The Troubled Air Part 22

"Why?" Mr. Sandler looked at him suspiciously.

"Because I would like to figure out once and for all just what I have had to do with them," Archer said.

"You just getting around to that now, Archer?" Mr. Sandler asked.

"In the last week or so. Until now I guess I haven't had to. I suppose I was lazy. A little afraid. Ashamed, perhaps," Archer said. "Unwilling to be engaged."

"Well," Mr. Sandler asked, his voice harsh for the first time, "what did you find out?"

"In the thirties," Archer said slowly, "I guess I was mixed up with them a bit. In a college in those days, a great many people were. Especially the younger ones. A chapter of a teachers' union was being started on the campus and I joined, and I imagine three or four of the leading spirits were comrades ..."

"You imagine." There was flat sarcasm in the old man's voice now.

"I knew, I suppose," Archer said. "I didn't inquire too closely. They worked hard and the things they were asking for seemed reasonable enough. More money. Tenure. There didn't seem to be anything sinister about that." He half-closed his eyes, trying to remember what it was like in that distant time, twelve or thirteen years ago. "It seemed fairly respectable, then, remember."

"Not to me it didn't," Mr. Sandler said.

"Well, it did to a lot of people," Archer said mildly. "Perfectly decent Americans. There was no talk of revolution, then, remember. And there was something called the Popular Front in France. And they talked so loudly about democratic methods, collaboration against Fascism, all those old phrases. And then, during the war, everybody loved everybody else. Senators getting up in Madison Square Garden at Aid-to-Russia meetings. In the radio industry, on all those war-boards, the Communists seemed to work harder than anyone else to help, and I guess I didn't see anything very wrong with them then, either. And after the war, everybody was so friendly with everybody else. All that talk about World Peace, One World ..."

As he said the words, the phrases seemed remote, without meaning, their only flavor a residue of mockery and ignorance. They sound, Archer thought, going back to his history cla.s.ses, like the speeches that were made by orators in the legislatures of Southern states before Secession. Just that orotund, exactly that dead. Four, five years ago, in the lost, defeated past.

"And the people who were yelling loudest about the Communist menace were so outlandish," he went on, picking his way troubledly through the maze of argument. "They called Roosevelt a Red, remember, and they said Truman was out to set up Communism in America. And anybody who thought that the miners ought to get five cents more an hour or that Franco wasn't a perfect gentleman they called a traitor ... And that magazine-Blueprint-is a bit on that side, too-they've attacked the mildest kind of liberals as subversive and they're perfectly willing to ruin people without the semblance of a trial or any kind of reasonable investigation. You can't help but feel that there's something sinister about them ... And now, recently, on the other side, you find out that Americans have been pa.s.sing on military secrets to the Russians ... Frankly, I was surprised. I guess I was naive. I still don't think that any of the Communists I've known would do anything like that. Maybe Mrs. Pokorny ..." Archer added as an afterthought. "But I don't really know. I only saw her for ten minutes. I guess I feel that there are two kinds of Communists ... The conscious conspirators and the ones who've been misled into believing it's a kind of n.o.ble reform movement. And the conspirators can be handled just like anyone else who breaks the law. The others ..." He shrugged. "I guess we have to bear with them. As long as they don't break the law we have to regard them as innocent, with full rights to speak, to earn a living ..."

Mr. Sandler made a grunting noise. It was impossible to interpret. He was searching for a place to park on the crowded street and he hardly seemed to be paying attention to Archer. Archer sat back, feeling that what he had said was lame, unconvincing, but feeling, too, that as clumsy as it was he had clarified his position for himself for the first time. The chaotic impressions, the welter of conflicting forces, the complex claims of affection and dislike were for once organized and compartmentalized, however rudely. At least, he thought, I've come to a working basis on this. Whatever Hutt thinks or Sandler does, I can locate my own position on the emotional map.

Mr. Sandler found an open s.p.a.ce and backed his car in skillfully, grunting loudly as he spun the wheel. "Too many cars on the streets these days," he complained. "No reason for it. Just restlessness. Women," he said. "Haven't got anything to do at home. Get in the car and roam around and block up the streets." He took the ignition key out of the lock and got out. Archer got out on his side and waited for Sandler to come around and join him.

"Club's only a block away," Sandler said, as they started walking. "That's par for the course. One day I had to park nine blocks away."

