“How the hell can you be that exact?”
“Nothing to it,” Brough said. “I was majoring in the arts at USC, with a big emphasis on journalism and playwriting. I’m going to be a writer when I get out.”
Mac leaned forward and peered into the pot. “I envy you, laddie. Writing can be just about the most important job in the whole world. If it’s any good.”
“That’s a lot of nonsense, Mac,” said Peter Marlowe. “There are a million things more important.”
“That just goes to show how little you know.”
“Business is much more important,” interjected the King. “Without business, the world’d stop — and without money and a stable economy there’d be no one to buy any books.”
“To hell with business and economy,” Brough said. “They’re just material things. It’s just like Mac says.”
“Mac,” said Peter Marlowe. “What makes it so important?”
“Well, laddie, first it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and can’t. I tried many times, but I could never finish anything. That’s the hardest part — to finish. But the most important thing is that writers are the only people who can do something about this planet. A businessman can’t do anything — ”
“That’s crap,” said the King. “What about Rockefeller? And Morgan and Ford and Du Pont? And all the others? It’s their philanthropy that finances a helluva lot of research and libraries and hospitals and art. Why, without their dough — ”
“But they made their money at someone’s expense,” Brough said crisply. “They could easily plow some of their billions back to the men who made it for them. Those bloodsuckers — ”
“I suppose you’re a Democrat?” said the King heatedly.
“You betcha sweet life I am. Look at Roosevelt. Look what he’s doing for the country. He dragged it up by its bootstrings when the goddam Republicans — ”
“That’s crap and you know it. Nothing to do with the Republicans. It was an economic cycle — ”
“Crapdoodle on economic cycles. The Republicans — ”
“Hey, you fellows,” said Larkin mildly. “No politics until after we’ve eaten, what do you say?”
“Well, all right,” Brough said grimly, “but this guy’s from Christmas.”
“Mac, why is it so important? I still don’t see.”
“Well. A writer can put down on a piece of paper an idea — or a point of view. If he’s any good he can sway people, even if it’s written on toilet paper. And he’s the only one in our modern economy who can do it — who can change the world. A businessman can’t — without substantial money. A politician can’t — without substantial position or power. A planter can’t, certainly. An accountant can’t, right, Larkin?”
“Sure.”
“But you’re talking about propaganda,” Brough said. “I don’t want to write propaganda.”
“You ever written for movies, Don?” asked the King.
“I’ve never sold anything to anyone. Guy’s not a writer until he sells something. But movies are goddam important. You know that Lenin said the movies were the most important propaganda medium ever invented?” He saw the King readying an assault. “And I’m not a Commie, you son of a bitch, just because I’m a Democrat.” He turned to Mac. “Jesus, if you read Lenin or Stalin or Trotsky you’re called a Commie.”
“Well, you gotta admit, Don,” said the King, “a lotta Democrats are pinks.”
“Since when has being pro-Russian meant that a guy’s a Communist? They are our allies, you know!”
“I’m sorry about that — in a historical way,” said Mac.
“Why?”
“We’re going to have a lot of trouble afterwards. Particularly in the Orient. Those folk were stirring up a lot of trouble, even before the war.”
“Television’s going to be the coming thing,” said Peter Marlowe, watching a thread of vapor dance the surface of the stew. “You know, I saw a demonstration from Alexandra Palace in London. Baird is sending out a program once a week.”
“I heard about television,” said Brough. “Never seen any.”
The King nodded. “I haven’t either, but that could make one hell of a business.”
“Not in the States, that’s for sure,” Brough grunted. “Think of the distances! Hell, that might be all right for one of the little countries, like England, but not a real country like the States.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Peter Marlowe, stiffening.
“I mean that if it wasn’t for us, this war’d go on forever. Why, it’s our money and our weapons and our power — ”
“Listen, old man, we did all right alone — giving you buggers the time to get off your arse. It is your war just as much as ours.” Peter Marlowe glared at Brough, who glared back.
“Crap! Why the hell you Europeans can’t go and kill yourselves off like you’ve been doing for centuries and let us alone, I don’t know. We had to bail you out before — ”
And in no time at all they were arguing and swearing and no one was listening and each had a very firm opinion and each opinion was right.
The King was angrily shaking his fist at Brough, who shook his fist back, and Peter Marlowe was shouting at Mac, when suddenly there was a crashing on the door.
Immediate silence.
“Wot’s all the bleedin’ row about?” a voice said.
“That you, Griffiths?”
“Who d’ja fink it was, Adolf bloody ’Itler? Yer want’a get us jailed or somefink?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Keep tha bleedin’ noise down!”
“Who’s that?” said Mac.
“Griffiths. He owns the cell.”
“What?”
“Sure. I hired it for five hours. Three bucks an hour. You don’t get nothing for nothing.”
“You hired the cell?” repeated Larkin incredulously.
“That’s right. This Griffiths is a smart businessman,” the King explained. “There are thousands of men around, right? No peace and quiet, right? Well, this Limey hires the cell out to anyone who wants to be alone. Not my idea of a sanctuary, but Griffiths does quite a business.”
“I’ll bet it wasn’t his idea,” said Brough.
“Cap’n I cannot tell a lie.” The King smiled. “I must confess the idea was mine. But Griffiths makes enough to keep him and his unit going very well.”
“How much do you make on it?”
“Just ten percent.”
“If it’s only ten percent, that’s fair,” said Brough.
“It is,” the King said. The King would never lie to Brough, not that it was any of his business what the hell he did.
Brough leaned over and stirred the stew. “Hey, you guys, it’s boiling.”
They all crowded around. Yes, it was really boiling.
“We’d better fix the window. The stuff’ll start smelling in a minute.”
They put a blanket over the barred outlet, and soon the cell was all perfume.
Mac, Larkin, and Tex squatted against the wall, eyes on the stewpan. Peter Marlowe sat on the other side of the bed, and as he was nearest, from time to time he stirred the pot.
The water simmered gently, making the delicate little beans soar crescentlike to the surface, then cascade back into the depths of the liquid. A puff of steam effervesced, bringing with it the true richness of the meat-buds. The King leaned forward and threw in a handful of native herbs, turmeric, kajang, huan, taka and cloves and garlic, and this added to the perfume.
When the stew had been bubbling ten minutes, the King put the green papaya into the pot.