These hectic evenings became part of a pattern of fierce work and relaxation into which the DOUCH personnel fitted. It was only on her third night in Washington, when they were sitting in the Trog and watching the cabaret that included Dusty Dykes — the comedian for whom Pilbeam failed to acquire tickets on the first night — that Martha managed to put her question to Pilbeam.
“Jack, you give us a wonderful time. I wish I could seem to do something in return. Is there something I can do? I don’t see really why I was invited out here.”
Without ceasing to caress the wrist of the dark and green-eyed beauty who was his date for the night, Pilbeam said, “You were invited to keep one Algy Timberlane company — not that he deserves any such good fortune. And you have sat in on several of his lectures. Isn’t that enough? Relax, enjoy yourself. Have another drink. It’s patriotic to over-consume.”
“I am enjoying myself. I’d just like to know if there is anything I can do.”
Pilbeam winked at his green-eyed friend. “You’d better ask Algy that, honey baby.”
“I’m terribly persistent, Jack. I do want an answer.”
“Go and ask Bill Dyson — it’s really his pigeon. I’m just the DOUCH playboy — Warm Douche, they call me. And I may have to be off on my travels again, come Wednesday.”
“Oh, cherry pie, but you said—” the green-eyed girl protested. Pilbeam laid a cautionary finger on her lustrous lips.
“Shhh, my sweetie — your Uncle Sam must come before your Uncle Jack. But tonight, believe me, Uncle Jack comes first — metaphorically speaking, you understand.”
The lights dimmed, there was a drum roll followed by an amplified hiccup. As silence fell, Dusty Dykes floated in on an enormous dollar note and climbed down on to the floor. He was an almost menacingly ordinary little man, wearing a creased lounge suit. He spoke in a flat, husky voice.
“You’ll see I’ve abandoned my old gimmick of not having a gimmick. It’s not the first time this country’s economy has taken me for a ride. Good evening, ladies and gentiles, and I really mean that — it may be your last. In New York, where I come from — and you know state tax is so high there I needed a parachute to get away — they are very fond of World End parties. You rub two moralities together: the result’s a bust. You rub two busts together: the result is always a titter. The night Senator Mulgravy went, it was a twitter.” At this, there was a round of applause. “Oh, some of you have heard of senators? Friends told me when I arrived friends are the people who stand you one drink and one afternoon — they told me Washington D.C. was politically uneducated. Well, they didn’t put it like that, they just said nobody went to photograph the African bronzes in the White House any more. I said, remember, it isn’t the men of the state that counts, it’s the state of the men. At least they’re no poorer than a shareholder in the contraceptive industry.”
“I can’t hear what he’s saying — or else I can’t understand it,” Martha whispered.
“It doesn’t sound particularly funny to me either,” Timberlane whispered.
With his arm round his girl friend’s shoulder, Pilbeam said, “It’s not meant to be funny. It’s meant to be slouch — as they call it.” Nevertheless, he was grinning broadly, as were many other customers. Noticing this, Dusty Dykes, shook a cautionary finger. It was his only gesture. “Smiling won’t help it,” he said. “I know you’re all sitting there naked under your clothes, but you can’t embarrass me — I go to church and hear the sermon every Sunday. We are a wicked and promiscuous nation, and it gives me as much pleasure as the parson to say so. I’ve no objection to morality, except that it’s obsolete.
“Life gets worse every day. In the High Court in California, they’ve stopped sentencing their criminals to death — they sentence them to life instead. Like the man said, there’s no innocence any more, just undetected crime. In the State of Illinois alone, there were enough sex murders last month to make you all realize how vicarious your position is.
“The future outlook for the race is black, and that’s not just a pigment of my imagination. There were two sex criminals talking over business in Chicago the other day. Butch said, ‘Say, Sammy, which do you like best, murdering a woman or thinking about murdering a woman?’ ‘Shucks, I don’t know, Butch, which do you prefer?’ ‘Thinking about murdering a woman, every time!’ ‘Why’s that, then?’ ‘That way you get a more romantic type of woman.’”
For some minutes more the baby-faced little man stood there under the spot in his slept-in suit, making his slept-in jokes. Then the light cut off, he disappeared, and the house lights rose to applause.
“More drinks,” Pilbeam said.
“But he was awful!” Martha exclaimed. “Just blue!”
“Ah, you have to hear him half a dozen times to appreciate him — that’s the secret of his success,” Pilbeam said. “He’s the voice of the age.”
“Did you enjoy him?” Martha asked the green-eyed girl.
“Well, yes, I guess I did. I mean, well, he kind of made me feel at home.”
Twice a week, they went over to a small room in the Pentagon, where a blond young major taught them how to programme and service a POLYAC computer. These new pocket-sized computers would be fitted in all DOUCH recording trucks.
Timberlane was setting out for one of the POLYAC sessions when he found a letter from his mother awaiting him in his mail. Patricia Timberlane wrote irregularly. This letter, like most of them, was mainly filled with domestic woes, and Timberlane scanned it without a great deal of patience as his taxi carried him over the Potomac. Near the end, he found something of more interest.
“It’s nice for you to have Martha over there in Washington with you. I suppose you will marry her — which is romantic, because it is not often people marry their childhood sweethearts. But do make sure. I mean you’re old enough to know that I made a great mistake marrying your step-father. Keith has his good points, but he’s terribly faithless, sometimes I wish I was dead. I won’t go into details.
“He blames it on the times, but that’s a too easy get-out. He says there’s going to be a revolution here. I dread to think of it. As if we haven’t gone through enough, what with the Accident and this awful war, revolution I dread. There’s never been one in this country, whatever other countries have done. Really it’s like living in a perpetual earthquake.”
It was a telling phrase, Timberlane thought soberly. In Washington, the perpetual earthquake ground on day and night, and would grind, until all was reduced to dust, if the gloomy DOUCH predictions were fulfilled. It revealed itself not only in the constant economic upheavals, the soup queues down-town, and the crazy sales as the detritus of fallen financial empires was thrown on to the market, but in the wave of murders and sexual crimes which the law found itself unable to check. This wave rose to engulf Martha and Timberlane.
The morning after the letter from Patricia Timberlane arrived, Martha appeared early in Timberlane’s room. Clothes lay scattered over the carpet — they had been out late on the previous evening, attending a wild party thrown by an Air Strike buddy of Bill Dyson’s.
Wearing his pyjama trousers, Timberlane stood shaving himself in semi-gloom. Martha went over to the window, pulled the curtains back, and turned to face him. She told him about the flowers that had been delivered to her at the hostel.
He squinted at her and said, “And you say you got some yesterday morning, too?”
“Yes, just as many — crates full of orchids, the same as this morning. They must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars.” He clicked off the spiteful buzz of his razor and looked at her. His eyes were dull and his face pale.