He bounced swiftly along the sidewalk and Archer had to stretch his legs to keep up with him. Almost impersonally, Archer wondered what was going through his companion's mind. Obviously, Mr. Sandler was interested in finding out about the people on the program and about Archer himself, information that went beyond what Hutt had given him. That alone was hopeful. The old man must still have doubts or be prepared to compromise in some way, Archer thought, or he'd have closed me off long before this.

A colored man took their coats at the entrance and there was the clink of ice from a small bar off the lobby. Archer's mouth felt dry and he wanted a drink, but Mr. Sandler merely poked his head through the door of the bar, muttering, "Want to see who's there." He looked in for a moment, then bobbed out. "G.o.d be praised," he said, "for once my son isn't holding up the bar at this hour." Then he took Archer's elbow and guided him toward the dining room. He indicated a staircase rising to the next floor, saying, "Used to be some of the biggest poker games in the state of Pennsylvania went on up there. In the old days. No more. None of the old spirit left. Now they come here with their wives," he said darkly, indicating with a gesture of his head a man and a woman going through the dining-room door ahead of them.

The dining room wasn't crowded and Mr. Sandler guided Archer over to a small table in a corner, away from any of the other diners. As they pa.s.sed the other tables, Mr. Sandler nodded brusquely, and grunted greetings. The men who said h.e.l.lo to him were mostly middle-aged, substantial-looking, with that look of being a little behind schedule that businessmen have at lunch.

"h.e.l.lo, Charlie," Mr. Sandler said to the head waiter, who had come over to their table. "Got any oysters today?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Sandler," the headwaiter said.

"I praised them to Mr. Archer. Fried. Make sure they're nice. Mr. Archer's from New York and he's critical. He eats in the best restaurants. Or he ought to, the money he's making." Mr. Sandler grinned. "I'll have them, too. What're you drinking, Archer?"

"Bourbon old-fashioned, please," Archer said.

"Two, Charlie," said Mr. Sandler. "And don't seat anyone near us, will you? We're talking business."

"Of course, Mr. Sandler," the waiter said. He went off toward the bar.

"Didn't drink until I was fifty," Mr. Sandler said. "Then I heard a hotel owner at a summer resort say he didn't like Jews to come to his place because they didn't drink, and all his profit came from the bar. Thought that was a reasonable enough att.i.tude. Promptly went at the bottle. Haven't stopped since." He smiled briefly. "Pleasantest way of combating anti-Semitism yet devised. You knew I was Jewish, didn't you?"

"Yes," Archer said, feeling uncomfortable.

"The nose." Mr. Sandler tapped his nose vigorously. "Gets longer every year. Never stops growing. h.e.l.l of an imposition on the chosen people. Ever see Napoleon's death mask?"

"No, I don't believe I have," Archer said wonderingly, feeling that Mr. Sandler jumped around unfairly.

"Nose nearly down to his chin. With all his other troubles. Tough on a vain man. Often wondered what Napoleon thought when he looked in the mirror in the morning on St. Helena. Now," he said, "I suppose you're waiting to hear from me."

"Well, yes," Archer said. "Naturally."

"What would you like to hear me say?" Mr. Sandler leaned forward over the table and peered shrewdly at Archer.

"I suppose I'd like you to say I can go back to the old system of putting on the show," Archer said. "Hire anyone who's good for the show and fire anyone who's bad for the show."

"Uhuh." Mr. Sandler nodded. "Thought you'd say that. Won't do it, though. Can't do it. If you're going to stick to that, I guess I'll just have to shake your hand, wish you good luck and say good-bye. After lunch, of course. Do you still want to listen to me?"

"Yes," Archer said.

"Good. Glad to see you're a reasonable man. Thanks, Charlie," Mr. Sandler said to the waiter, who was placing their drinks in front of them. He lifted his gla.s.s. "Health," he said.

They drank. The old-fashioned was very good, almost straight Bourbon, with just a twist of lemon-peel to point up its flavor.

