Vic, Roger, and Rob Martin spent Tuesday morning at Image-Eye and then went out for beers and burgers. A few burgers and a great many beers later, Vic suddenly realized that he was drunker than he had ever been at a business luncheon in his life. Usually he had a single cocktail or a glass of white wine; he had seen too many good New York admen drown themselves slowly in those dark places just off Madison Avenue, talking to their friends about campaigns they would never mount ... or, if they became drunk enough, to the barmen in those places about novels which they would assuredly never write.

It was a strange occasion, half victory celebration, half wake. Rob had greeted their idea of a final Sharp Cereal Professor ad with tempered enthusiasm, saying that he could knock it a mile ...

always assuming he was given the chance. That was the wake half.

Without the approval of old and his fabled kid, the greatest spot in the world would them no good. They would all be out on their asses.

Under the circumstances, Vic supposed it was all right to get loaded.

Now, as the main rush of the restaurant's lunchtime clientele came in, the three of them sat in their shirtsleeves at a comer booth, the remains of their burgers on waxed paper, beer bottles scattered around the table, the ashtray overflowing. Vic was reminded of the day he and Roger had sat in the Yellow Sub back in Portland, discussing this little safari. Back when everything that had been wrong had been wrong with the business. Incredibly, he felt a wave of nostalgia for that day and wondered what Tad and Donna were doing. Got to call them tonight, he thought. If I can stay sober enough to remember, that is.

'So what now?' Rob asked. 'You hangin out in Boston or going on to New York? I can get you guys tickets to the Boston-Kansas City series, if you want them. Might cheer you up to watch George Brett knock a few holes in the Ieft-field wall.'

Vic looked at Roger, who shrugged and said, 'On to New York, I guess. Thanks are in order, Rob, but I don't think either opus are in the mood for baseball.'

'There's nothing more we can do here,' Vic agreed. 'We had a lot of time scheduled on this trip for brainstorming, but I guess we're all agreed to go with the final spot idea.'

'There's still plenty of rough edges,' Rob said. 'Don't get too proud.'

'We can mill off the rough edges,' Roger said. 'One day with the marketing people ought to do it, I think. You agree, Vic?'

'It might take two,' Vic said. 'Still, there's no reason why we can't tie things up a lot earlier than we'd expected.'

'Then what?'

Vic grinned bleakly. 'Then we call old man Sharp and make an appointment to see him. I, imagine we'll end tip going straight on to Cleveland from New York. The Magical Mystery Tour.'

'See Cleveland and die,' Roger said gloomily, and poured the remainder of his beer into his glass. 'I just can't wait to see that old fart.'

'Don't forget the young fart,' Vic said, grinning a little.

'How could I forget that little prick?' Roger replied. 'Gentlemen, I propose another round.'

Rob looked at his watch. 'I really ought to -'

'One last round,' Roger insisted. 'Auld Lang Sync, if you want.'

Rob shrugged. 'Okay. But I still got a business to run, don't forget that. Although without Sharp Cereals, there's going to be space for a lot of long lunches.' He raised his glass in the air and waggled it until a waiter saw him and nodded back.

'Tell me what you really think,' Vic said to Rob. 'No bullshit. You think it's a bust?'

Rob looked at him, seemed about to speak, then shook his head.

Roger said, 'No, go ahead. We all set out to sea in the same pea-green boat. Or Red Razberry Zingers carton, or whatever. You think it's no go, don't you?'

'I don't think there's a chance in hell,' Rob said. 'You'll work up a good presentation - you always do. You'll get your background

work done in New York, and I have a feeling that everything the market-research boys can tell you on such short notice is all going to be in your favor. And Yancey Harrington.... I think he'll emote his fucking heart out. His big deathbed scene. He'II he so good he'll make Bette Davis in Dark Victory look like Ali MacGraw in Love

'Oh, but it's not like that at all -' Roger began.

