The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  ‘Mr. Craig, I detect in you the incurable disease you hold in common with all your countrymen.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Guilt, Mr. Craig, guilt-from cradle to the grave.’

  ‘But the boy-’

  ‘Do not worry about the boy. He is Arne Hedqvist, secure and accepted. He does not have horns. Lilly knows-I have told her-that some of the greatest names of history were illegitimate children-Leonardo da Vinci, Erasmus, Pope Clement VII, the younger Dumas, your Alexander Hamilton, our Strindberg. They managed. Arne will manage better. And Lilly will manage, too. She has no guilts. Perhaps this is a good day for you. Perhaps after today you will have no guilts, either.’

  Daranyi looked past Craig and waved.

  ‘Here she comes now,’ he said, turning his seat and rising. ‘We must go.’

  Craig came to his feet slowly. He wished he could discuss all this with someone, someone close. He tried to think of Miller’s Dam and Harriet, but neither came alive. What came alive was the vision of Emily Stratman. If only he could speak to her, but he could not, because between them was an invisible barrier. Both had reached to surmount it, but they had not touched. Emily was, as yet, unreal. Only the girl with the golden hair, before him, was real, but here again was guilt, the smooth-rubbed Leah guilt.

  What, he wondered, does one owe all others?

  When does one belong to oneself alone, oneself alone?

  Dr. Hans Eckart had left the taxi, and, in his unbending, goose-stepping stride, approached the goateed, diminutive figure who had answered his summons, and now waited on the street-corner.

  ‘Carl,’ said Eckart.

  Carl Adolf Krantz whirled around, and without bothering to take Eckart’s formal gloved hand, he grabbed his arm and pushed him towards a doorway.

  ‘In there,’ said Krantz with urgency.

  Annoyed, Eckart made the concession to the Swede’s foolish melodrama, and permitted himself to be pushed into the open recess of a konditori entrance.

  ‘What has got into you, Carl?’

  But Krantz was peeking at three receding figures, a stout man, a tall man, and a young woman, across the street. ‘Gott sei dank,’ he muttered at last, ‘he did not see us together.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Eckart with exasperation. ‘Um Himmels willen-what is this idiocy?’

  Krantz had recovered, and was immediately humble and apologetic. ‘Forgive me the bad moment, Hans. I did not wish to inconvenience you. But just as you came towards me, I saw across the street, coming out of the restaurant, the Hungarian.’

  ‘Zum Teufel! What Hungarian?’

  ‘Remember when I spoke to you of’-he paused discreetly, looked behind him, but the door of the tea shop was closed-‘the secret Stratman vote, how I manoeuvred it?’

  ‘Yes, yes-’

  ‘I told you of a Hungarian clown who passes for a spy-he is an investigator, actually, with good press connections-and how I hired him to inform me of Stratman’s rival candidates in physics. Do you recall? He was the one who learned the Spaniard was a Falangist and the two Australians homosexuals.’

  ‘Vaguely, I remember.’

  ‘He was across the street just now. There would have been nothing wrong in his seeing us, but he is curious-by nature of his calling-sometimes gossipy, and I thought it wiser-’

  ‘You did the correct thing,’ said Eckart, mollified.

  Krantz poked his head out of the recess and looked up the street. He could see a tall gentleman helping a blonde into an automobile. He could see Daranyi, identifiable by his shape, waiting, and then getting in behind the wheel. Daranyi’s companions, the blonde and the tall gentleman, had been too distant and indistinct to be recognizable. Briefly, Krantz wondered who they were and what Daranyi was up to these days.

  When the Citroën drove off, Krantz returned to Eckart. ‘They are gone,’ he said. ‘We are free to go wherever you like. You said on the phone you wished a brief conference?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, where we go depends on what you want to discuss.’ In his heart of hearts, Krantz hoped that Eckart had arranged this meeting to report good news of his appointment to the staff of Humboldt University. More realistically, he realized that it might be too soon for that, and more likely Eckart had immediate problems on his mind. Probably he had seen Stratman, and wished advice. ‘If it is nothing important,’ continued Krantz, ‘we can go to the restaurant across the street. However, if it is privacy you prefer-’

  ‘It is privacy I prefer,’ said Eckart sternly.