"I hate to have to say what I just did," Mr. Sandler said. "For thirty years I've run my business on one basis and one basis only. Does a man produce or doesn't he? If he produces he goes up. If he doesn't-out. That receptionist in my office-that colored girl. Some of the people around me raised h.e.l.l when I brought her up from bookkeeping. Thought it would antagonize some of our contacts, seeing her sitting there in the front office like that. But she's smart, she's pretty-she's got a nice, soft voice on the telephone, I like to hear it-and she knows how to let the right people in without falling all over them and keep the wrong people out without making them feel as though they had leprosy. Best girl for the job I've ever had. And she's worked out fine. n.o.body's complained. Just the opposite. People wait for hours, with pleasure, feasting their eyes. And Ferris. My general manager. An Irishman. Big, rough Mick, and when he first came up he was as crude as a stone club. But I gave him a big share of stock in 1940 and when I die, he's getting enough more to give him a controlling interest in the business. My wife's been after me to put my boy in. Not a chance. Boy's useless. I'm very fond of him, but he'd run the business into the ground in three years. I didn't work all my life for that. I'd spin in my grave like a rotisserie. Affection is for the home. Domestic consumption only." Mr. Sandler looked up as the waiter put the plates of fried oysters on the table. "Taste them," he commanded. "If you don't like 'em, send 'em back."

"Delicious," Archer said. The oysters were tender and nut-like, with a crumbly brown crust. Mr. Sandler ate with evident pleasure, using his knife and fork neatly and methodically.

Mr. Sandler waited until the waiter left the table. "Now," he said, "I have to change the pattern. The old days're over. The free and easy days're gone. I don't pretend I like it. I won't say it wasn't better when you hired and fired as you d.a.m.n well pleased and could tell anyone who poked his nose into your business to get the h.e.l.l out of your office. These days everyone and his brother is strolling in as though he had seventy-five percent of the stock and telling you, Do this, you can't do this, pay so much, withhold, deduct, add, get permission, open your books. The labor unions, the Government, the G.o.d-d.a.m.n Treasury Department. Do over ten thousand dollars a year and you're a b.l.o.o.d.y public inst.i.tution. And I didn't bring it about." Mr. Sandler waved his fork for emphasis. "Your sainted Mr. Roosevelt and his holy heirs and a.s.signs. This is the age of the meddler, and you and your fellow Democrats started it, so don't be surprised if people you don't like very much also get the notion into their head to do a little meddling on their own account. You strapped business onto the operating table, and there's no way of our stopping it if some butcher gets into the operating room with a knife in his hand. Well, the meddlers're now telling me I can't advertise my product in a certain way. If I fight 'em, what happens? They boycott me, they get columnists to denounce me, they threaten my customers. I spend a million dollars a year for advertising. The function of advertising is to sell your product. What sort of businessman would I be if every dollar I spent for advertising lost me two dollars in trade? You're worried about five people. I'm trying to protect five thousand. And about the Communists. You have a fine, lofty notion about them, about protecting their rights. You haven't ever had to deal with the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. I'm a businessman. I have a big plant. I own land. I have stocks and bonds. What the h.e.l.l do you think they'd do to me if they could? I'd disappear. Like that." Mr. Sandler snapped his fingers. His face was flushed now and he was speaking in a grumbling, driving tone, as though long years of grievances and fears had piled up in him and were all being expressed now. "They wouldn't even waste a bullet on an old c.o.c.k like me. A club to the back of the head and they'd drop me into the nearest ditch. And this isn't fancy. It isn't poetry. It isn't theory. It's fact. Read anything the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have ever written, where they've been honest for more than a minute at a time, and you can see it. Liquidation of the bourgeoisie they call it. What do you think that means? Well, I'm the bourgeoisie and I'm not ready to be liquidated and I'll fight them till one of us drops. I know them. They've been sucking around this plant since 1930-and the G.o.d-d.a.m.n New Deal pampered them and blew them up with their own importance and put them where they really could do you harm. There hasn't been a year since then that they haven't started trouble in this plant. And if you think that all they wanted was more money for the help and better working conditions, you're out of your mind. In 1940, I was making a lot of stuff for lend-lease to France and England and they tried to strike me. I don't mind a union coming up and asking for ten cents an hour more if they think they've earned it, but I'll see them in h.e.l.l first before I sit down with them and give in to them just because their pals in Moscow have a dirty deal on for the time being with the Germans. I had the FBI in here and I fired every last one of them we uncovered. For a couple of days it looked as though we'd have to close down, and we've never closed down for a day in thirty years now. But I'd shut up tomorrow rather than give in to them. I know the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and I won't have one of them near enough to p.i.s.s on. I kicked my own nephew out of the house because he came home from college telling me about the glories of Lenin and the inevitability of revolution. G.o.d-d.a.m.n little fool. If there's any kind of crisis, I'll turn his name in to the Government and have him locked up, so help me G.o.d."

