It was years since Brad had been in his own country, yet Framm’s scorn
took him back in mind immediately. While he saw the towers of Manhattan and
the wheatfields of the Dakotas, he looked at Framm with the cold answering
thought: I must do what I have to do and then get going….
I said I was glad he had felt like that about America. “I’d
been afraid
you were getting to be the kind of American that Julian once said was like
some kinds of wine—they don’t travel well….”
He answered moodily: “I don’t know whether I travel well or not, but I
sometimes wish I hadn’t traveled at all. It would have been better fun to
stay where I was born.”
“And know no more mathematics than I do?”
“Sure. Plus no more politics and history than I do. Then we might both
have been happy.”
“Together?”
He laughed. “There comes the flaw. I wouldn’t even have met you if I
hadn’t traveled.”
“You’d have met somebody else and I’d have met somebody else.”
“But that’s exactly what we did. I met Pauli and you met—oh,
everybody.”
“Not quite that. But even if I had, I don’t know what we can do about it
now. We’re so old.”
“Now you’re kidding….”
“Yes, but you’re not. You really feel we’re aged in the wood and the
wood’s a bit rotten. I don’t blame you. I just managed to miss one world
war— you’ve had two. But I had a head start on you by being a
precocious brat even when I was eighteen.”
“You certainly were. And I was a bit of a prig until….”
He hesitated and I said laughing: “This sort of confession ought to be
good for the soul, if a scientist believes in one.”
“And even if he doesn’t.”
“I wish I was sure about souls. I wish I knew as little as my mother did
and understood as much.”
“What made you think of her?” he asked sharply.
“I often think of her. I miss her more than I ever thought I would. She
was a darling. You knew her—you remember what a darling she was.”
“Yes, I remember.” He looked uneasy.
“But get on with your story. Tell me about Framm—if you still want
to.”
I lay back and waited. When he resumed, it was abruptly and faster, as if
he had got to a part that had to be carried in stride. “Framm often worked at
night and so did I. We’d have the whole floor practically to ourselves when
the others had gone home. That of course would provide the opportunity. And
yet, you know, I wasn’t
eager
in any sense of time—I mean, it
didn’t have to be today or tomorrow or the next day, provided I knew it was
going to happen someday. And meanwhile inside our own private world I was
able to admire and envy his sheer brain stuff more than that of anyone else I
have ever known, before or since. That’s a plain fact and I’ll never deny it.
It hadn’t anything to do with
liking
the man. But at odd moments, when
a certain quality in his mind revealed itself, I had a feeling that I can
only call a religious one … of worship, if you like … not worship of
him
, for Christ’s sake, but of something quite distant, impersonal …
the soul, if you like the word, that a scientist believes in. You were
talking about that just now.”
There was no comment I ventured to make. At length he said roughly: “Do
you get me?”
“Partly.”
“Wouldn’t be surprising if you didn’t. Perhaps you think they were right
to put me in a psychiatric ward. They had their reasons, maybe. If only they
hadn’t kept on watching me all the time, as if I carried the secret of the
universe in my pocket. Perhaps somebody thought I did and gave them
orders— Follow that man, he knows too much, he worked with Framm…. He
has the magic formula, economy size, made like a doctor’s prescription, not
one ingredient, but several….”
I could see him becoming excited in a peculiar way, and I thought it bad
for him. “It’s getting late,” I said. “Don’t you think we ought to start
back?”
“Yes, yes, let’s go.”
I hated to do that, but above all things I wanted the wild look out of his
eye. We hoisted our rucksacks and began to trudge down the trail, tiredness
now in every limb and muscle, so that when we reached the car he slumped
inside and slept all the way to Vista Grande, while I kept myself awake by
thinking about him.
