The Intruder

by Charles Beaumont

  The presses roared in Tom McDaniel’s ears.

  “Running a newspaper is not a job,” Professor Cahier had said. “It’s a responsibility. Some books may have told you that newspapers reflect public opinion. They are wrong. Newspapers mold public opinion. They are more powerful than all the bombs in the world, more influential than all the politicians put together . . .” Tom’s mind traveled back to that little room, to the earnest young faces in the room; and he heard the words of a dead man ringing loud and clear. Professor Cahier.

  “Newspapers comprise the greatest single force in the world today. They can hurt, heal, kill, crucify, resurrect; at will. They can start wars, and have, and will continue to do so; as easily, they can stop them. They can make gods of humble men, and cause the world to worship these gods. Or, if it is their desire, they can destroy the gods and create new ones. Nothing is beyond the median effect of newspapers, gentlemen. They are the true teachers, priests, judges and executioners of this age. They tell us whom to hate and whom to love, they tell us how to dress, how to eat, how to sleep, and, most important, how to think. They speak and their voices are heard. And they are obeyed.

  “And, yet, a newspaper is an abstract thing. Newspapers do not, in fact, exist. What exists is a relatively small group of human beings—newspapermen. A few thousand of them, at most. And how many of these, I wonder, realize the power they represent? How many understand the extent of their responsibility?

  “You were all attracted to journalism, my friends, because it seemed a bright, shiny and marvelously romantic subject. It is romantic, but I hope that I have shown that it is also the hardest and perhaps the most important work in the world.

  “To become journalists, you must automatically—if you are honest men—give up the individual prejudices and biases that we equate with personal freedom. You must see that subjectivity has no place in the newspaper business, that it must be submerged and dissolved, always. Which is to say, you must tell the truth.

  “Before you settle on this career, gentlemen, examine the question: Are you willing, are you able, to tell the truth? Is it within your power to make the intellectual and physical and spiritual sacrifices that are necessary to do that seemingly simple thing, and do it consistently? Can you tell the plain, unadorned, unslanted truth, regardless of the consequences real or imagined?

  “If the answer is yes, then you should not hesitate to give your lives to journalism, for you will become forces for incalculable good in the world.

  “If the answer is no, then I beg you to take up other pursuits—any other pursuits. For a weak journalist can bring darkness to the earth more quickly than the mightiest king . . .”

  Tom shook the words away. They had seemed painfully pompous when he’d first heard them, almost twenty-five years ago, and now he was embarrassed at remembering them with such accuracy. Cahier had been, after all, a teacher, not a news­paperman. It did the old boy’s ego good to think he was preparing the future rulers of the world.

  But Tom watched old Lulu, pumping and throbbing, her metal arms lifting out the printed sheets, and he thought of the many things he’d caused her to say.

  “Tom!”

  “It’s okay, Jack. Just a little sleepy, is all. Rough night.”

  The old man seemed alarmed. He had known Tom McDaniel as a calm person of clockwork routine. “It’s about that thing, that speech, ain’t it?” he asked.

  “I guess.”

  “Well, you let me call Freddy and—”

  “No,” Tom said, pulling himself back to Caxton, back to the Messenger building, to 1957. “I’ll have the copy to you in a half hour.”

  He went to his office, ripped the empty sheet of paper out of the typewriter, inserted a fresh one.

  Pompous, perhaps, he thought. But Cahier had been mostly right. I can shout at the people in the crowd and they won’t listen, but when I put those words down in cold, hard print—the same words—they’ll pay attention.

  That’s what Cahier was talking about.

  LEADING SCIENTISTS DISCOVER WORLD IS FLAT he typed, in capitals. “The Oakville Research Center today released the news that, contrary to previous belief, the earth is not round. According to Albert Einstein, Jr., ‘A spectro-inductive photograph, taken from a height of three hundred miles, shows that the so-called curvature of the Earth is due wholly to a warp in the ionosphere. It is now absolutely certain that our Earth is as flat as a flapjack . . .’ ”

  Tom looked at the paragraph, smiled faintly and dropped it into the wastebasket.