Mr. Sandler had long ago forgotten about eating. He sat with both fists clenched on the table, his face flushed, his eyes pale and angry. Archer listened helplessly, pretending to eat, wondering if there was any sense in staying on.

"And I told his mother that," Mr. Sandler said. "Right to her face. My own sister. The tears rained down like a waterfall. A disgraceful thing for a Jewish boy. All those Jewish names you see on the Communist lists. Ammunition for the enemy. And they're senseless. Back in '39 and '40, they were all for helping the n.a.z.is, just because Stalin had signed a paper with them. What sort of people are they? A dumb animal in the field has more sense of self-preservation. And I've heard all the arguments. They feel rejected, they can't get into some colleges, clubs, hotels, professions. They're suffering from a wound and they rebel. c.r.a.p. There're a lot of hotels I can't get into. I can't even play golf with Mike Ferris at his club. So what? What wound am I suffering from? I graduated from the University of Pennsylvania. I started a business. I got rich. I sent my two boys to college, and my oldest son was a captain in the Air Force. If I was wounded, I just worked harder because of it. There's a joke about it. A typical Jewish joke. Cohen is angry. He can't get into a hotel. He tells Levy, 'You know what we are-we're second-cla.s.s citizens in this country.' Levy thinks for a minute and he looks up to Heaven. 'G.o.d forbid,' he says, 'it should ever change.' "

Mr. Sandler looked fiercely at Archer. Archer didn't laugh. He was sorry he had heard the joke: Its bitter lilt, he knew, would echo and re-echo in his brain whenever he talked to a Jew from now on. There was nothing to be said, he felt. This was intra-mural information, not to be commented on by strangers. Mr. Sandler sighed, surprisingly. He resumed eating, moving the food neatly on his plate. The flush receded from his face, and his old man's grouchy anger seemed for the moment to be spent. "And what do they think would happen to them if there was Communism here?" Mr. Sandler asked mildly, his voice adapted to theory. "What's happening in Russia? The Jews're being wiped out. First the religion-then the community-then the individual. It's in the papers every day land even so they won't believe it. There's no room for a minority. Everybody's got to be the same. They wiped out millions of their own people. Why do you think they'll stop at the Jews? And it's in the papers every day. All you have to do is read. Aaah-sometimes I wake up in the morning and I say, 'Thank G.o.d I'm an old man and I'm going to die in four years.' " He stared down thoughtfully at his plate. "I was the one," he said softly, "who told Hutt Pokorny had to be fired immediately. I hate Pokorny-personally-even though I've never met him."

"I don't think you're being quite fair," Archer said. "Pokorny hasn't said a political word since 1925."

"Maybe not," Mr. Sandler said. "But he lied to get in here. And he's married to a Communist. If you live with a woman you're responsible for her."

Archer thought of the enormous and furious woman and the meek, slipshod little round man. He grinned at the possibility of anyone's being responsible for Mrs. Pokorny. "You ought to see the lady," he said.

"I'm not interested," Mr. Sandler said curtly. "And the sooner the sonofab.i.t.c.h is out of the country the better I'll like it."

Archer looked across at the old man picking gingerly at his food. The face was set, implacable, sixty years of stubbornness freezing the long, thin mouth. Pokorny, Archer thought, doomed in Vienna, Mexico, Philadelphia, unacceptable to Gentile or Jew.

"I think," Archer said gently, more for his own sake than from any hope of saving the musician, "that you might at least give him fifteen minutes and talk to him ..."

"I don't want to hear anything more about him," Mr. Sandler said flatly. "Not a word." He put down his knife and fork with a gesture of finality. "It's getting late," he said, looking at his watch. "I have to get back to the plant. I'm going to offer you a proposition. I'm not going to bargain with you, Archer. Take it or leave it as I give it to you. Pokorny is out. Motherwell is out. Permanently. Atlas is out. If he won't lift a finger to defend himself, I can't be bothered with him."

Archer stared at the old man. He was speaking in a clipped, decisive voice, giving orders as he had been giving orders for forty years. His teeth clicked as he talked. They were his own teeth, Archer decided. How many thousands of dollars, Archer speculated, listening, have gone to dentists to preserve those old, cleansed bones.

"Weller ..." For the first time, Mr. Sandler hesitated. "We'll see about her. Keep her off for awhile, three weeks, a month. Then maybe you can slip her back once or twice and see what happens. As for Herres ..." He stopped.

