Balloons…

In which apologies to A.A. Milne are in order

Very recently, Mùchén, a low-level but goodhearted Chinese administrator of very little brain in the Ministry of National Defense was admitted through a red door to the office of The Minister.

“Good morning, Minister,” he said.

“Good morning, Mùchén,” said The Minister.

“I wonder if you’ve got such a thing as a balloon about you?”

“A balloon?”

“Yes, I just said to myself coming along: ‘I wonder if The Minister has such a thing as a balloon about him?’ I just said it to myself, thinking of balloons, and wondering.”

“What do you want a balloon for?” The Minister said.

Mùchén looked round to see that nobody was listening, put his hand to his mouth, and said in a deep whisper: “Intelligence!”

“But you don’t get Intelligence with balloons!”

“I do,” said Mùchén.

Well, it just happened that The Minister had been to a party the day before and he had a big blue balloon and a big white balloon.

“Which one would you like?” The Minister asked Mùchén.

Mùchén put his head between his hands and thought carefully.

“It’s like this,” he said. “When you go after Intelligence with a balloon, the great thing is not to let the Americans know you’re coming. Now, if you have a blue balloon, they might think you were only part of the sky, and not notice you, and if you have a white balloon, they might think you were only part of a cloud, and not notice you, and the question is: Which is most likely?”

“Wouldn’t they notice the balloon?” The Minister asked.

“They might or they might not,” said Mùchén. “You never can tell with Americans.” He thought for a moment and said: “I shall try to look like a small white cloud. That will deceive them.”

“Then you had better have the white balloon,” The Minister said; and so, it was decided.

Well, they both went out with the white balloon. When the balloon was blown up as big as big, and The Minister and Mùchén were both holding on to the string, they let go suddenly, and the balloon floated gracefully up into the sky.

“Hooray!” The Minister shouted.

“Isn’t that fine?” shouted Mùchén. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like a balloon,” The Minister said.

“Not . . .” said Mùchén anxiously, “not like a small white cloud in the blue sky?”

“Not very much.”

“Ah, well, perhaps it looks different to the Americans. And, as I say, you never can tell with Americans.”

Mùchén sent the balloon to America. After some little time, the balloon could see the Intelligence, the balloon could almost smell the Intelligence, but the balloon couldn’t quite reach the Intelligence. After a little while Mùchén went to see The Minister again.

“Minister!” he said in a loud whisper.

“Hallo!”

“I think that the Americans suspect something!”

“What sort of thing?”

“I don’t know. But something tells me that they’re suspicious!”

“Perhaps they think that you’re after their Intelligence.”

“It may be that. You never can tell with Americans.”

There was another silence, and then Mùchén spoke again.

“Minister!”

“Yes?”

“Have you an umbrella?”

“I think so.”

“I wish you would bring it out here for The Press, and walk up and down with it, and look up at the balloon every now and then, and say, ‘Tut-tut, it looks like rain.’ I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practicing on these Americans.”

Well, The Minister laughed to himself, “Silly old Mùchén!” but he didn’t say it aloud because he was so fond of him, and he got his umbrella.

“Shall I put my umbrella up?” The Minister said.

“Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important American to deceive is the President.”

“Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, ‘Tut-tut, it looks like rain,’ I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing… Go!”

So, while The Minister walked up and down for The Press and wondered aloud if it would rain, Mùchén sang this song:

How sweet to be a Cloud

Floating in the Blue!

Every little cloud

Always sings aloud.

“How sweet to be a Cloud

Floating in the Blue!”

It makes him very proud

To be a little cloud.

Alas, the Americans did not believe the deception and, with an air-to-air missile shot from an F-22 fighter jet, downed the balloon over the Atlantic.

Later, The Minister and Mùchén sat thoughtfully together in the golden evening under a poplar tree, and for a long time they were silent.

“I suppose it all comes of liking Intelligence so much,” Mùchén finally said.

“Indeed,” The Minister responded.

After a thoughtful moment, Mùchén spoke again.

“Oh bother. Is that the end of our story?” asked Mùchén.

“That’s the end of that one. There will be others.” The Minister said.