“No, I don’t dismiss it. Who am I to judge?”
He sat back, drifting from world to world of the little professor’s vision. The implications were frightening in their magnitude, but he accepted them greedily. He needed this reinforcement of his faith, this larger perspective, after the morass in which he had lately been so bogged down.
“To prove it,” Green went on, “to prove that it’s not an idealistic vision—at least to my own satisfaction—I’m proposing to come out openly on your side. Not in objective scientific reports, naming no names, but sponsoring, supporting you. That is, with your permission.”
“Permission! But how about your university work? How will you—”
“To hell with my university work. Younger men can carry that on. I’m not a young man. At this stage of a man’s life he cannot afford to delay making up his mind which is the most important work.”
“But how will you live?”
“How will you?”
“I don’t know. The money will come in from somewhere. It already started to—before the security clamp-down.”
“Well then, it will come in for me, too. But about Security—just what did happen between you and them?”
Arnold told him briefly.
“You mean, they actually used you? I thought it was only the automatic reaction of officialdom to the unknown. Trust them to chase the gnat and ignore the camel, if that’s not twisting a metaphor. But this man Fisher, you actually cured him?”
“Yes. But it was something of an ordeal.”
“Ach, that was. only the first time. We’ll soon work out a system, I had an idea it might be of therapeutic value, apart, that is, from the larger therapy. The possibilities are endless. Have you thought of the value it could be in teaching, for instance?”
“No, I hadn’t, but—”
A knock came at the door.
Arnold went to answer it.
It was Claire. And Sally. And a tiny taxi driver half-buried under a load of luggage.
“Well?” Claire asked.
“I—I’m sorry, I was too surprised.” He had been; his brain was still too bemused by what Professor Green had been saying. “Hello, Claire.”
“Hello, Arnold.”
“You’re looking well. So is Sally. Hello, Sally.”
Sally smiled in welcome. Her suspicion seemed to have left her entirely. She looked appreciably taller, and she was as brown as a walnut. So was Claire.
“Well,” asked Claire, “aren’t you going to ask us in?”
“Of course. What am I doing?” He stood aside, both to let them in and to relieve the taxi driver of his burdens.
“Be careful with the big package,” Claire called over her shoulder. “They’re canvases.”
“Blank ones?”
“No, silly. Finished ones.”
There was a warmth in her few words that he had never noticed in her voice before. It was like the warmth he thought he had detected in her last letter. He didn’t know how to return it.
He paid off the taxi driver and went in to her.
“Shall I take your coat?”
“No, thanks.” She wrapped it close about her. “I’m not thawed out yet.” She turned to Sally, “Run off to the kitchen and make some tea, sweetie.”
They went into the living-room.
“Excuse my confusion,” Arnold said. “A lot’s been happening. And this is the man who’s been responsible for most of it, Professor Green.” He turned to Green. “This is Claire Bergen. She’s been in Ireland for several months.”
“The other half of the discovery team, I gather,” said Green, taking her hand. “The young lady who was here the last time I called, whose advice you had to get?”
Claire nodded.
“I hope you think your advice was right. Look after him, and you, Arnold, look after Miss Bergen. You are the two most important people in the world.” He reached for his hat. “Well, you must have a lot to talk about.”
Arnold protested, but the little professor lifted his hand. “And I’ve got a lot to do. The first thing is to draft my letter of resignation.”
Arnold saw him out. When he returned Claire said, “What did he mean by his letter of resignation?”
“He’s resigning his chair at the university to give us his full support—”
He stopped, realizing he had used the plural. He waited for Claire to correct him. She didn’t. But neither did she confirm it.
“Well, what have you been doing? You look as if you’ve been sailing round the tropics?”
“Not quite. Though I’ve been out a lot on the fishing boats. And helping the peasant women, looking after the animals and cutting turf. That’s peat. You cut it and stack it to dry for fuel. You need it when those Atlantic gales come beating in. I became a real peasant woman.”
“You look like one,” he told her laughingly. “All you need is a pair of gold earrings. I must get you some.”
“Oh, I’ve brought something for you. A sweater, sheared, spun, woven, dyed with local dye—they get it from seaweed—and knitted. All by me. With guidance, of course.”
“Thank you. I’ve never had such an original gift.”
“Perhaps you won’t thank me when you see it.” She laughed. “It’s a bright orange.”
“And your painting?”
“I’ve done some. Not my old style. Just paintings of the people going about their jobs. It’s a different world. I don’t know whether they’re good or bad. I can’t trust my judgment currently.”
Arnold didn’t pursue the last statement; it might lead to an argument. It was an argument about painting which had started everything.
“And you?” asked Claire. “What’s been happening with you?”
“You mean…?” Arnold stared at her. “Don’t they have papers where you’ve been?”
“In the nearest town. That’s twenty miles away. That’s why I chose the place, to get away from everything. No papers, no television—very few radios, even. And I didn’t have one. Why, have you got into the news at last?”
Arnold nodded. “Somewhat.”
“Is everything going forward all right for you?”
“I think so. At last. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it later.” He got up and paced the room. “I’m sorry. I feel awkward. We’re like strangers.”
She smiled suddenly, surprisingly.
“We don’t have to be. We can’t very well be any more, anyway.”
“You mean, you’re coming in with me? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ve had a lot of time to think, Arn. I—”
“Say that again.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think.”
“That wasn’t all.”
“Arnold.”
“No, not quite.”
“Arn, then.”
“That’s better. That’s the first time you ever called me Arn.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“Yes, please. It was just that it sounded out of character from you somehow. Unprecise. But I like it.”
“I thought we were discussing something far more important.” The old familiar asperity came back into her voice.
“I’m sorry, Claire. Hell, why should it be so difficult for us to speak to each other—the first two people not to need words?”
“Perhaps that’s why.”
“I suppose so. Look, Claire, I’m past wanting to force anything on you—”
She laughed, an echoing laugh such as he had never heard, or expected to hear, from her before.
“What did I say?”
“It’s all right. Please go on.”
Arnold shook his head despairingly. “You talk about me! I’m trying to say that I don’t want to influence you any more in any way.”
“You mean, that now things are under way, you don’t need me any more?”
“Please, that’s not fair. I—I need you more than ever now, more than I’ve ever needed anyone.”
“I’m
glad.” Her smile was enigmatic. “Arn, when I agreed that we didn’t need words I was giving you an invitation. You didn’t accept it.”
He looked at her, then, somewhat nervously, complied, opening his mind to hers. They had not been together for so long. He had been in contact with other minds since—all kinds of minds—yet, with her now it was difficult.
But there was no mistaking the warmth of his welcome. It was as if the shape of her mind had undergone subtle variations. Yet she seemed to be holding it back. Offering it to him, but deliberately shielding it at the same time.
He looked at her puzzled. He saw a smile playing round her lips.
And then he understood. She was deliberately keeping back information from him which she wanted him to detect for himself. And he detected it.
It was not two of them in rapport, but three.
His first thought was of Sally, but Sally was still in the kitchen, out of mental earshot. And the third presence was near—very near. Too, it was nebulous, uninformed, devoid of all experience but warmth, dim light, the pulse of a heart—and impatience.
Claire spoke aloud, but quietly.
“Now you know what made my mind up to come back. I had no choice—for better or worse.”
“Do you mind? Not having any choice, I mean?”
She shook her head slowly.
“For better or worse,” he echoed. That was all it could be now.
“Which reminds me. That’s something else we’ll have to see to. And quickly.”
Claire moved into his arms.
“There’s time enough for that, my dear. Time enough.”
The Silent Speakers Page 17