Eye in the Sky (1957) (2 page)

“It means sympathetic to groups
or persons sympathetic with Communism.” Laboriously, McFeyffe continued.
“On May 8,1953, Mrs. Hamilton wrote a letter to the San Francisco
Chronicle
protesting the barring of Charlie Chaplin from the United States—a
notorious fellow-traveler. She signed the Save the Rosenbergs Appeal:
convicted traitors. In 1954 she spoke at the Alameda League of Women Voters in
favor of admitting Red China to the UN—a Communist country. In 1955 she joined
the Oakland branch of the International Coexistence or Death Organization,
with branches in Iron Curtain Countries. And in 1956 she contributed money to
the Society for the Advancement of Colored People.” He translated the
figure. “Forty-eight dollars and fifty-
five
cents.”

There was silence.

“That’s
it?” Hamilton demanded.

“That’s the relevant material,
yes.”

“Does it also mention,” Hamilton said, trying to keep his voice steady, “that Marsha subscribed to the Chicago
Tribune?
That she campaigned for Adlai Stevenson in 1952? That in 1953 she
contributed money to the Humane Society for the advancement of dogs and
cats?”

“I don’t see what relevance
these have,” Edwards said
impatiently.

“They complete the picture!
Sure, Marsha subscribed to
In Fact—
she
also subscribed to the
New
Yorker.
She left the Progressive Party when Wallace did—she joined the
Young Democrats. Does it mention that? Sure, she was curious about Communism;
does that make her a
Communist?
All
you’re
saying
is
that Marsha
reads
left-
wing journals and listens to left-wing
speakers—
it
doesn’t
prove
she
endorses
Communism or
is
under
Party
disci
pline or
advocates
the overthrow of the
government or—”

“We’re not
saying your wife
is a Communist,”
Mc
Feyffe said.
“We’re saying
she’s
a security
risk. The pos
sibility
that
Marsha
is
a Communist
exists.”

“Good
God,”
Hamilton
said
futilely, “then I’m sup
posed to
prove she
isn’t?
Is that it?”

“The
possibility is there,” Edwards repeated.
“Jack,
try to be rational; don’t get
upset
and start bellowing.
Maybe Marsha is a Red;
maybe not.
That
isn’t the issue.
What
we have here is material showing your wife is in
terested in
politics—
radical politics, at that. And that
isn’t a
good
thing.”

“Marsha
is
interested
in everything. She’s an intelli
gent, educated person. She has all day to find out
about
things.
Is
she supposed to sit home and just”—Hamilton
groped for words—”and dust off the
mantel? Fix dinner
and sew
and
cook?”

“We have
a pattern,
here,” McFeyffe said. “Admittedly,
none
of
these
items
in
itself
is indicative.
But
when
you add them up,
when
you get
the
statistical average … it’s simply too
damn
high, Jack. Your
wife
is mixed up
in too many pro-left
movements.”

“Guilt
by association.
She’s
curious; she’s
interested.
Does her being there
prove
she
agrees
with what they’re
saying?”

“We can’t
look
into her mind—and neither can
you.
All
we can
judge
is what
she
does:
the groups she
joins,
the
petitions she signs,
the
money
she
contributes.
That’s
the
only evidence we have—we’ve
got
to
go on that.
You
say she goes to these meetings but she
doesn’t
agree
with
the sentiments expressed. Well, let’s suppose
the police break up a lewd show and arrest the girls and the man
agement.
But the audience gets off by saying it didn’t enjoy the show.” McFeyffe
spread his hands. “Would they be there if they didn’t enjoy the show? One
show,
maybe. For curiosity. But not one
after another, all down the line.

“Your
wife has been mixed up in left-wing groups for
ten years, since she was
eighteen. She’s had plenty of time to make up her mind about Communism. But she
still goes to these things; she still turns up when some Commie group organizes
to protest a lynching in the South or to squall about the latest armament budget.
It
seems to me the fact that Marsha also
reads the Chicago
Trib
is no more relevant than the fact that the
man watching the lewd show goes to church. It proves he has many facets, maybe
even contradictory facets … but the fact remains that one of those facets
includes enjoying smut. He isn’t booked because he goes to church; he’s booked
because he likes smut and because he goes to see smut.

“Ninety-nine percent of your
wife may be average
red-blooded American—she
may cook well, drive care
fully, pay her income tax, give money to
charity, bake cakes for church raffles. But the remaining one percent may be
tied into the Communist Party. And that’s it.”

After
a moment Hamilton admitted begrudgingly,
“You put your case pretty well.”

“I believe in my case. I’ve
known you and Marsha as long as you’ve worked here. I like both of you—and so
does Edwards. Everybody does. That’s not the issue, though. Until we have
telepathy and can get into people’s minds, we’re going to have to depend on
this statistical stuff. No, we can’t prove Marsha is an agent of
a foreign power. And you can’t prove she isn’t.
In abey
ance, we’ll have to resolve the doubt against her. We
simply can’t afford to do otherwise.”
Rubbing his heavy lower lip, McFeyffe asked, “Has it ever occurred to you
to wonder if she is a Communist?”

