Getting on, getting on.
The consul at Baltimore had warned Whitman that Royal Virginian courts could be unusual. Or that at least the ones that occurred when the Queen visited her City of Ravens. “I’ve never actually been to Georgetown either, Mr. President,” the consul explained from his salt-water pool. Whitman felt kind of bad about that; Frankie Thompson probably should have retired five years ago, but the merman just couldn’t be spared right now, what with the coming war.
Whitman decided that since he was wearing swim trunks anyway he might as well stop making Frank peer up at him. The President got into the pool himself; and, dammit, the hot saltwater felt good to him, too. Frank wasn’t the only one getting on in years. “They never invited you to visit, Frank?” he asked. “Can’t say I like hearing that. You’re our official representative, right enough.” Whitman’s face got set in a scowl. “You think it’s because you’re a merman?”
“I doubt it, Mr. President. No, let me be stronger about this: I do not believe that is the reason at all.” The water rippled as Frank shrugged. “The Virginians are civilized, even if I am never quite sure which civilization they are part of on any given day. No, I simply was told that while I could visit Georgetown as a private citizen, I could not be received in an official capacity there. All official business had to be done here in Baltimore.”
“They say why?”
“Not exactly.” Frank flapped his gill slits, in the merman equivalent of a slight shrug. “I did receive the impression that I was being willingly granted a courtesy; but what that courtesy was eludes me. Perhaps they will be more forthcoming with you.”