(Zither music continues. In the distance, the ruins of Vienna, like a dropped Sachertorte, lie silent. A figure appears in the distance, slides into the Ferris Wheel. Catspaw enters the compartment. The wheel begins to turn.)

CP: It is you! After those cracks about selling tires I thought you would have had me killed.
Rick: (taking out cigar, looking at landscape sinking down) That doesn't matter -- yet. The question is, how are the sales doing?
CP: Well, they started out great, the backlog albums took off, and then the problems started.
Rick: (a steely glance) Yes?
CP: Not my fault, not my fault!! When Celine, and Alanis and Shania decided to do the medley from Lifelines at the Grammies, that was not my idea.
Rick: You see those ants down there, CP?
CP: People, not ants.
Rick: Ants, people, what does it matter -- record buyers. There was a guy on my show recently who gives 50% royalties to people who download albums onto Liquid Audio. You are still selling mine out of the back of the truck.
CP: It's a big truck. Nice truck, Rick. Come on, don't be like that.
Rick: And my royalties?
CP: I was coming to that. Well, then there was this rumour. Some guy in Tucson played This One's The Dreamer backwards, sounded like remaerDehtsenosiht to me, but he swore it said: "I'm alive, suckers!!!" And then someone saw that God was in clogs on the cover, and that signified "doing O.K. in Swahili" or something. And the bottom fell out. So, well, royalties are a little slow at the moment. Really, believe me,
Rick: (moving closer) You see those ants down there.
CP: Look, Rick, Sir, um---
Rick: You think if you joined those ants from an upper story nosedive, anyone would give a FF?
CP: Well, there's.....and then ....fock... No one I guess?
Rick: Here's something to think about. In Italy under the Borgias, they had warfare, conspiraces, burnings, and they thought nothing of putting someone who even thought about putting someone to death as a joke, to death as a joke. Good music too: madrigals, contre-danses, "Ecco La Primavera", fine lutes, you can pick up a good one today at the 12th Fret, played it only last week, still holds its --
CP: Is this going somewhere?
Rick: This is my big monologue, ant-in-training, it goes where I want it to go. In Mississippi they had cotton fields, the Parchman Farm, dogs, fat policemen, but for fifty years they had the blues, Robert Johnson, Son House, and Muddy Waters. That totals up to about 500 years of people doing something to make their life worthwhile. You, meanwhile, are blowing smoke up a possum's ass.
CP: And your point is?
Rick: The point is, I'm not going to kill you for even suggesting this scheme. CP: (gets down on knees, grovels) Oh, thank you, thank you.
( a shadowy figure comes out of the corner of the compartment, kicks his ass out of the door. A long drop ensues. Small ant like cries.)
Duckboots: (for it is she) I am. That takes care of that case of presumption.
Rick: And the others -- Roger, Aine, Steve, etc.? Duckboots: I may be from a town outside Glasgow, but I know a few ghastly things to pass the time of day.
Rick: Great. What time is the flight to the Barbados?
Duckboots: About half an hour after I cash in the insurance policy on Mr. Antman.
Rick: (looks out at Vienna, coming back into view) You know, I always liked ferris wheels. Something, oh I don't know, circular about them.
Zither music quivers.
THE END