  ‘I have a Volkswagen at my disposal. It is around the corner. We can sit in it and talk or drive about-’

  ‘We will sit in it and talk,’ said Eckart.

  From Eckart’s tone, Krantz sensed something disagreeable in the air. He fretted about the appointment, as he led the way around the corner to the Volkswagen sedan. Krantz opened the door for his German visitor, and Eckart stiffly stepped inside and sat on the leatherette seat, blue-veined hands folded on his lap. Krantz slammed the door, becoming more nervous, then bounced quickly around the car and settled straight behind the wheel.

  ‘Do you want me to leave the windows rolled up or do you want some air?’

  ‘Leave them up.’

  Krantz tugged off a glove, and located the metal puzzle in his pocket, and worried it with the fingers of his bare hand.

  Eckart, who had been collecting his thoughts, was suddenly diverted by the metal puzzle, and regarded it with distaste. ‘Carl, höre doch auf with that puzzle-put that infernal game away. I must concentrate, and I wish you to concentrate. This is serious.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ Krantz shoved the puzzle back into his coat pocket and waited penitently.

  ‘As you know, I saw Max Stratman at lunch yesterday.’

  ‘Ah, good.’

  ‘Not good,’ snapped Eckart. ‘It was a wasted meeting.’

  Krantz was anxious that his own valuable contribution to the meeting, the production of Stratman in Stockholm, not be diminished. ‘I warned you of the possibility, Hans. Remember? Do you remember? He told the press he did not wish to work for a totalitarian state. He said he had left Germany voluntarily.’ Worriedly, he glanced at Eckart. ‘Is that what he repeated to you?’

  Eckart ignored Krantz’s question. ‘I offered him a place at Humboldt University at three times his present salary. I offered him a house. I offered him freedom. No one but an addled and sentimental fool would have turned down that offer. He turned it down.’

  Almost physically, Krantz felt the pain of Eckart’s words. From the first, he had understood, without being openly told, that Eckart and his East German comrades wanted Stratman in Stockholm so that they might woo him back to the Fatherland. But, somehow, it had never occurred to Krantz that they wanted Stratman for a post at the university. That was a surprise, and it disturbed Krantz deeply, for it was also a threat to his own future. After all, how many positions were there in the physics department of the university? If the great Stratman had one, would there be another for the less important Krantz? This was all that mattered to Krantz, now. He did not give a damn about Stratman’s refusal. Except, of course, if it helped his own application. But he knew that Stratman’s post, still open, did not automatically make room for him. Rather, as he suspected from the first, the refusal detracted from his own accomplishment. About Stratman’s turning Eckart down, he had no emotional feeling. Krantz was a Swede, pro-German but a Swede, and officially neutral in these affairs. All that mattered was himself, his future. Which way did his best advantage lie?

  Eckart’s feelings had been made clear, and Krantz’s shrewd judgment advised him to agree with his patron. ‘I am surprised as yourself,’ he said. ‘How could any scientist refuse so magnificent an inducement?’

  ‘We dug our own grave,’ Eckart mused, almost to himself. ‘I always knew they went too far with their liquidation of undesirables. They should have screened more carefully, looked ahead. It was madness, and we are the heirs to it.’ He met
Krantz’s eyes. ‘Stratman will not forgive Germany for killing his sister-in-law, and Russia for killing his brother. This niece who survived-he spoke of her as Emily-it is she, I suspect, who keeps the unreasoning hatred burning within him. He is subservient to his military masters, I am certain, and prattles on about the wonders of America, and the virtues of capitalist democracy but that is all camouflage. He is a German still. Our fault is we made him a Jew, also.’

  ‘Was his refusal absolute?’

  Eckart was silent a moment, staring through the windshield. ‘So he says, so he says.’

  ‘Then it is impossible,’ said Krantz. ‘There are other talents. You must turn your mind elsewhere.’

  ‘No,’ said Eckart angrily. ‘There is one Stratman. There is not another.’

