The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens (22 page)

As Graham led Jeru-Bhetiru to a pair of vacant seats, another man—a stout bald fellow—said: “Good evening, Mr. Graham.”

Graham was sure he had never seen either this man or the man at the door before. Something was going on that he didn’t understand. First the strange encounter with Sklar and the two men who had attacked them; now this. He was sure he had never been here before, either. He didn’t even have that feeling of pseudo-memory the psychologists called
déjà vu . . .

The stout bald man, whom somebody referred to as “Mr. Warschauer,” called the meeting to order. There ensued the usual tedious round of discussion of membership, dues, and other topics of no interest to outsiders. (Graham kept whispering to Jeru-Bhetiru, earning disapproving frowns from his neighbors.) Then Mr. Warschauer introduced a Mr. Donaghy, a small white-haired man, as the speaker of the evening.

Mr. Donaghy got up in front and launched into an impassioned oration on his favorite subject: “. . . and what do we know of this George Bernard Shaw, as he called himself? All we have to go on is a few biographies, mostly biased, and which don’t agree with each other in many vital respects; and microfilm records of the notoriously corrupt and unreliable press of the twentieth century.

“Well, who was this so-called Shaw, anyway? From what little trustworthy evidence there is, he would not seem to have been a man of distinguished antecedents, which in those days of class distinction were necessary before a man could rise to intellectual eminence. So far from being a man of noble lineage, or a descendant of distinguished litterateurs, he was the son of a corn merchant! It is known that Shaw, as he is called, never attended school after the age of fourteen. Furthermore, to judge from the eccentric spellings by which he anticipated the modern curse of the so-called reformed orthography, he never paid much attention to learning even when it was offered to him . . .”

Graham, having almost immediately caught the general drift of Donaghy’s argument, paid it no more attention, devoting himself to gazing at Jeru-Bhetiru’s profile.

“. . . five years working in a real-estate office, of all places! How could the author of ‘Pygmalion’ and ‘Candida’ have endured such a stultifying atmosphere? A man of such sensitivity of soul would have gone mad in a week! And when he did at last abandon the sordid career of rent collector to try to earn a literary livelihood, he soon showed himself utterly incapable of doing so. In the first nine years of his new career he earned by his pen just six pounds, or about 28 modern World Federation dollars. The publishers rejected four novels, as they were called, one after the other. In one of these he showed his depraved tastes by setting his scene in the prize-fighting business. Try to imagine, if you can, the author of ‘Saint Joan’ writing about brutal and vulgar pugilists! And associating with them to pick up the necessary background and color . . .”

Graham shook his head vigorously to keep from falling asleep. Donaghy, seeing the motion, said sharply: “Do you have a question, young man?”

“N-no,” said Graham, reddening. “I—ah—I went swimming and got water in my ear.”

“Ahem. To resume: Finally obtaining a toehold on the fringe of the profession of letters, the
soi-disant
Shaw engaged in the lowest form of the craft: literary criticism. Even so, he showed not enough stability of character to hold any one job for long, but instead drifted from one publication to another . . .”

Graham let his hand steal out on a foraging mission of its own until it found one of Jeru-Bhetiru’s and clasped it. She not only did not try to draw away, but even returned his squeeze. The thumping of his heart all but drowned out what Mr. Donaghy was saying—not that Graham cared a damn what Donaghy said . . .

“Then who
did
write these plays, if not the so-called Shaw? Ah, who indeed? There was at that time one young man in Britain whose mind was in truth afire with the creative urge, but who could not have openly avowed his ambition in this direction because of the social and political tabus of the time. For such an aristocrat, son of a lord and grandson of a duke, playwriting was not an acceptable occupation in those distant days. Nor were theatrical people welcomed into exclusive circles like his. Moreover the plays he had stirring in his unconscious would gravely have compromised the political career for which he was destined both by his own transcendent ability and by the tradition of his family . . .

“Therefore, we are persuaded—nay, forced—to believe, this great man must have made a deal with the alleged Shaw, to let the plays he wrote but could not sign be published under the name of this seedy hanger-on. Shaw, for his part, was willing enough to have his name used in this fashion, though he himself lacked the talent . . .”

