Part 3 (1/2)

”I see.” Archer pursed his lips thoughtfully. ”Do you suggest that that's the way I do it to Vic Herres, for example? Is that what you would do with your friend Herres, Emmet?”

The plum surge of blood showed in O'Neill's face again. ”Please, Clement,” he said, ”what do you want me to do?”

”I don't know about you, Emmet,” said Archer, feeling his hands trembling, ”but I can't do it this way. Maybe I can't do it any way, but this is out. So I'll quit now, and you find somebody else who knows how to handle these things better.”

”You can't quit,” O'Neill said. ”Your contract runs another sixteen weeks.”

”Mr. Clement Archer,” said Archer, ”the not very eminent radio director and producer, was last seen entering a private nursing home, suffering from a nervous breakdown due to overwork. Before he went in, he issued a statement regretting his inability to fulfill his obligations due to reasons of health. He was a.s.sured by his lawyers that this was sufficient legal justification for laying down his contractual burdens.”

O'Neill listened unhappily. ”All right,” he said, ”what do you want? Within reason.”

Archer thought for a moment. ”First of all,” he said, ”I want time. You sprang this on me without warning and you can't expect me to make up my mind in fifteen minutes. Is that within reason?”

”How much time do you want?”

Archer considered. ”Two weeks, anyway.”

”You won't help Herres in two weeks,” O'Neill said.

”Maybe not.” Archer smiled. ”But maybe I'll help myself. I'm a slow thinker, and if I was smarter I wouldn't be in radio, but in two weeks there's a chance I can get one or two things settled, anyway. For one thing, I might even find out whether these people are Communists or not.”

”How'll you do that?”

”In a very novel way. I'll ask them.”

O'Neill laughed harshly. ”Do you think they'll tell you?”

”Who knows? Maybe they will,” Archer said. ”The world is full of people with a sickly leaning toward the truth.”

”What if Frances Motherwell tells you she's not a Communist?”

Archer considered for a moment. ”I won't believe her,” he said quietly.

”What if Vic Herres says he's not a Communist?”

”I'll believe him.”

”Because he's your friend.”

”Because he's my friend,” Archer said.

”Then what'll you do?” O'Neill demanded. ”After the two weeks are up?”

”I'll tell you then.” Archer noticed that his hands had stopped trembling.

”All right,” O'Neill said. ”You have two weeks. I don't know what I'll say to Hutt, but I'll stall him off.”

”Thanks, Emmet,” Archer said, feeling pleased with O'Neill.

”Yeah,” O'Neill said. ”I'll probably be on my a.s.s by next Friday. Here ...” He reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. It was a galley sheet. ”Maybe you'd like to read this.” He put it on the table in front of Archer.

Archer opened it and glanced down at it. It was the article from the magazine. It looked badly printed and harmless on the flimsy paper.

”Do you mind if I read it?” he asked.

”Go ahead,” O'Neill said. He waved to the bartender for two more whiskies.

”Of all the programs on the air at this time,” Archer read, ”one of the most flagrant and cynical offenders against loyal and patriotic Americans is University Town, sponsored by the Sandler Drug Company, produced by the Hutt and Bookstaver Agency, and directed by Clement Archer.”

”Water or soda?” the bartender asked, standing beside Archer's chair. Archer folded the galley automatically.

”Soda,” he said. He watched the bubbly water fill the gla.s.s. The bartender went away and Archer opened the galley again. He read hazily, not being able to focus very well without his gla.s.ses and too lazy to take them out for half a column of print.

The article was written in the aggrieved prophetic style with which people air their views on Communism in the newspapers. There were some pugnacious metaphoric generalities about the necessity of clearing the American air of the termites who inveigled their way into the middle of the American home and then charges that Stanley Atlas, Frances Motherwell, Alice Weller, Manfred Pokorny and Victor Herres were either Communists or sympathizers. It offered some twenty organizations on the Attorney-General's list in which the actors were alleged to hold members.h.i.+p, lumping them all together and making it sound as though all the people who were accused were equally culpable. Pokorny, according to the article, was soon to be brought before the Immigration authorities, with a view toward deportation. The article closed with a blunt hint that if the sponsors of the program did not take action, appropriate steps would be inst.i.tuted by the American people.

Archer sighed when he finished the article. Except for the names, it was so familiar, and by now, so boring. He was always surprised at the freshness and vigor with which the crusaders of the press could stir up the old names and the old charges. Even if a man felt that they were true and he was serving his country n.o.bly by repeating them, it took a special imperviousness to boredom to roar them over and over again like that. Power, he glimpsed dimly, is finally in the hands of those who find a geometrically increasing pleasure in repet.i.tion. The equivalent among saints would be a man who merely said, ”G.o.d, G.o.d, G.o.d,” ten thousand times a day. I am probably a weakling, he thought, because I demand novelty.

”Dandy, isn't it?” O'Neill asked. He had been staring at Archer's face as he read, studying it for hints of what Archer was feeling.

”Delicious prose style these fellows have perfected,” Archer said. ”Can I keep it so I can study it?”

”Sure,” O'Neill said. ”But burn it when you're through with it.”

”You're jittery, Emmet,” Archer said. ”Maybe you ought to join Alcoholics Anonymous.”

”Yeah,” said O'Neill. ”I'm jittery all right. And I don't join anything.”

”Thanks,” Archer said, ”for the two weeks. I hope it doesn't cost you your job.”

”Who knows?” O'Neill stared at him sourly. ”You marked me lousy tonight, didn't you?”

Archer hesitated. ”A little, maybe. Around the edges.”

”It's always nice to have honest friends.” O'Neill let his breath out in a long, sighing sound. He looked truculent and embarra.s.sed, like a boy who has just been taken out of a football game by the coach for allowing himself to be blocked out of a play. ”Honest friends,” he said ramblingly, ”in this day and age ...” He put his head in his hands.

Archer stood up. ”I'm going home,” he said. ”I've had enough fun for one night. Can I give you a lift?”

”No,” Emmet said, still with his head in his hands. ”I'm going to stay here and drink. I'm having a fight with my wife and I'm waiting for her to fall asleep.” He picked up his head. ”Sometimes,” he said unsmilingly, ”I wish I was back in the Marines. On Guam.”

”Good night,” Archer said. He patted O'Neill's shoulder lightly. Archer went out. O'Neill, sitting alone in the dark and empty restaurant, ordered a double Scotch.

3.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER ARCHER OPENED THE DOOR OF HIS HOUSE. He saw that there were lights on upstairs and he knew that Kitty was awake.

”Kitty,” he called from the hallway, closing the door behind him. ”Kitty, I'm home.”