  ‘But hundreds of physicists have worked in solar energy. Perhaps if you hired-’

  Eckart turned on Krantz with a fierceness bred of frustration. ‘Are you a fool? Do you not see what we are after? Stratman alone has the key. The door he has opened for our enemies he has closed to us. Some day we will find that key. But it is the many other doors he can now open that worry us. We want him in East Berlin not for what he can give us of his discovery. No. Not even for what he can give us in new discoveries. We want him with us so that he will no longer work for them, help them, arm them. We want him not as an addition to us, but as a subtraction from them. That is what we want, and that is what we will have. Why do you think I am telling you all this? Because we have hope, still, and we know we have you, as a friend, a future colleague, to depend upon.’

  Krantz received the last with mingled pleasure and misgivings. ‘What more can I do for you? I have done my part.’

  ‘Only a share of your part,’ said Eckart roughly. ‘Your work is done when we are satisfied. We are not yet satisfied.’

  Krantz felt himself pulling at his goatee, and he knew his hand was trembling. ‘That is not so, Hans, that is not so, and you know it. It was an exchange of favours. I had a simple demand, and you made a difficult one. You asked me to make certain that Stratman won the Nobel Prize in physics and came to Stockholm to collect it. That is what you asked me, and no more. In return, you promised me a full professorship in the physics department of Humboldt. I have done my whole part, and now you should do yours.’

  ‘Really, Carl, I respect your meticulous and matter-of-fact mind, I respect it highly,’ said Eckart, his tone softening and sucking, ‘but there are limits of exactness in the human relationship. We are not measuring molecules. We are concluding a-a happy trade. Yes, it is true, you have brought Stratman here. To your eternal credit. But as long as he is still here, and not compliant to our wishes, he is still a matter of contention. In a broad sense, he is not delivered.’

  ‘He is delivered. He is here.’

  ‘Fleetingly. Why this resistance, Carl? You do not even know what I want of you.’

  ‘My position is precarious, that is all I know,’ said Krantz. ‘I have gone as far, in my position as a Nobel judge, as is humanly possible. What more can you want of me?’

  ‘A minor request, a routine performance, and nothing else. Were I in a position to carry it out, I would do so. I am an outsider here. You are still an insider. A task that is formidable for me becomes easy for you. And this I can promise you, Carl-acknowledge your responsibility to finish the work you have begun-finish it-and before I part company from you and your capital city, I shall offer you the contract for your chair at Humboldt and a residence visa to East Berlin. Now, what do you say to that?’

  Krantz knew that there was no bargaining. He must go on, or forfeit his dream of the future. Well, he told himself, it would all depend on what was demanded of him. ‘Exactly what is it you want me to do?’

  ‘All yesterday afternoon and evening, I have given the problem my full mind,’ said Eckart. ‘The problem is one of providing greater inducement for Stratman. What can we offer him that he cannot reject? This is the scientific and civilized approach to the problem. But to make the proper offer, I have told myself, I must know more of the man and his requirements. What are his needs? What does he want? For what would he trade his allegiance? What are the necessities and luxuries that would bring him to our side? These questions are the ones I wish you to find answers for, Carl. When I have them, I will arrange a second meeting with Stratman. This time, I will have the bait. I guarantee you, it will hook him.’

  ‘How can I find out about Stratman’s wants? I am not a detective.’

  ‘You were once, not long ago. You can learn his wants by learning about his life, and the lives of those around him, like the niece, anyone else. After all, you told me yourself that when you had to find out about the Spanish physicist and the two Australians, you found a way, and the information was useful. Now, that is all I require of you again. Is it so much?’

  ‘I see,’ said Krantz, thinking. ‘If that is all-’

  ‘That is all.’

  ‘It might be possible. I suppose I could employ the Hungarian again-Daranyi. He is experienced, a workhorse, and he has sources.’

  ‘Is he reliable?’

  ‘Perfectly. I have said, his residence here is dependent upon several like myself. And he is always desperate for money. You would supply cash for the services, of course?’

  ‘Money is not an issue. Within reason, that is.’

  ‘How soon do you need this dossier on Stratman?’ Krantz asked.

  ‘How soon? Yesterday, if that were possible.’ Eckart’s Prussian face sniffed slightly in heavy humour, and then it relapsed into severity. ‘Let me see. What is today? The sixth of December? By the night of the ninth, no later.’

  ‘Three days for such a job? Impossible.’