For final proof of his thesis, Mr. Donaghy drew on the blackboard an anagram consisting of the names of 23 of the plays of “the so-called Shaw,” so arranged that one vertical row of letters read “WINSTON SPENCER CHURCHILL.”

Everybody clapped loudly. Everybody, that is, except Graham and Jeru-Bhetiru, who could not do so without letting go each other’s hands, and who were not enough impressed by Mr. Donaghy to do that.

It all seemed pretty thin to Graham, though he hardly knew enough about the literary history of the Century of Catastrophe to argue the matter. One thing he was sure of: he had evidently confused Winston Churchill with a couple of other fellows. He’d have to look him up in the Encyclopaedia.

Moreover he was surprised to see, on looking at his watch, that two hours had passed since they had sat down.

People were rising to leave. Some had gathered round Donaghy to argue or to praise him. Graham was leading out Jeru-Bhetiru when the fat Warschauer materialized in front of them, saying: “I’m so glad you’ve come at last, Mr. Graham; we’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Really?” said Graham. How the devil could they have been looking forward to meeting him when he had never heard of them before this afternoon, was not at all interested in their screwball literary theories, and had nothing in common with them?

“Yes, really,” said Warschauer. “Will you step back into our board room? The other officers of our little society are most eager to meet you too.”

“We really must be getting along . . .” said Graham.

“No, really, my dear young people, you simply must step in for a minute. Only for a minute. We have a proposal I think you’ll find interesting, and if you don’t like it you can run right along.”

“Let us see what this nice man wants, Gorodon,” said Jeru-Bhetiru. “I am in no hurry.”

Against his better judgment Graham gave in and preceded Warschauer to the rear of the house. Here he found himself in an ex-dining room facing a couple of other men. Warschauer said: “This is Mr. Lundquist” (indicating a jowly, red-faced, gray-haired man) “and Mr. Edwards” (the small wiry red-haired man who had met Graham at the front door). “Go ahead, Chris.”

“So glad to know you,” said Lundquist. “How you doing?”

“All right,” said Graham. “What’s this proposition Mr. Warschauer was hinting about?”

Lundquist said: “This business conference will bore the young lady. Jim, why don’t you take care of her in the next room?” When Edwards had taken Jeru-Bhetiru out, he continued: “You admit, Dr. Graham, that scientists ain’t paid enough, don’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose you might argue that way. Why?”

“But you’d like to make more, now, wouldn’t you?”

“Who wouldn’t? But what’s all this got to do with Shaw and Churchill?” Graham admitted to himself that these did not seem much like desperate characters; but then, never having known any desperate characters, how could he judge?

Lundquist smiled. “Nothing at all, my friend. We’re thinking of a deal more in line with your scientific work. You know, on that Ganna—Gamanovia Project.”

“Huh? How come?”

“We can’t go into details because the chief is away tonight. All I can say is it has to do with geophysics, and it could be very profitable to you. What I want now is for you to tell us you’ll come back here tomorrow at this time and talk it over with the boss.”

“Who’s the boss? I thought you were.”

Lundquist smiled. “Not quite.”

Still things did not seem quite right. Graham said: “How did you know about me? I haven’t published anything on Gamanovia, and I’ve only been working part-time on it, as a consultant.”

“Oh, we’ve had our eye on you for some time. By the way—” Lundquist turned to Warschauer “—what’s happened to Smith and Magazzo? They called from the K.S.T. around eighteen, saying they had their eyes on our friend here, but they ain’t come in and ain’t reported since. They don’t just disappear into thin air, now.”

Graham’s mind, however fuzzy at times, reacted instantly to this statement. Lundquist must have had him tailed by the pair whom he and Sklar had tangled with earlier. If Sklar was kosher, the group operating behind the front of the Churchillian Society weren’t. He rose.

“Sorry,” he said, “b-but Miss Jeru and I have to run along. Right n-now. If you have a proposal to make, you can write me care of Columbia University. Oh,
Betty!”

“Yes, Gorodon?” She opened the door from the next room. Behind her Graham could see a table with a chessboard set up on it, pieces in play, and two chairs, one occupied by Edwards. The latter also got up and moved towards this door. Graham deliberately took off his glasses, put them in their case, and put the case in his pocket.

