They shimmered. They started to recede.
Back, back, back they flowed, leaving Papa Schimmelhorn alone, triumphant, and naked as a jay-bird.
The door was opened, and he emerged—to be congratulated and reclothed, and (much to Sergeant Colliver's annoyance) to turn down a White House dinner invitation in favor of a date with Katie.
The active phases of Operation Gnurr were over.
In far-away Bobovia, however, chaos reigned.
Later it was learned that eleven inquisitive enemy monitors had unscrambled the tootle of the gnurrpfeife, and that tidal waves of gnurrs had inundated the enemy's eleven major cities.
By seven-fifteen, except for a few hysterical outlying stations, Bobovia was off the air.
By eight, Bobovian military activity had ceased in every theatre.
At twenty after ten, an astounded Press learned that the surrender of Bobovia could be expected momentarily . . .
The President had received a message from the Bobovian Marshalissimo, asking permission to fly to Washington with his Chief of Staff, the members of his cabinet, and several relatives.
And would his Excellency the President—the Marshalissimo had radioed—be so good as to have someone meet them at the airport with nineteen pairs of American trousers, new or used?
VE Day wasn't in it.
Neither was VJ Day.
As soon as the papers hit the streets—BOBOVIA SURRENDERS!—ATOMIC MICE DEVOUR ENEMY!—SWISS GENIUS' STRATEGY WINS WAR!—the crowds went wild.
From Maine to Florida, from California to Cape Cod, the lights went on, sirens and bells and auto horns resounded through the night, millions of throats were hoarse from singing
"Come To The Church In The Wildwood. ''
Next day, after massed television cameras had let the entire nation in on the formal signing of the surrender pact, General Pollard and Papa Schimmelhorn were honored at an impressive public ceremony.
Papa Schimmelhorn received a vote of thanks from both houses of Congress.
He was awarded academic honors by Harvard, Princeton, M.I.T., and a number of denominational colleges down in Texas.
He spoke briefly about cuckoo-clocks, the gnurrs, and Katie Hooper.
General Pollard, having been presented with a variety of domestic and foreign decorations, spoke at some length on the use of animals in future warfare.
He pointed out that the horse, of all animals, was best suited to normal military purposes, and he discussed in detail many of the battles and campaigns in which it had been tried and proven.
He was just starting in on swords and lances when the abrupt arrival of Major Hanson cut short the whole affair. Hanson raced up with sirens screaming.
He left his escort of MP's and ran across the plat-form. Pale and panting, he reached the President —sand, though he tried to whisper, his voice was loud enough to reach the General's ear. "The—the gnurrs!" he choked.
"They're in Los Angeles!"
Instantly, the General rose to the occasion.
"Attention, please!" he shouted at the micro-phones.
"This ceremony is now over.
You may consider yourselves—er—ah—DISMISSED! "
Before his audience could react, he had joined the knot of men around the President, and Hanson was briefing them on what had happened,
"It was a research unit!
They'd worked out a descrambler—new stuff—better than the enemy's.
They didn't know.
Tried it out on Papa here.
Cut a record. Played it back today!
Los Angeles is overrun!"
There were long seconds of despairing silence.
Then,
"Gentlemen," said the President quietly, "we're in the same boat as Bobovia."
The General groaned.
But Papa Schimmelhorn, to everyone's surprise, laughed boisterously.
"Oh-ho-ho-ho!
Don'dt vorry, soldier boy!
Ve haff them only in Los Angeles, vhere it does nodt matter!
Also, I haff a trick I did nodt tell!"
He winked a cunning wink.
"Iss vun thing frightens gnurrs—"
"In God's name—what?"exclaimed the Secretary.
"Horses," said Papa Schimmelhorn.
"It iss der shmell!"