he went down the corridor, “I wanted none of this.” He had listened to Roger Brownlee in Berlin with impatience. On the plane journey home, he had been almost angry with Brownlee. And yet, for the last half hour, he had been echoing all Brownlee’s worries and thoughts. And now, because of Weidler, he would have to get in touch with Brownlee after all. And soon. I wanted no part of this, he thought. But what other choice was there? Turn your eyes away from the war that was going on, the struggle for domination over your country? And then, later—when it was too late—moan about your blindness, your smugness, your vanity, your cowardice?
“There’s no choice,” Brownlee had said, “no choice. They’ve chosen the weapons. Infiltration and control of propaganda sources. We shall have to learn to know them for what they are. Or go down in history as the biggest boobs of all time. For the writing is on the wall, clear to see. It is up to people like you and me, Paul. It’s up to people like us, who make our living in an information medium—the publishers, the writers, the producers and directors, the journalists, the columnists, the teachers and the preachers, the editors, the television and radio men. It’s up to us. We ought to see the lies and guard against them. We’ve got to expose them.”
In the crowded elevator, lunch-going voices chattered, cutting across each other, forming a rattling pattern of broken sound.
“—I tried it on, and it fit perfectly, so I—”
“—funniest movie in months. Gave me a real yak.”
“—and she said, ‘I didn’t mean that at all.’ I said, ‘Well, it’s a fine thing you always never—’”
“The Yankees are much too big business for me. Now take the—”
“It looks fifty dollars at least. And blue’s my—”
“Sure, I read it in the paper. She’s getting married on—”
“—the new Prokofieff. Hope Liberty’s isn’t crowded. I want to hear some other records too.”
“Yes, he’s serious. Said his drive never brought him anywhere near the green until he changed his—”
“I’ve been trying for three months to get seats. Isn’t worth it.”
Paul Haydn broke away from the crowd and hurried out of doors. Joe, staring after him, said to the dispatcher, “Looks as if he didn’t get that job after all, Tony. See his face?”
Tony, timing the elevators, didn’t listen. “Better take it up again,” he told Joe in his rush-hour voice. “Feeding time at the zoo. They’ll start roaring like lions if you keep them waiting.”
In the busy avenue, Paul Haydn looked at the faces round him. Why didn’t I choose to be a buttonhole manufacturer, and then all I’d have to worry about would be the sizes of buttons? And my income tax. Why didn’t I stay in the infantry and learn about bazookas instead of psychological warfare? Why did I have to learn all the things I’ve learned? Why did I have to know either Brownlee or Weidler? Why didn’t I shut my ears and stay happy?
He began walking toward the Plaza. If he had to drown his worries, he might as well drown them in comfort.
6
Rona arrived early at the Tysons’ apartment on Friday evening. Peggy, in a neat blue dress, her hair slightly ruffled, a flush on her cheeks, an apron around her waist, came out of the kitchen for a moment to greet her sister in the dimly lit, long, narrow hall. Jon was helping Rona to take off her new white fleece coat.
“It’s darling,” Peggy said with an admiring glance, but she flinched at the thought of Rona’s cleaning bills. Then she lowered her voice, glancing warningly along the hall. “I’ve just got Bobby to bed, and he’s asleep, I think. Come and help me with the sandwiches. Honey”—this was to Jon—“do get your manuscript all cleared up or we won’t have a place for the beer.”
“I’ll have a look at the children first,” Rona said, trying to make the two packages she carried in her arms as inconspicuous as possible.
“Now,
“There’s no choice,” Brownlee had said, “no choice. They’ve chosen the weapons. Infiltration and control of propaganda sources. We shall have to learn to know them for what they are. Or go down in history as the biggest boobs of all time. For the writing is on the wall, clear to see. It is up to people like you and me, Paul. It’s up to people like us, who make our living in an information medium—the publishers, the writers, the producers and directors, the journalists, the columnists, the teachers and the preachers, the editors, the television and radio men. It’s up to us. We ought to see the lies and guard against them. We’ve got to expose them.”
In the crowded elevator, lunch-going voices chattered, cutting across each other, forming a rattling pattern of broken sound.
“—I tried it on, and it fit perfectly, so I—”
“—funniest movie in months. Gave me a real yak.”
“—and she said, ‘I didn’t mean that at all.’ I said, ‘Well, it’s a fine thing you always never—’”
“The Yankees are much too big business for me. Now take the—”
“It looks fifty dollars at least. And blue’s my—”
“Sure, I read it in the paper. She’s getting married on—”
“—the new Prokofieff. Hope Liberty’s isn’t crowded. I want to hear some other records too.”
“Yes, he’s serious. Said his drive never brought him anywhere near the green until he changed his—”
“I’ve been trying for three months to get seats. Isn’t worth it.”
Paul Haydn broke away from the crowd and hurried out of doors. Joe, staring after him, said to the dispatcher, “Looks as if he didn’t get that job after all, Tony. See his face?”
Tony, timing the elevators, didn’t listen. “Better take it up again,” he told Joe in his rush-hour voice. “Feeding time at the zoo. They’ll start roaring like lions if you keep them waiting.”
In the busy avenue, Paul Haydn looked at the faces round him. Why didn’t I choose to be a buttonhole manufacturer, and then all I’d have to worry about would be the sizes of buttons? And my income tax. Why didn’t I stay in the infantry and learn about bazookas instead of psychological warfare? Why did I have to learn all the things I’ve learned? Why did I have to know either Brownlee or Weidler? Why didn’t I shut my ears and stay happy?
He began walking toward the Plaza. If he had to drown his worries, he might as well drown them in comfort.
6
Rona arrived early at the Tysons’ apartment on Friday evening. Peggy, in a neat blue dress, her hair slightly ruffled, a flush on her cheeks, an apron around her waist, came out of the kitchen for a moment to greet her sister in the dimly lit, long, narrow hall. Jon was helping Rona to take off her new white fleece coat.
“It’s darling,” Peggy said with an admiring glance, but she flinched at the thought of Rona’s cleaning bills. Then she lowered her voice, glancing warningly along the hall. “I’ve just got Bobby to bed, and he’s asleep, I think. Come and help me with the sandwiches. Honey”—this was to Jon—“do get your manuscript all cleared up or we won’t have a place for the beer.”
“I’ll have a look at the children first,” Rona said, trying to make the two packages she carried in her arms as inconspicuous as possible.
“Now,
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