  He typed THE WAY WE LOOK AT IT and paused. “As everyone knows, the Messenger, along with school officials, the county court, the Mayor of Caxton, and most Caxton citizens, was opposed to the move toward integration of the races,” he wrote, and felt his heart inside his chest. “We fought the issue from its inception to the final decision of the Supreme Court of the United States, employing every legal means. However, we believe that the government of the United States is a government of law and not of man, and that the Supreme Court is the final arbiter in deciding what is law. Therefore, once the Supreme Court has spoken and until the decision of that Court is changed by an amendment to the Constitution by a vote of the people, we have no choice except to obey the law.

  “Last night, the law was broken. A young Northerner named Adam Cramer delivered an inflammatory speech on the steps of the county courthouse, in which he indirectly exhorted the citizens of Caxton to become renegades.

  “This speech resulted in an unprovoked attack upon an out-of-county Negro family who happened to be passing through Caxton.

  “It was considered by some unthinking officials to be a minor incident. But it was not a minor incident. In just this way—”

  “Mr. McDaniel?”

  Tom looked up from his typewriter. Standing in the office, smiling pleasantly, was Adam Cramer.

  “How are you this morning, sir?”

  Tom stared at him, but did not accept the hand. “What do you want?” he asked.

  Adam Cramer continued smiling. “Not much,” he said. “I just want to give you a little business.”

  “Yes?”

  “You do run ads, don’t you?”

  “If they meet certain standards.”

  Adam Cramer withdrew a folded paper from his breast pocket, read it once, and dropped it on the desk. “I just heard about what happened last night,” he said. “It was a shame.”

  “You must be proud.”

  Jack Allardyce knocked on the open door. “We’re waiting on the copy,” the old man said.

  “You’ll keep on waiting until I finish it,” Tom snapped. “Now don’t bother me.”

  The old man left, shocked.

  Adam Cramer seated himself in the cane-bottomed chair and crossed his legs. “I’m not sure exactly what you meant by that remark,” he said, “but I can tell you, Mr. McDaniel, I was very upset.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. If you managed to catch my speech, you’ll recall that I emphasized the legal aspects of fighting integration. Just as you’ve been doing in your paper. I certainly had no idea that—”

  “That’s a lie!” Tom said, feeling the hot redness creep into his face. “You knew exactly what would happen. Cramer, I’m glad you’re here because I have some things to say to you, and I’d advise you to listen.”

  “I’ll be happy to,” Adam Cramer said.

  “First, I think you’re a fraud. I don’t know that for sure, but I think it. Whether you are or not is incidental right now. What is certain is that you’re a rabble-rouser, and I don’t like rabble-rousers. If you’d come to the officials of the town and presented the plans you think you have, everyone would have co-operated—because we are in trouble, and we could use help—maybe. But you didn’t do that. You weren’t about to do it.”

  “Go on,” Adam Cramer said.

  “Instead you got the people worked up. You played on their fears and on their hates. Then, before the fireworks went off, you sneaked away. You m
ight as well know that I did my level best to have you thrown in jail for what you did.”

  Adam Cramer was silent.

  “We don’t want your type here,” Tom said, realizing suddenly that he was becoming altogether too angry. “You understand?”

  “Who is ‘we,’ sir?”

  “The responsible citizens of this town.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McDaniel, but I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree. I feel that my ‘type’ is not only wanted, but also, needed. That was made pretty clear last night.”

  Tom rose. “Get out of Caxton, Cramer,” he said. “Get out today.”

  “Are you telling me?”

  “I’m advising you.”

  Adam Cramer smiled again. “I honestly don’t understand your attitude, Mr. McDaniel—and I don’t think I want to, either. But it doesn’t matter. It so happens that I plan to stay here until my job is finished. I’d hoped we could work together; I still do, in fact, but if we can’t, then that’s the way it is.”

  “I’ll fight you,” Tom said. “Every inch of the way.”

  “That’s your right.”