Archer felt himself growing rigid in his chair. The fork in his hand trembled a little and he put it down carefully on the plate in front of him.

"You guarantee," Mr. Sandler said softly, "that Herres is not a Communist."

"Yes," said Archer, after a moment.

"You've known him a long time," Mr. Sandler said. "I trust you." The words were intended to be kind, Archer realized, but the tone was cold and threatening. "I've decided you're an honest man and I'm taking your word on Herres. And it's hard to fire a man who was wounded and won the Silver Star. But, remember-I'm doing this on your responsibility. No one else's. I hold you personally accountable for Herres. Is that understood?"

"Understood."

"Now," Mr. Sandler said. "That's the deal. If you want it, I'll call Hutt this afternoon and tell him who's staying and who's going. If you don't want it-I'll accept your resignation right now."

Mr. Sandler peered at Archer, his eyes narrow and searching. Archer looked down at his plate. Three sacrificed, he thought, three saved. Counting himself. Actually, including Motherwell, it was only two sacrificed. And Pokorny was hopeless, in any event. Outlawed, rejected, caught in clumsy, long-ago errors beyond anyone's power to rectify. Fighting for him was hopeless, romantic, meaningless destruction. And Atlas ... Money in the bank, rents from two buildings, with a pa.s.sage to France in his pocket ... You might feel, perhaps, that it was unjust, but pity was not demanded.

"All right," Archer said, "I want it."

Mr. Sandler nodded. He looked down at his watch again. "If you skip coffee," he said, "you can make the two-o'clock train."

Archer stood up. "I'll get my coffee in the diner," he said. "Thanks for the lunch."

Mr. Sandler sat in his place, looking up at Archer, his forehead wrinkled, as though there was one last doubt he was pondering. Then he shook his head and stood up. He put out his hand and Archer shook it.

"Come down again, some time," Mr. Sandler said. "I'll take you through the plant."

"Thank you," said Archer. "I'll try to make it."

"I think I'll just sit here for a moment," Mr. Sandler said, sliding back into his chair. "If you don't mind. Have my coffee quietly." He was almost mumbling now. Suddenly he seemed like a tired old man, wrinkled, low in energy, full of doubts and premonitions, testy, wanting to be left alone with his old man's reflections.

"Of course," Archer said. "Good-bye." He walked past the other tables. Somebody had just told a joke and the four men at one table were laughing loudly.

By the time the train reached Trenton, Archer felt that he had engineered a triumph that noon in Philadelphia.

16.

"YOU CAN GO IN NOW," MISS WALSH SAID. "MR. HUTT IS READY FOR you now." There was a frost on Miss Walsh this morning. Like a sensitive pet, she reflected the mood of her master. As Archer went toward Hutt's door, he noticed the slight glitter of perspiration all over Miss Walsh's face. Maybe, he thought cruelly, I'll put one of those advertis.e.m.e.nts for the new deodorants in an envelope and send it to her through the mails, anonymously. The Chlorophyl tablet, to be taken by mouth, and guaranteed to neutralize all body odors, all vapors of sweat and metabolic processes, for twenty-four hours at a time. Neutrality in Miss Walsh was much to be desired.

Hutt was behind his desk, his face sunburned and peeling over his neat gray flannel suit. O'Neill was sitting, very straight, near the window. The night before, at midnight, Hutt had called Archer from the airport in Florida and had told him to be in the office at three o'clock. Over the long wire, Hutt's voice had been remote and without pa.s.sion. "I'll be in by then," he had said, without any preliminaries. "I want to talk to you."

Whatever O'Neill or Miss Walsh had said to the contrary, Hutt had not been out of reach of the telephone. Momentarily, Archer wondered what the conversation between Mr. Sandler and Hutt, sunburned, in a gay shirt, on a warm beach, had been like the day before.

"Sit down," Hutt said, in his soft voice. O'Neill said nothing. He stared at Archer, his face grave, sober, waiting.

Archer seated himself on a hard chair. He tried to arrange his legs so that he looked at ease.

"You've been very clever, Archer," Hutt said flatly, almost whispering. The bright wedge of his vacation-stained face was calm and expressed nothing. "You've won what might be called a temporary success." He waited, as if to hear what Archer had to say to this. But Archer remained silent.

