”One of the later Muses,” I suggested. “The Muse of Recent History. And very fascinating, too.”
I became aware that one or two men at tables within earshot were paying us—or, rather, me—some attention; their expressions were not unfriendly, but they showed what seemed to be traces of concern.
“It is—” my neighbor began to reply, and then broke off, cut short by a rumble in the sky.
I turned to see a slender white spire stabbing up into the blue overhead. Already, by the time the sound reached us, the rocket at its apex was too small to be visible. The man cocked an eye at it.
“Moon-shuttle,” he observed.
“They all sound and look alike to me,” I admitted.
“They wouldn’t if you were inside. The acceleration in that shuttle would spread you all over the floor—very thinly,” he said, and then went on: “We don’t often see strangers in Lahua. Perhaps you would care to give me the pleasure of your company for luncheon? My name, by the way, is George.”
I hesitated, and while I did I noticed over his shoulder an elderly man who moved his lips slightly as he gave me what was without doubt an encouraging nod. I decided to take a chance on it.
“That’s very kind of you. My name is David—David Myford, from Sydney,” I told him. But he made no amplification regarding himself, so I was left still wondering whether George was his forename, or his surname.
I moved to his table, and he lifted a hand to summon the girl.
“Unless you are averse to fish you must try the bouillabaisse—speciality de la maison,” he told me.
I was aware that I had gained the approval of the elderly man, and apparently of some others. The waitress, too, had an approving air. I wondered vaguely what was going on, and whether I had been let in for the town bore, to protect the rest.
“From Sydney,” he said reflectively. “It’s a long time since I saw Sydney. I don’t suppose I’d know it now.”
“It keeps on growing,” I admitted, “but Nature would always prevent you from confusing it with anywhere else.”
We went on chatting. The bouillabaisse arrived; and excellent it was. There were hunks of first-class bread, too, cut from those long loaves you see in pictures in old European books. I began to feel, with the help of the local wine, that a lot could be said for the twentieth-century way of living.
In the course of our talk it emerged that George had been a rocket pilot, but was grounded now—not, one would judge, for reasons of health, so I did not inquire further....
The second course was an excellent coupe of fruits I never heard of, and, over all, iced passion-fruit juice. It was when the coffee came that he said, rather wistfully I thought:
“I had hoped you might be able to help me, Mr. Myford, but it now seems to me that you are not a man of faith.”
“Surely everyone has to be very much a man of faith,” I protested. “For everything a man cannot do for himself he has to have faith in others.”
“True,” he conceded. “I should have said ‘spiritual faith.’ You do not speak as one who is interested in the nature and destiny of his soul—nor of anyone else’s soul—I fear?”
I felt that I perceived what was coming next. However, if he was interested in saving my soul he had at least begun the operation by looking after my bodily needs with a generously good meal.
“When I was young,” I told him, “I used to worry quite a lot about my soul, but later I decided that that was largely a matter of vanity.”
“There is also vanity in thinking oneself self-sufficient,” he said.
“Certainly,” I agreed. “It is chiefly with the conception of the soul as a separate entity that I find myself out of sympathy. For me it is a manifestation of mind which is, in its turn, a product of the brain, modified by the external environment, and influenced more directly by the glands.”
He looked saddened, and shook his head reprovingly. “You are so wrong—so very wrong. Some are always conscious of their souls, others, like yourself, are unaware of them, but no one knows the true value of his soul as long as he has it. It is not until a man has lost his soul that he understands its value.”
It was not an observation making for easy rejoinder, so I let the silence between us continue. Presently he looked up into the northern sky where the trail of the moon-bound shuttle had long since blown away. With embarrassment I observed two large tears flow from the inner corners of his eyes and trickle down beside his nose. He, however, showed no embarrassment; he simply pulled out a large, white, beautifully laundered handkerchief, and dealt with them.
“I hope you will never learn what a dreadful thing it is to have no soul,” he told me, with a shake of his head. “It is to hold the emptiness of space in one’s heart: to sit by the waters of Babylon for the rest of one’s life.”
Lamely I said: “I’m afraid this is out of my range. I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. No one understands. But always one keeps on hoping that one day there will come somebody who does understand, and can help.”
“But the soul is a manifestation of the self,” I said. “I don’t see how that can be lost—it can be changed, perhaps, but not lost”
“Mine is,” he said, still looking up into the vasty blue. “Lost—adrift somewhere out there.... Without it I am a sham.... A man who has lost a leg or an arm is still a man, but a man who has lost his soul is nothing—nothing —nothing....”
“Perhaps a psychiatrist—” I started to suggest, uncertainly.
That stirred him, and checked the tears. “Psychiatrist!” he exclaimed scornfully. “Damned frauds! Even to the word. They may know a bit about minds; but about the psyche!—why they even deny its existence... !”
There was a pause.
“I wish I could help----”
“There was a chance. You might have been one who could. There’s always the chance...” Whether he was consoling himself, or me, seemed moot. At this point the church clock struck two. My host’s mood changed. He got up quite briskly.
“I have to go now,” he told me. “I wish you had been the one, but it has been a pleasant encounter all the same. I hope you enjoy Lahua.”
I watched him make his way along the Place. At one stall he paused, selected a peach-like fruit, and bit into it. The woman beamed at him amiably, apparently unconcerned about payment
The dusky waitress arrived by my table, and stood looking after him.
“O, le pauvre monsieur Georges,” she said, sadly. We watched him climb the church steps, throw away the remnant of his fruit and remove his hat to enter. “Il va faire la prière,” she explained. “Tous les jours ‘e make pray for ‘is soul. In ze morning, in ze afternoon. C’est si triste.”
I noticed the bill in her hand. I fear that for a moment I misjudged George, but it had been a good lunch. I reached for my notecase. The girl noticed, and shook her head.
“Non, non, monsieur, non. Vous êtes convive. C’est d’accord. Alors, monsieur Georges ‘e sign bill tomorrow. S’arrange. C’est okay,” she insisted, and stuck to it.
The elderly man whom I had noticed before broke in: “It’s all right—quite in order,” he assured me. Then he added: “Perhaps if you are not in a hurry you would care to take a café-cognac with me?”
There seemed to be a fine open-handedness about Lahua. I accepted, and joined him.
“I’m afraid no one can have briefed you about poor George,” he said.
I admitted this was so. He shook his head in reproof of persons unknown, and added: