IV

By the time he left Honolulu for Tokyo, Jack Rhyce was positive that he and Ruth Bogart were in the clear. It was inevitable, after a number of years’ experience, that one should develop intuition. There was a sense of malaise—similar, he sometimes thought, to what phychiatrists called ‘free guilt’—when you were being watched. You could not put your finger on any one thing, but finally you could learn to depend implicitly upon that feeling of imbalance. There had been none of that feeling in the airport at San Francisco, and none in Honolulu. When he showed Ruth Bogart the feather cloaks in the Bishop Museum, and the old mission house that had been transported in sections in ships around Cape Horn, he felt that he was exactly what he was supposed to be.

When the pictures of the early missionaries gazed at him sternly, he was able to gaze right back, and the question hardly crossed his mind as to what the Chief would have said about the missionaries. He was exactly what he should have been, and so was Ruth Bogart. He could even forget that they were boringly obvious. He was even able to take a surfboard out at Waikiki, in a perfectly carefree manner. He had learned a little of the trick of it while he had been stationed at Honolulu, during the last war, and it all served as part of the cover. He could be as expert as possible because he was a muscular do-gooder, full of good will toward the world. He was beginning to experience that wonderful feeling of complete creative success that came with perfect cover. There was confidence in such a feeling, but never overconfidence, only a thorough understanding of the cover itself, and a conviction that it had finally blended with his own personality.

On the afternoon when they boarded the plane for Tokyo, and began flying into the setting sun, nothing changed his mood, and he had always been highly sensitive to airports. The passengers on the plane were interesting, but not outstanding; a Hawaiian-Japanese couple, a Dutch businessman, two British businessmen, and then thirty members of a world tour group, all of whom could only have been exactly what they were. The project, as he learned from the world cruise director in the course of the trip, had been started by a travel agency which had founded an organization named the World Wide Club. Members of this organization, it seemed, paid their dues into a general account for several years, until at last the total sum had become large enough to pay a liberal down deposit on a round-the-world trip—and that was not all, either. During the years (as the director, who was a retired chemistry professor, told Jack Rhyce) in which the fund had been building up, there had been bi-weekly study groups, so that everybody by now knew quite a lot about the places to which they were going. Jack fell into the spirit of their trip at once, and told the cruise director that it was one of the greatest ideas he had ever heard of, and one that ought to spread to every city of the country.

“You know,” he said, “the thought has just occurred to me, that we might incorporate this very travel idea into the organization which I happen to represent—the Asia Friendship League. One of our basic problems is to stimulate an interchange of travelers. Don’t you think it is a great idea, Ruth?”

Of course she thought it was a great idea, and except for the Dutchman and the Englishmen, they all became a congenial group, flying across the Pacific at nineteen thousand feet. There were very few cocktails served, except to the Dutchman and the Englishmen, but still they began singing songs, and Jack Rhyce threw himself into the spirit of it, and he did have a good baritone. As far as he could remember later, they broke away from cover only once; it was Ruth Bogart’s fault, not his. When it had grown dark, and dinner was over, and the merriment had died down, he took the sayings of Buddha from his briefcase.

“This fellow Buddha,” he said, “has quite a lot to say. Some of it’s a little difficult, due to his antiquity and his foreign way of life, but a lot of it fits right in with today. Would you like me to read you a little of it, Ruth?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, “and let me go to sleep.”

“Why, of course,” he said, “it was very thoughtless of me, chatting along this way, but I’ve been stimulated by this travel group and everything. Shall I ring to get you a pillow, Ruth? I know it is a tiring trip, with all this change of time and the plane vibration.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said again, and on the whole he could not blame her. They were silent for half an hour.

“Jack,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he told her. “Everybody gets tired sometimes.”

“Damn it, I’m not tired,” she said. “It isn’t weariness, it’s schizophrenia. When we set down at Wake, can’t we get away for twenty minutes and be ourselves?”

“Why yes,” he said. “I think that would be a wonderful idea, but it will be dark at Wake—just before dawn.”

“All right,” she said, “in the dark then. In fact, it would look better if we did. We’re supposed to be in love, aren’t we? At least the idea is for us to give that impression.”

“Yes,” he said, “and you’ve been wonderful about it.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, “and let me go to sleep.”

She was still asleep hours later when the plane was letting down. He put his hand on her arm to awaken her, and she gave a start and looked around her for a moment, as though she did not know where she was or who she was. He knew exactly how she felt, because he had experienced the same confusion more than once himself. And this was dangerous, particularly on the beginning of a trip.

