A World to Win

by Sinclair, Upton;

  He thought that he noticed a trembling in her voice, and it was like, an alarm bell to his ears. He would only have had to say: “Does it mean so much to you?” and the fat would have been blazing in the fire. But F.D. had bade him use discretion; so he replied: “It is hard to be sure. We cannot be less willing to take risks than our enemies.” Then, after a little thought: “Write me some of that novel in the meantime.”

  XIII

  After a sleep, Lanny got in touch with Baker again, and the two passport books were prepared. “I, the undersigned, Secretary of State of the United States of America, hereby request all whom it may concern to permit safely and freely to pass, and in case of need to give all lawful aid and protection to”—this much in Gothic type. Then came his name, and the customary thirty-two pages, including five to identify him and tell him what he must not do—to enlist in foreign armies, and so on. The document was invalidated for countries at war—a long list—but Lanny meant to go into some of them, even so.

  He wondered: did Biker know where he was going and what for? In all probability not. This man with the tight-buttoned mouth asked not one question, and the only personal remark he made was: “I have been in this business a long time.” That was after the passports were completed, and Lanny had expressed doubts as to his skill in sewing one of them into the lining of his coat. Baker offered to do it; he had learned that art, along with the retouching of photographic negatives and the sandpapering of fingertips in order to reduce the clearness of prints.

  Lanny had the rest of the day free; and just as he had made up his mind to visit the library and look up Professors Hardin and Schilling, the telephone rang. It was Laurel, saying: “Can you spare me a few minutes? It is something important.”

  Of course he said he could, and met her on the street as usual and drove her into the park. He had not seen her so troubled since the night in Hitler’s Berghof, when she had come to his room and told him of the Führer’s alarming advances to her. This time it was the spirits who were troubling her; less than an hour ago she had been in a trance, with her friend Agnes sitting by making notes. Otto Kahn had announced himself, and reported the presence of an old gentleman with a white beard who said that his name was Eli Budd. “Did you have such a relative, Lanny?”

  “Yes,” was the reply. “He was my great-uncle. I met him several times in my youth.”

  “Did you ever tell me about him?”

  “I don’t remember; I probably did, because he left me his library, and it’s in my studio. I generally tell people how I got all those fine books.”

  “Did you ever show me his picture?”

  “It is hanging on the studio wall, and I may have spoken of it.”

  “That tends to spoil things; but I don’t remember it consciously. He was described as having a thin, ascetic face; a tall old man, slightly stooped, and with a gentle voice.”

  “That is correct. He was a Unitarian preacher.”

  “What he said was: ‘Tell Lanny to postpone that trip. A calamity confronts him.’ He repeated three times: ‘Danger! Danger! Danger!’—and then faded away.”

  “That is very interesting indeed, Laurel.”

  “It frightened me terribly. I made excuses to Agnes and came out and phoned you from a pay station.”

  Again Lanny might have said: “does it mean so much to you?” But a voice said: “Danger!”—and more than three times. What he said was: “Here is one of those cases where you don’t know what to think. You were contemplating trouble that might come to me—you spoke of it last night. And of course all those facts about Great-Uncle Eli may have been in your subconscious mind; certainly they were in a mine. You go into a trance and your subconscious makes a little drama out of it.”

  “You don’t believe in premonitions, then?”

  “I am forced to believe in them; I have read of so many cases—they are as old as history. But that doesn’t mean that every fear is a genuine premonition. If we believed that, we should have a hard time living at all.”

  “You can’t postpone this journey?”

  “Not possibly, Laurel. You can’t imagine how hard it is to get plane reservations these days.”

  “But even for a day or two?”

  “Listen, my dear. Did that voice say how I was going to be in danger?”

  “No; only what I told you.”

  “Well then, what can we conclude? We are in danger of a collision here in Central Park. I might be killed on the way to the airport. I might easily be killed trying to get about in the London blackout. An astrologer once told me I was going to die in Hongkong, and I am surely not going to Hongkong on this trip. Why shouldn’t his premonition be as good as Otto Kahn’s? The physical researchers have collected statistics as to premonitions that came true, but who has ever counted those which failed to come true? My guess is, they might be ten to one, perhaps a hundred to one.”

  Thus cheerfully he tried to console her. He took her to dinner in a small obscure place, and made himself as agreeable as possible—as if that would help! When he left her, just around the corner from her home, he said: “I cannot cable you from England, but I will send you a postcard to let you know I am safe. I mustn’t sign my name—I’ll make it ‘Brother,’ which may touch a censor’s heart.”

  “Good night—Brother,” she said. He wondered: was there a faint touch of irony in her voice?

  20

  Those in Peril on the Sea

  I

  Robbie sent his man in to town, and Lanny drove him to Port Washington on Long Island, then turned the car over to him and saw him depart. When he was out of sight there occurred a metamorphosis of Lanning Prescott Budd into Richard Thurston Harrison. The traveler had left his old suitcases in the car because they bore his initials; he had left in them every piece of paper which might have identified him; he had even removed from his clothing the cleaners’ marks which sometimes contain initials. He stepped aboard the plane a new man; and several hours later he stepped out upon the soil of Newfoundland, at the Gander airport near the long lake of that name.

