After several long minutes of walking, Number Nine arrived at the gates of the White City. Nine marvelled at how much paint it must have taken to make it look that way, and how much it had cost, and where they had gotten that much paint. It seemed a poor use of money, but different strokes for different folks, he decided. As interesting as this random musing was, Nine thought it would be wise to knock on the door, as you can't sell rings to large white walls, as he had tried many times.
It wasn't very long before a soldier of Gondor opened the door. He seemed to be very cheerful. "Greetings, traveler!" he exclaimed. "What brings you to the city of Minas Tirith?"
The man's happiness caught Number Nine off guard. Usually people who saw him cried, or yelled about how the end was nigh, or curled into a little ball, or something. "Um, I'm from the, uh, Mordorian Scouts, and we're fundraising for, err, our band trip by selling cookies door-to-door. Would you like to buy some?"
"Alas!" cried the guard. "I have no money on me, having a large gaping hole in my pocket. But please enter our fair city, which has erupted in a state of euphoria!"
The soldier wasn't kidding. Everyone in the city was dancing in the street. Unfortunately, the only dance any one seemed to know was the Robot. But this did not seem to concern anyone unduly, and they performed their mechanical-inspired grooving quite contentedly.
Nine tried to talk to some of the residents, but they were all caught up in their joy. He was considering leaving this Middle Earth Mardi Gras when another soldier appeared.
"Ho there, stranger! What does though want in our beautiful city?"
"Well, I was kind of hoping to talk to one or two people, but since everyone is both hipping and hopping, I'm kind of being ignored."
"Ah, then you shall come with me to meet the Lord Denethor. He is always ready to receive news from outsiders." And so the guard led Number Nine through the city. After much pushing, shoving, and three marriage proposals, they arrived at the top of the city. The Lord Denethor was resting underneath the white tree, uncharacteristically relaxed.
"My Lord," said the guard, "an outsider has come to speak with you."
Denethor sprang up. "Ah, thank you Fredrick, you may leave us." As the guard left, Denethor shook the Nazgul's hand warmly. "Welcome, my friend, welcome to our city of joy! What is it you seek?"
Number Nine was taken aback. The Steward had always been rumoured to have been a sour grape that didn't get out much. "Uh, well, I did come here to try and corrupt someone, but everyone seems to be so happy that I haven't had much luck."
Denethor smiled. "Yes, that is my doing. I was sitting in the bath one day when I realized that life was too short for wars and depression and the such. I have decided to spread good cheer and happiness through out Gondor. Heck, I might even write what's-his-name, my other kid, back into my will. Yes, my friend," as he slapped Number Nine on the back, "I am a new man!"
Nine was at a loss for words. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. You see, I'm trying to sell this Ring of Power off on some one, but I don't suppose you want to accept now."
"No, I am quite content, thank you. Perhaps you would like to stay for dinner?"
"No, I must be going. But I really want to repay you for your kindness… I know!" he exclaimed, and out of his robes he drew a bowling ball resembling thing. "This here is a palantir. It lets you see things that you normally couldn't, unless you had really good eyes sight." And he handed the ball to the Steward.
"Thank you my friend. We will treasure it…" his voice trailed off as he looked into the palantir. Suddenly he yelled out, "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!" and ran back inside.
Number Nine couldn't think of the reason for the Lord's mood swing, but he felt it was best if he left the city. After all, Ringwraiths don't just create themselves, and he had many more miles to travel.