That evening his behavior had that raw edge that made me realize he was
still in trouble. I don’t think my father noticed it, but for me there were
danger signals in the way he fidgeted and talked. His face, too, carried a
flush that wasn’t sunburn, and when afterwards he quite docilely submitted to
having his temperature taken I found it was two degrees above normal. It was
possible, I judged, that the nervous strain of our rock adventure had caused
this, and I was not especially worried, though I began to wonder what we
should do if some physical ailment required a doctor. There was my father’s
doctor, who paid a semisocial call every few weeks, but it would be awkward
to bring him onto the scene. However, in the morning Brad was sleeping hard
and did not look worse, so I left instructions that he wasn’t to be
disturbed, and then made my own departure to see Mr. Chandos again.
During the night I had been wakeful for hours. I knew by now that I wanted
to help Brad far beyond the casual desire I had had at first; I knew also
that this intention was fixed, unless events or revelations should take some
quite appalling turn. But most of all I knew I had a quest of my own,
separate from anything Small might have, because it occurred to me at this
stage that the killing of Framm might be what was really on Brad’s mind; or
perhaps, I even thought, he had come to a point in his story beyond which he
didn’t know definitely what had happened, since the final act might have
taken place in one of those trancelike moods he had talked about. Amateur
psychology, perhaps; but whatever had happened, or how, it seemed to me there
was one simple step to be taken immediately. So that morning I called at the
central library in Los Angeles and looked for Framm’s name in various
reference books. I could find no recent information about him; the war years
had left gaps in the biographies of enemies. But then it occurred to me to
try a newspaper office; they would have files there, possibly, or some way of
checking on whether a fairly well-known scientist was or was not still alive.
I was lucky enough to find a man who had read my book and could think of a
number of reasons (but not the real one) why I was interested in the matter;
he was very obliging and assiduous, and in due course brought me the news
that Hugo Framm was undoubtedly dead, because in one of the books he had
consulted there was the phrase “after Hugo Framm was killed.”
I’m afraid my face showed shock, so that he added waggishly: “Not a pal of
yours, by any chance?”
“I should say not. Did it happen to say
how
he was killed?”
“No, but perhaps I could find out. Is it urgent?”
“Not exactly
urgent
, but—well, I could call back in the
afternoon or perhaps telephone if you think you’d have the information by
then.”
“Sure, I might. Give me a ring…. How’s the picture coming along?”
Like most Los Angeles journalists he read the
Reporter
and
Variety
and liked to feel that movie affairs were within a home-town
gambit; and as I was anxious to undo the effect of the shocked look I
gossiped a bit and told him I was just about to lunch with Mr. Chandos at the
Brown Derby to discuss matters. He said he knew Mr. Chandos, who had once
visited the office in search of background material for a newspaper
story—a very fine producer, full of ideas; I was certainly fortunate in
having him do my picture. (He too called it
my
picture.)
Half an hour later, still holding myself casual though with some effort, I
found myself in a booth at the Brown Derby with Mr. Chandos, who had called
me Jane as soon as we met at the studio and whom I was trying to think of as
Paul without immediately being reminded of Pauli. He probably noticed my look
of preoccupation, for he asked: “What’s on your mind?” in a way that wasn’t
quite the conventional opening.
“Oh, things in general.”
“The war looks like being over pretty soon.”
“I know. And what then?”
“Ah, that’s the problem. And all the answers you get are gags—a
plastic helicopter for every back yard—soldiers coming home to find
everything just the same, including Mom’s mince pies … ever read the ads in
the magazines?”
“I’ve even written some of them. But not any more.”
“You with your ad-writing and me with my B pictures. We’re a fair
match…. What are you going to do next? Another book?”
“Probably—sometime. At present it’s in the air—like the two-
million- dollar picture they won’t let you make. What would that be about, by
the way?”
He laughed. “What
wouldn’t
it be about? I keep on getting new
ideas. I got another one last night, while I was driving home. I live in the
Valley—not far out of town, but there’s a mile or so of fairly dark
road before you come to my house. Of course I know every inch of that
road—even the holes in the pavement—but last night, as I was
driving, I suddenly thought— What if I
don’t
come to my house?
Suppose I just drive on, without thinking at first, and then of course the
thought would soon come to me—What’s happened? Where
are
you?