"I don't know what you said to Mr. Sandler," Hutt went on. "But you must have been very convincing." There was almost a tone of flattery in his voice. "The old man is not ordinarily easy to convince. You also managed to get me on a plane and interrupt a very pleasant vacation." Still, there was no complaint or censure in his voice. Even now, he sounded as though he was surprised and impressed by the far-reaching ingenuity of a man whom he had not regarded particularly highly before this. "Prior to your little journey to Philadelphia," Hutt went on, "you knew, of course, about our rule about approaching any of our sponsors?"

"Yes," Archer said. "I did."

Hutt nodded pleasantly. "I thought as much. So it wasn't ignorance that led you to violate one of the oldest customs of this organization."

"No," Archer said. "It was quite deliberate." He saw that Hutt was waiting for him to continue, but he kept silent, resolved not to defend himself.

"It may interest you to know," Hutt said, "that before you came in here O'Neill and I were discussing the advisability of dropping the Sandler account altogether." He waited again, but Archer merely peered blandly at him, refusing to be drawn out.

"We decided not to drop it," Hutt said, "for the time being. We will go on with it-under the-ah-new conditions imposed by you and Mr. Sandler. Looking at the question in the round, we agreed that it was inadvisable to force this particular issue at the moment. Didn't we, Emmet?"

"Yes," said Emmet, staring stonily ahead of him.

"From now on, Archer," Hutt whispered, his freckled hands flat out on the desk in front of him, "we will inst.i.tute a change in system. Emmet will do all the hiring for University Town. You can, of course, submit a list of people to him, but the final choice will be with him. Is that clear?"

Archer hesitated. When he had signed the contract for the program, he had fought hard for the right to choose his own people. Without it, a director could hardly be responsible for the quality of what went over the air. Still, he thought wearily, I've made so many compromises-one more or less is of small importance. And O'Neill was a reasonable man. "OK," he said. "If that's the way you want it."

"Exactly." Hutt smiled gently. "We've decided that University Town is in need of more direct supervision than heretofore."

Heretofore, Archer thought, I don't know another man who would use "heretofore" in conversation.

"I don't know," Hutt went on, "whether you've informed Mr. Herres and Mrs. Weller of their new-ah-status. ..."

"No," Archer said, "I haven't. I was waiting to talk to you and O'Neill."

"Ah," Hutt said softly, "were you? Technically, which would you prefer? Would you like Emmet to speak to them or would you prefer to do it in person and savor the full taste of victory yourself?" Hutt smiled obliquely and softly at him from behind the desk.

"I'll call them," Archer said.

Hutt shrugged. "Whatever you say." He looked down at his desk reflectively, incongruously and humorously sunburned, with his nose peeling and the tips of his ears very red. "I think that about clears it up. Except for one thing. I'm sorry you didn't decide to heed my warning the last time you were in this office. If you recall, I told you that it was dangerous in these times to find yourself defending unpopular causes. ..."

"I'm not defending any cause," Archer said. "I'm defending two people who deserve it. That's all."

Hutt waved his hand deprecatingly and smiled again. "Unpopular people, then," he said gently. "I don't know exactly what your reasons are but I no doubt shall discover them in good time." The threat was there and Archer noted it. "Meanwhile," Hutt went on, his voice barely audible on the other side of the desk, "I'm afraid I have to tell you that you've destroyed any value you might have had in the future to our organization. ..."

Our organization, Archer thought. He says it in the same way he might say our church, our regiment, our flag, our country. He never uses the word company or corporation or business.

"Somehow," Hutt said with a thin smile, "you seem to have mesmerized poor foolish old Mr. Sandler and I must keep you on for the time being for his sake. ..."

Archer stood up. "I got him full of gin," he said, "and promised him two blondes the next time he came to New York, if you want to know how I worked it. I'll be going now. I have some work to do." He felt himself trembling and knew that a dozen rash and hateful and hurting things were forcing themselves to his tongue and he knew he shouldn't say them. He made himself walk slowly to the door.

"One final word, Mr. Archer," Hutt said, still seated at his desk, looking down reflectively at his hands, flat on the desk, with the mark of the Southern holiday sun on them, "before you leave. Let me advise you to be discreet. After University Town is finished-and perhaps sooner-you will find yourself no longer working for us. I would be less than candid if I didn't tell you that it is entirely possible that you will find yourself working for no one at all." He looked up then, staring at Archer, thin-faced, urbane, baleful, pleased to let Archer know that he was his enemy and that he was powerful.