The Sword and the Net полностью

She said: “They aren’t bad, you know—not the young men; they are taught and led by an evil Idea. And other young men—young men like you—are going to show them that what they have been taught is wrong.” She laid her hand upon his arm. “They don’t know—yet—that they cannot win; that an Evil Idea cannot beat a Good Idea. But you will help to teach them!”

Otto smiled down at her with vague tenderness: he was haunted increasingly by persistent, improbable reminiscence of his mother.

“I am going now,” she said, and moved the hand which had been upon his sleeve and offered it to him. He bowed over it and put it to his lips—perhaps too un-Nils-like a gesture, but there was no one to see. She smiled at him again and went away, walking slowly and leaning on her cane.

Otto looked after her for a moment; then dutifully wrenched himself from vague, lavender-scented nostalgia back to duty and the new thought which the sight of Karl Etter had given him. He walked across to a lone settee near the doors of the music room and dropped on to it and ordered his mind.

Yes, it was a good thought—more, it was right! Simply because upon two previous occasions the Machine had made the contact between him and itself did not mean that this must always be the case. Of course it did not—there had been nothing said in that strange interview on the upper floor in the Berlin suburban house which could be construed to mean that. In fact, stress had been laid upon initiative. . . .

He jumped to his feet, his course clear before him. Since his landing in New York—a landing arranged neatly by the Machine in the person of Karl Etter, he had been left to himself, as a test of his initiative! The Machine was waiting for him; waiting to see whether, left on his own in these unforeseen and unlikely circumstances, he was man enough to communicate with it or hidebound enough to wait indefinitely, an over-disciplined jelly-fish!

He found Etter at the bar in what they seemed to call the Venetian Room, talking to a group which included the Swedish Consul. He stood at the bar close to this group and ordered a glass of champagne. The Consul saw him and came over and shook hands—and he was drawn into the company.

He endured patiently while yet more people shook his hand and smiled upon him and poured out praise. He gave an excellent performance of Nils—and underneath wondered desperately how long they would all take to go, so that he could be alone with Etter.

They took, it seemed to him, an unconscionable time; but go they did, one by tardy one. The Consul was the last, and he shook hands yet again.

“Your quota number,” he said. “It will be through without any trouble. Come to the Consulate to-morrow . . . no, perhaps the next day.” He smiled again, and went away to Nils’ murmured thanks.

Etter yawned enormously, stretching long thin arms. “Better be going,” he said.

“One moment,” Otto said quickly: he was waiting for the barman to move away. “When . . . at what time do you wish to take the photographs?” He managed an embarrassed chuckle. “For the Kosmo article?” he said.

“To-morrow morning.” Etter stared at him. “Thought I told you. Around eleven—if that’s all right with you?”

The barman had moved now. “Oh, yes,” said Otto. “Yes. I wished to make sure there was no change.” He pulled a little notebook from his pocket—and then the pencil. He said:

“I will note that. To be sure.” He scribbled something in the book, feeling Etter’s eyes on the pencil-head. Without too much parade, he put book and pencil back in his pocket.

“What . . .” began Etter—and then broke off and spoke in an entirely different tone; spoke just as a faint perception of the perfume came to Otto’s nostrils.

“My dear lady!” said Etter. “I’ve been waiting on the chance of seeing you for a moment.”

Mrs. Van Teller was standing between them. She smiled upon Otto and was gracious to the journalist.

“How nice of you,” she said to Etter. “This is the first moment I’ve had to breathe!”

Etter said: “You’ve done a wonderful piece of work! Wonderful!”

She smiled at him and bowed. She looked magnificent.

“Some more like you,” said Etter, “who really did things—and Hitler wouldn’t last a month!” His eyes gleamed behind the spectacles, and Otto gave silent applause.

“We can only try,” she said, and gave the man her hand as he took his leave. She was turned in such a way that Otto could not move without rudeness, so he stood motionless, looking for some sign from Etter.

Etter glanced at him. “So long, Jorgensen,” he said casually. “See you in the morning. I’ll be around first—before the photographers.”

“Yes,” said Otto. “Yes. Thank you.” A great weight was lifted from his mind. He was conscious of the perfume again and the marble perfection of the shoulders against the dark velvet.