  They stared at one another for a moment, and Tom knew precisely what his visitor was thinking. “There is one thing I can tell you,” he said. “Stay away from my daughter.”

  “I should think that would be her decision,” Cramer said.

  “It isn’t. If you go near her, you’ll be sorry.”

  Adam Cramer smiled. “That,” he said, “would be taking the law into your own hands, wouldn’t it, Mr. McDaniel?” He paused. “I’d like to talk more with you, but I’m afraid I have work to do. You want to set up the ad?”

  Tom picked up the sheet of paper, read it quickly. If you are interested in keeping Caxton High School white, don’t fail to attend the first general meeting of SNAP—The Society for National American Patriots. Saturday, 7:30, Joan’s Cafe.

  “The ad,” he said, “isn’t suitable. We can’t run it.” He folded it and tossed it back across the desk.

  Adam Cramer did not move. “I think you’ll change your mind,” he said. Then, carefully, he took out another piece of paper and handed it to Tom.

  It read: Tom, put this in a box, with heavy border, on page one. V. S.

  “A quarter column ought to be all right,” Cramer said. “The typeface isn’t too important—so long as it’s big.”

  Tom threw both sheets of paper into the wastebasket. “The ad is not suitable,” he repeated. “Please close the door after you.”

  Adam Cramer walked to the door; turned. “You hate me, Mr. McDaniel,” he said. “I don’t know why, but you do. However, I regard my work here as something vitally important to the country. There’s no room in it for personal quarrels. After all, we’re both trying to achieve the same goal. Aren’t we?”

  Tom did not answer.

  “We’re like soldiers on a battlefield,” Adam Cramer said, “fighting a common enemy. If we can’t get along together, let’s at least not weaken our own offensive by engaging in private wars. I’ve read your editorials, sir. They were thoughtful and brave. You fought damned hard, and I think maybe now you’re a little tired of fighting. Well, I’m a fresh recruit, don’t you understand? I simply want to carry on where—”

  “Get out,” Tom said firmly.

  The door closed.

  He flexed his fingers and wrote, “—in just this way are insurrections begun. The majority of citizens will always resist the hate mongers and their methods, but there is a constant minority who are taken in. And a strong, loud minority is more powerful than a silent majority, always. Therefore—”

  He looked at the first paragraphs, restating his anti-­integration policy; and Adam Cramer’s words stung his mind.

  “After all, we’re trying to achieve the same goal.” And other words: “. . . the plain, unadorned truth . . .”

  He picked up the telephone, dialed, waited. Mrs. Mennen answered. “Is Verne in?” he asked.

  “Who is this?”

  “Tom McDaniel.”

  “Oh, hello, Tom. Yes, Mr. Shipman is out with the dogs. Do you want me to call him in?”

  “No, just tell him that I’m on my way over there to see him. It’ll take about fifteen minutes.”

  He hung up and walked into the back room. “Jack,” he said, “call Freddy. I can’t get the damn thing going.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have him play down the speech, just mention it and say it was unsuccessful. For the rest, use my notes on the fluoride business in Farragut.”

  He put on his hat and walked into the brassy sunlight.

  “Tom, by God, it’s good to see you. Why don’t we ever get together any more?”

  Verne Shipman looked fat and red and healthy. Years seemed to have dropped away from his face.

  “I’ll come directly to the point, Verne,” Tom said. “A young punk from the North blew in yesterday. He’s been raising seven kinds of hell ever since, and this morning he as much as told me that he had you on his side. I told him he was a liar. Was I right?”

  Shipman dropped his smile. “Are you talking about Adam Cramer?”

  “That’s the name he uses.”

  Verne Shipman opened his mouth and closed it. He walked over to the bar by the window.

  “You’re still a gin man, aren’t you?”

  “This isn’t a social call, Verne.”

  The big man proceeded to fix the drinks, deliberately.

  “Okay,” he said, handing a gin and tonic to Tom, “what kind of a visit is it?”

  “I’d like an explanation of that note.”

  “What note?”

  “The one about the ad.”

