red Casinos moved out on the air. There was a deck of cards vised in the thick fingers.
    â€œDeal,” a voice echoed in up-country.
    The president found all of his limbs inert.
    â€œBlackjack,” whispered the small assistant Indian. “Two cards each.”
    At last, slowly, the president of the United States laid out the cards, facedown.
    A voice rumbled above.
    The little man said, “You first.”
    The president picked up the cards, and a great smile widened on his face. He tried in vain