  This was a military airport of immense size, built jointly by British and Canadian air forces. Now America was sharing the use of it—part of the strange process of getting into a war by walking backward, with her eyes fixed upon peace and her voice loudly declaring that she was not taking a step. Here were Pan American Airways employes still wearing their blue serge uniforms, very natty, but civilian service was suspended and they were carrying only such passengers as Army and Navy and State requested, and the government paid the bills. There was a field of large drums full of gasoline, arranged in rows, and vast new construction going on, which visitors were not encouraged to inspect.

  This village by a cold blue northern lake had become one of the greatest air centers in the world; large planes of many types assembled here from all over Canada and the United States; they flew away, and only a small percentage came back—just enough to return the pilots for the next flight. The plane which was to convey the mysterious Mr. Harrison was drawn up near the entrance to the field, with the steps in position against it. A Boeing four-engine transport, it looked weather-beaten but substantial; Lanny guessed that it was one that would bring pilots back. His baggage was put on board, but he was told that there would be a delay, the weather conditions were not satisfactory. Some distance from the field were radio towers, and in the office building men sat with earphones and got reports from weather stations half way round the world. Storms were definite things and their paths could be charted; they were especially common at this equinoctial season, and upon them depended whether the plane would fly to Greenland, Iceland, or Scotland.

  Such matters were in the hands of the higher powers. Mr. Harrison strolled about for a while unlimbering his legs; then he found a seat on a bench and became absorbed in an exercise which had become second nature—the recital of the formulas and techniques of atomic disintegration. But he didn’t continue this very long; the place beside him was taken by a blon
d young man in the navy-blue uniform of Pan-Am. He lighted a cigarette, took a couple of reflective puffs, and remarked: “Lots of fog these days, and how we hate it!”

  Lanny was willing enough to chat; there would be time for mental recitations during the flight. The man, in his early twenties, said that he had left college to become a navigator during this crisis. He was not the navigator of Lanny’s plane; he had come in early that morning and had a sleep and would be going in a couple of days. “A lonesome place,” he said, “and nothing to do. The natives don’t get enough to eat, or perhaps they don’t know how to cook it.”

  He discussed the life of these new style “ferrymen.” Nothing about the number or types of planes, or anything that could be a military secret, and he didn’t even ask the name of his auditor. He just told human stuff; a funny life, for you lost four hours every time you went east, so you were never hungry at mealtimes or sleep at bedtime; then just as you had started to get used to it, you flew west and gained four hours, and then you were hungry before mealtimes and sleepy before bedtime. You were a man without a country and your watch was always wrong. You could stand it, because they paid you eight hundred a month and expenses; the pilots got a thousand.

  Then he talked about the route, which had no land and a superfluity of weather—that surely was no military secret. There were fogs, and all your pilot could do was to follow the beam. There was a robot pilot to help him; the Americans called it the “Iron Mike,” the British called it “George.” There would always be ice, and the radio would give you a “freezing level” below which you had to fly. Pan-Am had a flying system of which it was proud; the engineer plotted at brief intervals what was called “the Howgozit curve,” a synthesis of five curves showing the miles flown versus the number of gallons of gas consumed, the number of gallons versus the hours of flying, and so on. On the basis of that chart the captain determined the so-called “Point of No Return,” and if the figures were not right he turned back before the point was reached.’

  “Were you ever in an accident?” inquired the traveler.

  “I was in the drink once. I spent seventeen hours in a rubber boat before the Dumbo found us.”

  “What is a Dumbo, if it is not a secret?”

  “Didn’t you see the motion picture of the elephant who learned to fly by waving his ears? A flying boat has a big awkward body and we make fun of it, but believe me, it looks perfectly wonderful when you are soaked to the skin and your fingers and toes are beginning to freeze.”

  “Do you keep this route going all winter?” the traveler wanted to know.

  “We didn’t think we could, but now we’re doing it because we have to. We have a plan that we call ‘pressure pattern.’ We don’t try to follow the great circle route; we don’t bull our way through storms; we get continuous information as to high- and low-pressure areas and work by that. We have learned that wind in a low-pressure area blows counter-clockwise into the middle of the area, while it blows clockwise out of a ‘high.’ So we sneak to the place where the wind will boost us along.”

  The traveler said: “Some two hundred years ago there was an English poet who predicted something like that. He was writing about the Duke of Marlborough, who was Winston Churchill’s ancestor:

  “Calm and serene, he drives the furious blast,

  And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,

  Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.”

  “Swell!” exclaimed the navigator. “Where do you find stuff like that.”

  II

  The sociable airman got up, remarking that he had come west and was hungry ahead of time. He strolled away, and his place was taken after an interval by a tall gentleman of about Lanny’s age wearing a brown business suit somewhat rumpled. He was chewing nervously on an unlighted cigar; now and then he spat, and then swallowed, and his Adam’s apple rose up out of the collar of his blue shirt. “I don’t like this damn weather,” he said. “Look at that”—and he pointed to the low rocky ridges of Newfoundland, from which the morning fog had only just been dissipated, and where already the evening fog was drifting in.