Rob shrugged. 'Yeah, maybe that's a little unfair. Okay. Call it his curtain call, then. Whatever you want to call it, I've been in this business long enough to believe that there wouldn't he a dry eye in the house after that commercial was shown over a three- or four-week period. It would knock ~body on their asses. But -'

The beers came. The waiter said to Rob, 'Mr. Johnson asked me to tell you that he has several parties of three waiting, Mr. Martin.'

'Well, you run back and tell Mr. Johnson that the boys are on their last round and to keep his undies dry. Okay, Rocky?'

The waiter smiled, emptied the ashtray, and nodded.

He left. Rob turned back to Vic and Roger. 'So what's the bottom line? You're bright boys. You don't need a one-legged cameraman with a snootful of beer to tell you where the bear shat in the buckwheat.'

'Sharp just won't apologize,' Vic said. 'That's what you think, isn't it?' Rob saluted him with his bottle of beer. 'Goto the head of the class.'

'It's not an apology,' Roger said plaintively. 'It's a fucking explanation.'

'You see it that way,' Rob answered, 'but will he) Ask yourself that.

I've met that old geezer a couple of times. He'd see it in terms of the captain deserting the sinking ship ahead of the women and children, giving up the Alamo, every stereotype you can think of.

No, I'll tell you what I think is going to happen, my friends.' He raised his glass and drank slowly. 'I think a valuable and all too short relationship is going to come to an end very soon now. Old man Sharp is going to listen to your proposal, he's going to shake his head, he's going to usher you out. Permanently. And the next PR firm will be chosen by his son, who will make his Pick based on which one he believes will give him the freest rein to indulge his crackpot ideas.'

'Maybe,' Roger said. 'But maybe he'll

'Maybe doesn't matter shit one way or the other,' Vic said vehemently. 'The only difference between a good advertising man and a good snake-oil salesman is that a good advertising man does the best job he can with the materials at hand ... without stepping outside the bounds of honesty. 'Rat's what this commercial is about. If he turns it down, he's turning down the best we can do.

And that's the end. Toot-finny.' He snuffed his cigarette and almost knocked over Roger's half-full bottle of beer. His hands were shaking.

Rob nodded. 'I'll drink to that.' He raised his glass. 'A toast, gentlemen.'

Vic and Roger raised their own glasses.

Rob thought for a moment and then said: 'May things turn out all right, even against the odds.'

'Amen,' Roger said.

They clinked their glasses together and drank. As he downed the rest of his beer, Vic found himself thinking about Donna and Tad again.

George Meara, the mailman, lifted one leg clad in blue-gray Post Office issue and farted. just lately he farted a great deal. He was mildly worried about it. It didn't seem to matter what he had been

eating. Last night he and the wife had had creamed cod on toast and he had farted. This morning. Kellog's Product 19 with a banana cut up in it - and he had farted. This noon, down at the Mellow Tiger in town, two cheeseburgers with mayonnaise ... ditto farts.

He had looked up the symptom in The Home Medical Encyclopedia, an invaluable tome in twelve volumes which his wife had gotten a volume at a time by saving her checkout slips from the Shop 'n Save in South Paris. What George Meara had discovered under the EXCESSIVE FLATULENCE heading had not been particularly encouraging. It could he a symptom of gastric upset. It could mean he had a nice Iittle ulcer incubating in there. It could be a bowel problem. It could even mean the big C. If it kept up he supposed he would go and see old Dr. Quentin. Dr. Quentin would tell him he was farting a lot because he was getting older and that was it.

Aunt Evvie Chalmers's death that late spring had hit George hard -

harder than he ever would have believed - and just lately he didn't like to think about getting older. He preferred to think about the Golden Years of Retirement, years that he and Cathy would spend together. No more getting up at six thirty. No more heaving around sacks of mad and listening to that asshole Michael Fournier, who was the Castle Rock postmaster. No more freezing his balls off in the winter and going crazy with all the summer people who wanted delivery to their camps and cottages when the warm weather came.

Instead, there would be a Winnebago for 'Scenic Trips Through New England.' There would be