The Sword and the Net полностью

“I’m a journalist,” said Etter. “But not like those others on deck. They’re just men from the dailies.” He thrust the battered hat to the back of his head, and from beneath a high and bulging forehead, two small bright eyes, glittering darkly, sent roving glances over Otto’s face. “You understand English all right?”

Otto smiled. “Yes, quite,” he said. “But not too fast, please. And not . . . not . . .”

“Not too much slang?” Etter was very quick. “All right.” He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and pressed one upon Otto and took one himself and lighted them both. He talked all the time he was doing this, and after.

“I’m on a weekly paper,” he said. His words came rapidly but very clear and Otto had no difficulty with them. “Called Kosmo. You’ve probably seen it—lot of pictures; one editorial; one main article called Personality of the Week! We’ve done Goering and Churchill and Wilkie and John L. Lewis and Mussolini and Lunt and Henry Armstrong. Catholic, you see. I want to do you. It’s supposed to be a great honour—and it’s worth a grand to you—a thousand dollars. Wouldn’t object to a thousand dollars, would you?”

Otto smiled again. “No objection,” he said—and thought how truly wonderful was the Machine in its speed of working and its camouflage of the working parts. He wondered now what steps would be taken to gain him proper entrance to America.

Etter might have been reading his mind.

“I was talking to the Swedish Consul,” said Etter. “He spoke to you up on deck. He told me he was getting you temporary permission to land. Like ordinary shore leave. But he’s also going to work to get you an immigration quota number—if you want one. . . . That’s permission to live in this country—they call it being a resident alien. It’s next door to being a citizen—except you can’t vote and you do pay income tax. Like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh,” said Otto slowly. “Oh—I understand. . . .”

“Great guy, the Consul!” said Etter. “Good friend of mine.”

“Yes?” said Otto. “Yes. I should like to be . . . what did you say? . . . a resident alien. And live in this country. Yes.”

“Fine!” Etter gave approval. “So if you like that—well, you won’t mind giving me a break, huh?”

Otto stared. “Pardon?” It was the first time he had not understood.

Etter laughed—a harsh, creaking sound. “Sorry. I mean, if that arrangement’s all right for you, you shouldn’t object to giving me that Personality of the Week deal? Huh?”

“Oh,” said Otto. “I see. . . . No—of course I will certainly do that.” He spoke even more slowly than before—but he was thinking fast.

“Fine!” said Etter. “Swell. Thanks.” He pulled a wallet from his pocket, and a folded paper from the wallet. He said:

“There’s one thing, though.” He was unfolding the paper. “You have to promise me you won’t give any other interviews until the Kosmo Personality’s out. Understand that? It’s only fair.”

“Yes,” Otto said. “Yes. I understand.”

Etter slapped him on the shoulder and held out the paper. “Swell!” he said. “Just sign this, will you. It’s a simple form of contract—exclusive rights on your life-story and experiences—all that sort of thing. Better read it.”

Otto took the paper. Painstakingly, he read the first lines, and saw that the document was what it had been said to be. He smiled at Etter. He said:

“All right. . . . I will sign. Thank you.”

Etter stood up, groping in his pockets and looking down at Otto.

“Got a pen?” said Etter.

Otto shook his head. “I had a pencil,” he said slowly. “But it was lost—in the sea.”

Etter seemed to be looking at him very hard—but before he could speak there came the sound of voices outside the door and it opened to admit the Captain, neat and burly in spotless, clumsy shore-going clothes, and the tall, distinguished figure of the man who had spoken to Otto in Swedish.

“Hi, Consul!” said Etter. “Got a pen? . . . Hi there, Captain.”

It was only noon when they took Otto ashore—but it was not until after nine that night that he was stationary and alone.

He was in a small, bright room which, with its fellows, was perched against all credibility four hundred feet above the ground. Everything around him was actual and utile and pleasing to the senses, but these qualities seemed merely to enhance the all-embracing feeling of unreality which had possessed him ever since the Admiral Farragut had dropped anchor in the harbour.

There was a big easy chair by the bay window, He wanted to switch off the lights and drop into it and stare unseeingly at the clear, star-crusted sky without looking at the incredible carpet of lights below. He wanted to do this because he thought it the best, the only, way in which he might sort out his thoughts.

But there was something he must do first; something he should have done much earlier than this; something he would have done much earlier than this had he been for one moment alone.