  “Yes,” Lanny replied. “They have the Gulf current and cold air and that makes lots of fog.”

  “Do you mind if I talk?” inquired the stranger.

  “Not at all.”

  “My name is Aglund.”

  “Mine is Harrison.”

  “Do you like this flying business?”

  “I’ve sort of had to get used to it.”

  “I’ve never been up, and I’d have sworn I never would. They wanted me to fly here from Cleveland, but I came by train and boat—The damndest jerkwater railroad across this island or whatever it is. And the poorest country and people I’ve seen since I left Georgia.”

  “They live by fishing and lumbering, and those are hard trades.”

  “I suppose so. They tell me they haven’t been able to meet the interest on their bonds, so they are in hock to the British government; they have lost their constitution.”

  “Indeed?” Lanny said. “I hadn’t heard that. Money talks.”

  “Money wouldn’t get me to come up here to this God-forsaken ice-box and fly away into a snowstorm.”

  “What does it, then?” asked Lanny, smiling amiably.

  “I’m a specialist in machine tools, and they told me to go and help the British learn to work one of our heavy presses. Am I bothering you?”

  “Not at all, if it’s not a military secret.”

  “It’s no military secret that I’m nervous as a wild colt. You’ll think there’s something wrong with me, but I had an experience last night that has given me a bad case of the jitters. I had to sleep sitting up in the train, and maybe that had something to do with it; anyhow, I had a nightmare and I can’t seem to shake it off.”

  “What was it?”

  “Did you ever hear of dreams coming true?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s a common idea, as old as history.”

  “Then you won’t think I’m some sort of a psycho?”

  “Not at all. I have read about such subjects and they interest me.”

  “Well, I dreamed that I met my mother. She’s been dead about twenty years, but it was just as real as if I had been a boy at home, I put my arms around her and gave her a hug, and I felt her firm solid body—she was a chunky, hard-working woman. I kissed her on the cheek, and then she whispered in my ear: ‘Son, don’t go on that planet Don’t go on that plane!’ I woke up in a cold sweat and I’ve hardly been able to think about anything else since. Have you ever had an experience like that?”

  “Yes,” Lanny said. “I have had them, and I know others who have. A strange thing, I had something of the same sort only yesterday. I have a woman friend who is a medium and goes into trances. Yesterday, afternoon she came to me in a state of excitement, to tell me that someone claiming to be the spirit of my great-uncle had appeared and given a warning for me not to take this journey. He said the word ‘Danger three times.”

  “Jesus!” exclaimed the man. “And you are going on that plane?”

  “I have to go,” Lanny said.

  “Well, I don’t! Look at that old crate!”

  “It looks like a pretty solid one to me.”

  “They are using everything they can lay hands on, and they drive them rill they fall to pieces.”

  “That one needs a coat of paint,” Lanny ventured. “Otherwise it may be O.K.”

  “Have you thought of the possibility that somebody may be doing a bit of sabotage at these bases? There are Germans all over this country, and why shouldn’t they be trying to help their own side?”

  “I don’t think they’d do anything more than once. Not in this place.”

  “Well, once would be enough for you and me. Brother, do you know what you and I ought to do?”

  “What is that?”

  “Go for a walk and get lost in those pine forests that I saw a hundred miles of—or maybe it was five hundred. After a couple of days
we could come out and it would be some other plane.”

  “What good would that do?” inquired Lanny. He couldn’t keep from smiling, even though he, too, was troubled in soul. “Maybe the danger our ancestors were warning us about was of getting lost in a pine forest and starving to death.”

  Mr. Aglund had risen to his feet and was looking about him nervously, as if he thought someone might try to put him onto a plane by force. The unlighted cigar was beginning to fall into shreds from the violence of his chewing. Suddenly he turned upon Lanny and said: “Whatever kills me, it won’t be that old crate. Good-by, brother, and good luck to you!”

  He turned away and strolled casually toward the entrance gate. He passed out of sight behind one of the buildings, and that was the last Lanny ever saw or heard of him.

  III

  A bell clanged. One bell meant for the crew to go to the plane, and Lanny stood and watched them do so. The four engines began their “revving,” and there was a lot of noise, and dust flying away from the plane. After a while two bells clanged, and that was for the passengers; half a dozen men, some in military, some in civilian garb, gathered at the steps. The captain took their tickets, checking from a list. Lanny, very polite, was the last; and the captain noticed that one was missing. “Aglund,” he said, and looked about. “Where’s Mr. Aglund?”

  “He told me he wasn’t going,” Lanny volunteered. “He’s afraid of storms.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed the other, and stared. Apparently it was something new in his experience. “Where’s he gone?”

  “He said he was going to get lost in the forest. He thought that would be safer.”

  “Well, I’ll be God damned!” declared the captain. Then he shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t his responsibility to keep bloodhounds and hunt fugitives. “What’ll I do with his baggage?”

  “I suggest you put it off; he’ll come back for it.”