Nothing So Strange. James Hilton
of course. You can argue about it endlessly, just as—” and he turned deferentially to my father—“just as your Dow-Jones theorists do when stocks drop and they try to figure out whether it’s a real bear market or just a dip in a boom. Wait and see’s the only solution, but if the waiting means a few million years, what can you do? Even Spengler won’t go that far.”
Julian laughed, but as if he had become already uneasy about the argument. He was extremely sensitive to timing and atmosphere, and soon afterwards he made rather abrupt excuses and left us. Brad stayed, and my father rallied himself into an appearance of affability. But I was still at odds with his mood; I couldn’t quite understand it, and his totally unnecessary mention of having once been called a merchant of death was especially strange. It was true, he had been called that, but it wasn’t true that he had been unconcerned about it; on the contrary he had been much hurt at the time and would have prosecuted somebody for libel if his lawyers had let him.
I also noticed that he was refilling his glass rather oftener than usual. “Well, Brad,” he said, switching over to his side. “We certainly had him on a soapbox, didn’t we? I hope you weren’t too impressed.”
Brad laughed. “So long as I don’t have to agree, that’s the main thing. I’d like to think over what he said in terms of the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Might be interesting.”
“What beats me,” my father said, “is the way that fellow knows other people’s business…. Yours…and mine…the Dow-Jones theory…how does he get that way?”
“Probably most of what he knows is on the surface,” Brad answered, entirely without malice.
It was late and he looked at his watch. I think we were all a little tired. Just before he left my father called me to the library. “Henry can drive him back,” he said. “Why don’t you go with him for the ride?”
I was surprised at the suggestion and wondered if he thought there was anything emotional between Brad and me—that would have been too ridiculous.
“He’d probably rather take the tube,” I said.
“No, let Henry bring the car round.”
“He’d hate to think he’d been keeping Henry up. He’s fussy about those things.”
“Then get a taxi and you can come back in it.”
“He doesn’t have taxis—he can’t afford them and he wouldn’t like me to pay.”
My father’s irritation showed through again. “Well, for once he can—because I want you to tell him something. Tell him I wasn’t joking, even if Julian was, about the idea of him going abroad. I’ve been thinking for some time it might not be a bad thing. Tell him that.”
“Why don’t you tell him?”
“I did, but I don’t think he heard me. I’m sorry Julian talked of it so flippantly—it’s really what Brad ought to do. He’s probably got all he can out of this London job by now…. So tell him, will you? There’s a bunch of physicists in Vienna, if he could get fixed up with the right connections. I might be able to help him in that.”
“You might?”
“Yes. I have—er—contacts there.”
“In Vienna?”
“Yes.”
“But what about the Cavendish at Cambridge? Isn’t that as good?”
“Cambridge isn’t the only place where they’re doing interesting things in his line. The Continent would give him a different angle…”
“You mean the glamour?”
“No, no…or anyhow, that’s not the word for it. I wish Julian hadn’t butted in with his witticisms…. Well, you talk things over with Brad. Ask him how he’d like to spend some time working with Hugo Framm.”
“Hugo Framm?”
“He’ll know who Framm is. Ask him. Ask him.”
The telephone then rang; I took it, as I often did; it was New York. Those business calls were generally very dull as well as private, so I handed him the receiver and edged away towards the hall doorway across the room.
And then I saw Brad. His back was towards me, and in front of him, almost hidden, was my mother. The lights in the hall were subdued, and all I could see of her distinctly was the knuckle of her right hand as she held his sleeve. She had been talking to him earnestly and I caught what was evidently a final remark: “…and you mustn’t take any notice, Brad…. I’d hate you to be influenced at all….” Only that, whispered very eagerly.
He said nothing in reply, then suddenly, glancing round his shoulder with a little side movement of her head, she saw me, I think, though she pretended not to. I stepped back into the room. Presently my father finished his call.
“Well, as I was saying, Jane, see how he feels about it.”
I answered: “Yes, but not tonight. I’ll talk to him at the College tomorrow. I know he’d rather go home by tube.”
* * * *
I could have met him at lunch the next day and been sure of not interrupting his work, but I went straight to the lab about eleven-thirty, committing the unforgivable sin, if it were one, with a certain gusto. After all, he couldn’t already be working for another examination—or could he? Anyhow, I caught him (so far as I could judge) doing that rare thing, nothing. But he looked preoccupied and not really surprised enough; he asked me to sit down, but I said it wouldn’t take me long to deliver a message. Then I told him what my father had said about Vienna and Hugo Framm. His whole manner changed. He seemed bewildered at first, then slowly and increasingly pleased. He went to a shelf of books and showed me everything he could find that had anything to do with Framm, who was apparently a scientific star of magnitude. There was a paragraph about him in a recent issue of Discovery, and an article by him in a German magazine. Altogether I began to think it rather wonderful that Brad should have a chance to work with such a man. “But I don’t see why he should even consider me,” he kept saying. “There’s nothing I’ve done yet that could possibly impress him.”
“But my father knows him, Brad.”
“Of course I realize your father has influence, but in a question of pure science…”
“Perhaps it isn’t a question of pure science. Perhaps Framm’s a bit human. Perhaps he takes notice of what his friends say about people. My father’s opinion of you might be high enough for someone to want to have you.”
“But is he such a close friend of your father?”
“I never heard his name mentioned before, but that doesn’t mean anything. My father knows so many people everywhere. He meets them once and then they’re on his list of—well, I suppose you could call them distant friends.”
“Very remarkable.”
“My father is remarkable.”
“So’s your mother—in a different way.”
“Oh, she’s a darling.”
“I’d guess she’s a good bit younger.”
“Than my father?… Twenty years.”
“As much as that?”
“Your surprise doesn’t flatter her. Or perhaps it flatters him.”
He thought that out. I added: “I don’t think years matter much, anyway—especially as you grow older.”
“That’s true. It’s when you’re younger that the difference counts.”
I wondered if he was thinking of the difference between his age and mine. Then he went on: “Not that I feel she’s any older than I am.”
“She