  “I thought,” Shipman said, “that it was clear enough.”

  Impulsively, Tom took a swallow of the drink. “Verne,” he said, “I can’t believe that that kid has taken you in, too.”

  Shipman shook his head. “He hasn’t ‘taken me in,’ ” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. When he came by here, I thought the same thing. Another hustler. Another guy out for the buck. But that isn’t true, Tom. He may be young and an outsider and all that, but he’s on the right track. Did you hear his speech last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you can’t argue with that kind of facts. Let me tell you something. When he started blowing off, when he was here, about this ‘snap’ thing of his, I thought, oh-o, here comes the bite. But he didn’t ask for one solitary cent. He said that he would get a certain amount of money from the people and only then, when he could prove that he got it, would he accept any from me. And then, you could of knocked me over with a feather—he said he would put all the cash in my hands. Which is pretty good proof that he isn’t any faker, wouldn’t you say? Of course, I didn’t believe any of that at first. But he said, ‘Just come to the meeting, that’s all I ask.’ So I did. And I mean to tell you, he has the people behind him. I never saw anything like it!”

  “Neither did I,” Tom said. He asked if Shipman had heard about what had happened afterwards.

  “No, I hadn’t heard about it. But it don’t prove anything, that I can see. Probably the nigra was uppity, or something.”

  “He wasn’t uppity or something,” Tom said, angrily. “He was just passing through. They stopped his car.”

  “Well, so they stopped his car. So what? I mean, you can’t blame that on Cramer: he was with me. He didn’t have a thing to do with it.”

  “He had everything to do with it, damn it. He inflamed the people.”

  Shipman laughed. “Oh, come on, now, Tom. You’re just mad because it took somebody from out of town to show us that we’ve been falling down on the job. I was mad, too. In the beginning. But there’s no two ways about it, this thing has got to be stopped and it’s got to be stopped now.”

  “How?” Tom said. “By attacking Negroes in the street?”

  Shipman walked over to the bar and refilled his glass. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “If that’s what it’s going to take, yes.�
�

  “Verne, for Christ’s sake! Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “Yes; but I don’t think you do. I’m saying that we fought fair and above board and it didn’t get us nowhere. Now it’s time to fight their way.”

  “Whose way?”

  “The politicians’. I’ve talked the thing over with Adam, and you listen—there’s plenty we can do. And it’s all perfectly, absolutely legal.” The big man lit his pipe, puffed vigorously.

  “Then why didn’t he go to the officials?” Tom said. “If he’s got such big plans, why didn’t he take them to—”

  “Because he wouldn’t have got to first base. Be realistic for a minute. Satterly is a namby-pamby fool, and the lawyers we got just aren’t smart enough. Worse than that, they’re not gutty enough. And that’s what we’ve got to have now, Tom. Guts.”

  “I didn’t know you had such an interest in politics, Verne,” Tom said disgustedly. Shipman still looked boneless and soft in the hard light, like an overfed baby. All of a sudden Tom wanted to say, After a life of doing nothing, you’re concerned about Caxton. You never gave this place a thought before Cramer arrived. You didn’t care whether we integrated or not. Now you’re talking about guts.

  “That’s a little harsh,” Shipman said, controlling his voice. “But, it’s true, and I’m man enough to admit it. Tom, you’ve known me for a long, long time, so I can’t fool you. I’ve been remiss in my duties.”

  Remiss! Tom thought. You haven’t even been aware that you had any duties.

  “But a person can always wake up, and that’s what’s happened to me,” Shipman went on. “I’ve waked up. And now I’m ready to fight to save my town.” He warmed rapidly to his subject, began pacing the room. “If we all pitch in now,” he said, “we can have this licked inside of a month. Maybe less. And those knotheads in the Supreme Court, they’ll see that their little plan wouldn’t work—and that’ll be the end of it. By God, it makes my blood boil to think that right now, at this minute, there’s niggers sitting next to white girls in our school!”

  Shipman took Tom’s glass, sloshed a quantity of gin into it. “It’s going to be a hell of a battle,” he said.