He drew away from me irritably and closed the eye again, ruffling down into his feathers. "He may be keyed to respond to certain phrases. Try your uncle's name--he obviously knows that," Rene suggested coldly, wanting no part of this but unable to hold down the suggestion. "My name," I screamed at the somnolent dodo, "is Isadore Summers." He reared back and pecked the hell out of me. I picked the book up off the floor and flipped through the bent pages until I found "The Dodo." Maybe there'd be something in _that_. "Listen to this, Rene," I said, "and see if you catch anything I might have missed." Rene looked discomfited, but he didn't stop up his ears. When I came to the part, "'Tell me what thy lordly name is/On the Night's Plutonian shore....'" the dodo looked up and said, "Isadore." Clearly, this was it, although I couldn't recall that any of the questions in the poem were to the point. I got to, "'On the morrow he will leave me/As my hopes have flown before.'/Then the bird said...." "Ask me more," said the dodo without missing a beat. I read on, getting excited. "'Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe,/And forget this lost Lenore.'/Quoth the Dodo...." "Give me more," he supplied, pointing his beak at the alcohol tap. I gave him another cup and continued, sure that he must be going to say _something_ relevant to Uncle Izzy's fortune. "'Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--Tell me, tell me, I implore!' Quoth the Dodo...." "Probably not," the dodo said, breaking the Grilch Hop rhythm at last, "but there are perfume trees on Alvarla." "Perfume trees!" Rene shouted. "That bird's lying. It's impossible." "Shut up!" I yelled at him. "The poem's not over." * * * * * I read on, somewhat ashamed of having to say such inhospitable words to a dodo who had been, after all, cooperating with me. "'Take thy beak from out my heart,/And take thy form from off my door!'/Quoth the Dodo...." "I was just leaving," the bird said, and struggled to his feet and went and stood by the door expectantly. I got up. "Wait!" I commanded the bird, who couldn't do much else because the door was closed. "Do you know what perfume trees are, Rene?" "Yeah, I know what they are, and they don't grow on this planet. You can take my word for it. They need a warm, moist soil to germinate in. They need to have their soil cultivated every day for a year. They die fast on contact with any sort of industrial fumes. They die in captivity, like some wild animals. They die if you sweat on them. They die if you breathe on them. They need to start off warm and get colder every month until they form their flowers. Then they need a frost for the pods to fill with the perfume, along with the seeds." "There aren't any industrial fumes here," I pointed out, "and they could get plenty of frost."