It
hadn’t. Perspiring, Hamilton sat gazing mutely down
at the gleaming surface of the table.
He
had always as
sumed Marsha was telling the truth, that she was merely
curious about Communism. For the first time, a
miser
able, unhappy suspicion was beginning to grow. Sta
tistically, it
was
possible.

“I’ll
ask her,”
he
said out loud.

“You
will?” McFeyffe
said. “And what’ll
she
say?”

“She’ll
say no, of course!”

Shaking
his
head, Edwards said, “That isn’t
worth
anything,
Jack. And if you
think
it over, you’ll
agree.”

Hamilton
was on his feet. “She’s out
in
the lounge.
You
can all ask her—bring
her
in here,
ask
her
yourselves.”

“I’m not going to argue
with
you,” Edwards said. “Your wife is
classed as a security risk,
and
until fur
ther notice you’re suspended from your job.
Either bring
conclusive evidence to show she isn’t a Communist, or
get rid
of
her.”
He shrugged. “You have a career,
boy.
This is your lifework.”

Getting
to his feet,
McFeyffe came heavily around the
side of the table. The meeting was
breaking up; the conference on Hamilton’s clearance was over. Taking
hold of the technician’s arm,
McFeyffe
led him insistently
toward
the
door. “Let’s get out of here, where we can
breathe. How about a drink? The three of us, you and
me and Marsha. Whiskey sours down at the Safe Harbor.
I
think we can use them.”

II

“I
don’t want a drink,”
Marsha
said emphatically, in
clipped, brittle tones. Pale and determined, she
faced
McFeyffe, ignoring the company
officials who filed
through the lounge. “Right now Jack and I are
going over to the Bevatron and watch them start up their new equipment. We’ve
planned on it for weeks.”

“My car’s in the lot,”
McFeyffe said. “I’ll drive you over.” Ironically, he added, “I’m
a cop—I can get you right in.”

As
the dusty Plymouth sedan ascended the long slope
to the Bevatron
buildings, Marsha said, “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or what. I
can’t believe it Are
you all really serious
about this?”

“Colonel
Edwards suggested that Jack shed you like
an old coat,” McFeyffe said.

Dazed,
shaken, Marsha sat stiffly clutching her gloves and purse. “Would you do
that?” she asked her husband.

“No,” Hamilton answered.
“Not even if you were a pervert, a Communist, and an alcoholic put
together.”

“You
hear that?” Marsha said to McFeyffe.

“I
hear.”

“What
do you think of that?”

“I
think you’re both swell people. I think Jack would
be a sonofabitch to
do
otherwise.” McFeyffe finished;
“I
told Colonel Edwards
that”

“One of you two,”
Hamilton
said, “shouldn’t
be here.
One of you
should
get kicked
out the
door.
I ought to
flip a coin.”

Stricken, Marsha gazed
up
at him, brown
eyes
swimming,
fingers
plucking
aimlessly
at her
gloves.
“Can’t
you see?”
she
whispered.
“This
is a terrible
thing.
It’s
a conspiracy against you and me.
Against
all of us.”

“I
feel sort of lousy,
myself,”
McFeyffe
acknowledged.
Turning
the Plymouth off the state road, he guided it
past
the
check-station
and
into
the Bevatron grounds. The cop
at
the
entrance
saluted
and
waved; McFeyffe
waved back.
“After
all,
you’re friends of mine … my
duty comes along
and pushes
me
into drawing up reports
on my friends. Listing
derogatory material, investigat
ing
gossip—you
think I enjoy
it?”

“Take your dut—”
Hamilton
began, but
Marsha cut
him
off.

“He’s right; it’s not his
fault. We’re all in this together, all three
of
us.”

The car came
to a
halt before the main entrance.
McFeyffe
shut off the engine, and the
three of them
got
out
and
listlessly
moved up the
wide concrete steps.

A handful
of technicians
were visible, and Hamilton
looked
back at them,
at
the group
of them
assembled on the
steps. Well-dressed young
men
with crew cuts, bow
ties, chatting affably together.
With
them was the
usual trickle of sightseers, who,
having
been cleared at the
gate,
were
on
their
way
inside
to enjoy the sight of the Bevatron in
action.
But
it
was
the technicians who interested Hamilton; he was thinking to himself,
There
I
am.

Or,
he
thought,
there I’ve been
up until now.

I’ll meet you in a minute,” Marsha said faintly,
dabbing
at her
tear-streaked
eyes. “Tm going to the powder
room and put
myself back
together.”

“Okay,”
he
murmured, still deep in
thought.
She trotted off, and
Hamilton and McFeyffe stood
facing each other in the echoing corridor
of
the Bevatron
building.

“Maybe
it’s a good
thing,”
Hamilton said. Ten years
was
a
long
time,
long enough
in
any
kind of job. And
where
had he
been going? It was a good question.

“You
got a good right
to be sore,” McFeyffe said.

Hamilton
said, “You mean well.” He walked off by
himself and stood with his hands in his pockets.

Of
course
he was sore. And he would be sore until
he
had
settled the
loyalty
business one way or
another.
But
it was not that;
it was the
jolt to his system, the
jolt
to
his
manner
of
life, to
his
whole
range
of
habits.
To
the
various things he believed in and took for
granted.
McFeyffe had cut
all
the way through to
his deepest level of existence; to his marriage, and the woman who meant more
to him than anyone else in the
world.