“Buddy-boy, what’s the matter?”Mister Ed queried his owner as Wilbur Post entered their shared space of stable and office.Ed had heard the siren... and seen the ambulance arrive, then watched yet another extra long vehicle depart hours later in total silence. Something or other “Mortuary” printed on the side.Wilbur had been crying.“Addison, he is dead.”Ed knew death only in the abstract of production parameters and entertainment value. This, this was not that.“I’m sorry, Wilbur. What. "Am I correct in assuming you are English?" Yes."Her majordomo, the head butler, spoke. The chatelaine respondedin Spanish and then turned to Heather: "We are, as you know, atwar with England, and you are presumed to be a spy. You are alsopresumed to be a heretic, so when we are through with you here,the Inquisition may wish to question you." No, there is no need for the Inquisition. Madame, I am a goodCatholic, though I must keep it secret in England." You would say that, even if it were. More

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