  ‘Nothing like this is impossible, and you know it. I must have the information by the ninth, so that I can engage Stratman that evening, or the morning of the tenth. By the afternoon of the tenth, he will have the prize, and the next day be gone. He told me so himself. You can try, Carl. You can do your best.’

  Krantz sighed. ‘I will try,’ he said.

  ‘When you brief the Hungarian-or anyone else you hire, for that matter-you must be clever, clever and cautious. Your agent must not know precisely what you are after. You understand? The slightest slip could be an embarrassment for me-for both of us. But do not fret. What is this, after all? An innocent little sport. A harmless research to give us some psychological understanding of Stratman. It will not be difficult for one of your stature and mentality. Already, I look forward to the day when you are in Berlin with us. You and Stratman, our proudest advertisements. How your Swedes will envy you then, eh, Carl?… Now, drive me back to the hotel. You can drop me off a block or two before. Remember to telephone me tomorrow, after you have made the arrangement. I will be waiting… Now, Carl, let us relax and speak of other things. Are there any worthwhile revues in Stockholm this season? And the girls-how is the current crop of Nordic beauties, my good friend?’

  The embossed invitation, engraved on the most expensive linen paper, had gone out to twenty guests.

  The invitation was for a formal dinner party, given by Ragnar Hammarlund, host, and Märta Norberg, hostess, honouring the visiting Nobel Prize laureates. The time was seven o’clock of the evening of December sixth. The dress was, in Swedish, smoking, which meant black tie and evening dress. To this was added O.S.A.-om svar anhålles-meaning R.S.V.P., and below that was listed Hammarlund’s private telephone number.

  While all twenty guests had responded to the invitations affirmatively, several hours before the dinner it appeared that the list might be reduced to nineteen. Emily Stratman had telephoned Hammarlund’s secretary to explain that her uncle was not well-nothing serious, simply fatigue-and that he wished to rest and begged to be excused. When informed of this, Hammarlund had personally telephoned Count Bertil Jacobsson at the Foundation and requested him to substitute for Professor Stratman as Emily’s escort. Jacobsson had been agreeable, and Hammarlund was satisfied that the guest list would on
ce again number twenty.

  Now, it was 7.15 in the evening.

  On the Djurgårdsbrunns Canal, beyond the ornate metal gate and artificial lily pond, the first-storey windows of Hammarlund’s pillared Taj Mahal-Åskslottet-were ablaze with festive light. Since the Scandinavian guests had been bred on Swedish punctuality, and since the foreign guests had been forewarned about it, all twenty visitors were inside the huge and splendid main living-room.

  The last callers to arrive had just come through the living-room archway. This party consisted of Jacobsson, Emily Stratman, Andrew Craig, and Leah Decker. Their host and hostess waited inside the entrance to welcome them with handshakes.

  Ragnar Hammarlund, attired in faultless evening wear by Bond Street, seemed more featureless than ever. His white, hairless visage could hardly be discerned, so that his person resembled some eugenic cross between headless horseman and invisible man. Beside him, as fill-in hostess for the evening, a role she so often performed, was the legendary Märta Norberg.

  As they awaited their turn to be greeted, Leah whispered to Craig in the tremulous voice of fan worship, ‘My, doesn’t she look just like she did in pictures?’

  Indeed, Märta Norberg looked just as she had looked on thousands of billboards and magazine covers and in legitimate theatre and motion picture advertisements. She also looked at forty-two as she had looked at thirty-two and twenty-two, the perfectly preserved product of the most costly international beauticians. Despite the trademark slouch of her broad shoulders-that had long reminded awed audiences in London, New York, Cairo, and Bombay of disenchanted world-weariness and that had offered overtones of a sexuality both mystical and unique-Märta Norberg was tall, considerably taller than Hammarlund beside her. The other trademarks were also in evidence, the trademarks so endlessly celebrated in the fan magazines: ‘her mouse-coloured hair, to the shoulders, abandoned and recklessly uncombed… her sunken pool of grey eyes, bearing the unconquered enigma of all womanhood… her patrician nose that launched a thousand theatres… her maddeningly superior smile, the smile of a Valkyrian Mona Lisa… her insinuating voice, a husky throb caught in a swan throat.’