You must have passed your house … so I stare out of the window, expecting
to recognize something, but I can’t—it’s just a road with trees and
hedges—not a house in sight. So—quite a bit puzzled—I make
the turn and drive back. Presently I
must
come to my house. But I
still don’t. I drive four or five miles—and the road’s still just trees
and hedges. Now this is beginning to be really queer. Four or five miles from
my house in any direction would take me to other houses, shops, schools, and
so on…. Well, there’s nothing to do but just go on driving. Maybe I’m on a
road which, for some quite extraordinary reason, I never knew about before.
But after ten miles a queer sort of tingling sensation gets into my
spine—because there hasn’t been a side turning … and no car has
either passed or overtaken me, and I know that within a score miles of Los
Angeles such a thing simply isn’t possible! However, I still drive on and
on—there
must
be something soon … but there
isn’t—there’s nothing but the road—paved—white line in the
middle—fairly straight and level—
but it doesn’t go
anywhere
! And there isn’t a light, or a sign, or a mailbox, and in a few
more miles I shall run out of gas!… So what do I do?”
“You turn on the car radio,” I said.
“By God, I never thought of that!” He grew suddenly excited. “Yes, I turn
it on…. But what do I get?… Why, just nothing … all round the dial.
Everything’s dead. Maybe it’s an air-raid warning—the Hundred and
Nineteenth Interceptor Command has ordered all stations off the air….”
“Or else,” I said, “you
do
get something. You get the same thing
from every station.”
“But
what
, Jane? Tell me
what
?”
“Gabriel Heatter reading the Hundred and Nineteenth Psalm…. ‘Teach me, O
Lord, the way of thy statutes; and I shall keep it unto the end. Give me
understanding, and I shall keep thy law; yea, I shall observe it with my
whole heart. Make me to go in the path of thy commandments; for therein do I
delight. Incline my heart unto thy testimonies, and not to covetousness. Turn
away mine eyes from beholding vanity; and quicken thou me in thy
way….’”
I don’t know quite how or why, but as I spoke the words, which I
remembered from having learned them at school, the thing that had begun as a
gag became somehow serious, so that my own voice trembled and I saw tears
come into Paul’s eyes. He reached for my hand across the table and presently
muttered: “Well, I guess there’s not much for either of us to say after
that….”
We were silent for quite a while and the hubbub of the restaurant rose
around us into a roar; the place was filling up; flash bulbs were popping at
personalities; the cartooned faces of famous patrons stared down from the
four walls.
I said at length: “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine sometime. He
reminds me a bit of you.”
“Sure. I’d be glad to.”
“He’s not in your line, though. A scientist.”
“That’s all right. I’ve nothing against scientists. Bring him along the
next time.”
“I don’t know that I can. He’s ill at present. He was in the Air Force and
crashed…. But I’d like you to meet him sometime.”
“Sure.”
The waiter appeared, carrying a telephone which he plugged in to a near-
by socket. “For you, Mr. Chandos….”
He took it, listened a moment, then said: “No, it’s for you, Jane.”
“For
me
? But it can’t be. Nobody knows I’m here.”
“Probably someone saw you coming in and thought of a good way to bother
you—they do that, you know, in this town…. Shall I handle it for you?
If it’s autographs or interviews I’ll stall….” He spoke back into the
instrument: “Yes?… No, Miss Waring isn’t here, but I’ll take a
message—what is it?… Yes … yes …
What
?… Say that name
again…. Spell it…. Spell the other name too…. Well, I don’t know what
it’s all about, but I’ll tell her when I see her…. Okay…. G’by….”
Thus it came about that Paul Chandos gave me the details about Hugo
Framm’s death, and though he was obviously curious, he was tactful enough not
to ask a single question. I liked him more than ever for that.
I got back to Vista Grande during the late afternoon and
found Brad
sitting by the pool. He looked tired, which wasn’t remarkable after our
previous day’s exploit; and there was still the look in his eyes which I
didn’t like. I thought I had best get to the point quickly. “Brad,” I said.
“I found out what happened to Hugo Framm. He was killed in a British air raid
on Peenemünde in 1944.”