“C-c-come on, Betty,” said Gordon Graham, and started for the door.

But the stout Warschauer barred his way, saying: “Now, now, just a min, Dr. Graham. Let’s not be hasty. Nothing will be asked of you that’s against your principles . . .”

That was as far as he got because Graham’s bony fist caught him in the nose, slamming his head back against the door with a resounding boom. Warschauer’s legs went out from under him as he slid into a Billikenlike sitting posture, legs extended and back still against the door.

Graham, however, now found that he could not open the door so long as Warschauer sprawled against it. If he could lug the body to one side quickly enough, he might still be able to get them both out before the others grabbed them . . . But even as he heaved at the heavy body, hands caught him from behind and dragged him back. As he turned he found himself grappling with Edwards, who, it transpired, was a strong little man.

Graham nevertheless got a couple of good short ones into Edwards’s ribs, at the same time calling out: “Run, B-Betty! Get the cops! Yell for help!”

Instead of yelling, Jeru-Bhetiru grabbed a light chair by the back, as if intending to wallop Edwards with it. Before she could do so, however, Lundquist snatched the chair away from her and threw it across the room. Then he caught her arm with one hand and with the other brought out a thing like a paint sprayer. Graham recognized it as an Osirian electrostatic gun.

“Better not,” said Lundquist, pointing the shock gun at the Krishnan girl. “You too, Graham; calm down or I’ll burn her.”

Graham cautiously disentangled himself from Edwards, who went over to help the fallen Warschauer to his feet. The latter was holding a bloody handkerchief in front of his face, muttering: “He busted by doze! What the hell busidess has a sciedtist got, pudchig people id the doze?”

“Now, my friends,” said Lundquist, “we’ll talk business. I’m afraid we’ll have to hold Miss what’s-her-name here to make sure you cooperate with us. It would have been nicer if you’d done it of your own accord, but if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. During the lecture you acted like you think she’s a pretty sweet little squid; is that right?”

Graham, feeling that he had probably talked too much for his own good already, stared silently.

Warschauer kept muttering through his nosebleed: “I got to get to a doctor to fix up by doze!”

“I guess we can take it you wudden want to see her killed, now would you?” Lundquist continued. “So you’ll do this, my friend. You’ll leave here quietly and go home without saying nothing to nobody about what happened here, or about the Churchillian Society, or any goddam thing at all, get me? Then you’ll come back here tomorrow night like I asked you in the first place. Miss what’s-her-name won’t be here, but we’ll be taking good care of her. And you can be sure if you try anything you won’t never see her alive again. Do you understand what I’m saying, huh?”

“You mean you’ll m-murder her?” said Graham.

“Not exactly. You can only muider human beans, and she’s only some kind of animated vegetable from some goddam planet. But you get the idea. Well, my friend?”

“Okay,” said Graham wearily.

He exchanged one last look with Jeru-Bhetiru. In his imagination, her appealing expression implied that she expected him to leap upon Lundquist, wrest the weapon from him, and massacre the miscreants. Graham, however, knew as well as the next man that as long as Lundquist remained alert, he could not possibly leap the gap between them before Lundquist’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Then he went out, hearing at the last the plaintive voice of Warschauer behind him: “. . . by poor doze!”

III.

Graham’s ride home was the most miserable of his life. Not only did he feel the self-loathing of one who has let a loved one down, but also he was assailed by pettier fears.

For instance, what in God’s name should he tell Ivor when the latter asked him what had become of his tourist? If he told him simply what had happened, the impulsive Ivor might do something leading to Jeru-Bhetiru’s destruction. While he got along well enough with his brother, he didn’t trust Ivor’s judgment for a minute, at least not in enterprises of great pith and moment. Lundquist had impressed him, not as a preternaturally clever man, but one with the simple and direct brutality that in some circumstances makes a man even more formidable; and Graham thought he would do what he threatened to do. This idea of treating murderers as psychiatric cases had given all would-be killers a wonderfully secure feeling that they could get away with anything.

If he’d only had the sense to pretend to agree with them, until he and Betty were allowed to go free, and then . . .