“Wake,” he said, “in about thirty minutes.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ve got it now. I was having a bad dream, and I thought you were someone else.”

“Just take it easy,” he told her. “There’s no reason for any bad dreams.”

His guess about the time of arrival at Wake was approximately correct, because the announcement came over the loud speaker a few minutes later.

They would be on the ground at Wake Island in half an hour. It would still be dark. There would be a change of crew, and an hour to two hours on the ground. Transportation would be furnished, so that passengers could go to the resthouse, which was only a short distance from the field, for early morning refreshment. He had not touched at Wake when he had been to Japan eight years ago, but had been on other islands like it—atolls that were pinpoints on lonely seas. Even in the dark, when he stepped out of the plane, he could almost swear that he had been on Wake before. The lights on the field, the activity around the hangars were exactly the same as on other islands, and there was also the same warm humidity, and the sticky smell of salt in the air. They had been given a leaflet describing Wake, and even a map of the island, but he really did not need it. There was the field with the familiar cluster of buildings around it, the tarred streets, the Nissen huts, the army shacks, and then the lagoon. There was no check-up on the passengers, and there was no reason at all why he and Ruth Bogart should not walk to the resthouse or anywhere on that small island.

“God,” she said, “it’s lonely.”

“Yes,” he said, “it’s lonely all right.” But he was surprised that she should be impressed by it, because nothing was more lonely than the existence of anyone who was in the business, and she must have guessed what he was thinking.

“I mean, this is a different sort of loneliness,” she said. “I’m used to being lonely in the middle of everything, but this is being lonely in the middle of nowhere.”

Except for the field, the personnel at Wake was still asleep. They walked alone up a road, illuminated only by dim electric lights, with ugly shadows of buildings on either side.

“We may as well take a look at the lagoon,” he said. “It’s later than I thought. It’s getting light.” It was true that the outlines of the buildings were growing more distinct. There was no reason why they could not be themselves for a moment.

“That crowd in the plane,” he said—“did you think any of them seemed offbeat?”

“No,” she said. “I had some ideas about the thin Englishman, but I’ll clear him now.”

“He’ll do,” he said. “I think we’re still in the clear.”

“Yes,” she said. “I think so. You’re still not worried about that Jap in San Francisco?”

“No,” he said. “Not seriously, not after Honolulu.”

“You don’t think he was trying to tell us something, do you?”

“I’ve thought of that,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem to hold water. Let’s forget him temporarily.”

“I wish I could forget him and everything else. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered, “lots of times.”

“The hell of it is,” she said, “that after a while you don’t know what’s what. You don’t know what you are, because you can’t be anything.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know what you mean. Maybe chameleons feel that way—not the kind you buy at circuses, but really good chameleons.”

“We might have a nice time together, mightn’t we,” she said, “if we weren’t all mixed up in this?”

“We might,” he said, “but I’m not sure I would know how. I’m too much of a chameleon now. I might turn green and yellow and not know I was doing it.”

“How long have you been in?” she asked.

“Long enough to forget what it’s like outside,” he said. “About ten years.”

“Well,” she said, “you don’t act it altogether. Of course, I’m newer than that.”

“Yes,” he said, “of course. What were you doing outside?”

“College,” she said, “majoring in Romance Languages. I met the Chief at a cocktail party in New York. Let’s skip it, shall we?”

“Yes,” he said, “let’s skip it, but I hope your name isn’t Ruth.”

“Well, it is,” she said, “and it’s too bad you don’t like it, and now let’s both sign off. You’re right. It’s getting lighter.”

“Yes,” he said. “The lagoon’s over there, I think. The Chief gave you a briefing, didn’t he, about Big Ben?”

“Yes, I’ve got the whole story,” she told him.

They walked for a while without speaking, through the moist hot dark. He could see the outlines of a dilapidated portable house, on the right, quite clear against the lightening sky; but ahead there seemed to be nothing, and of course there would be nothing except white coral sand and water. In a few minutes now, there would be a glow of sunrise, and there would be a few magic minutes that always came to atolls, when the colors of sand and sea would be unbelievably beautiful.

“It seems queer to me,” he said, “that they haven’t picked him out by now, if he is a big man, once connected with show business. I never know anyone in show business who doesn’t try to push into the front row, and I never knew one who could keep his mouth shut for long.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” she asked him. “Don’t you like the theater?”

“I used to,” he answered, “but I get nervous when I go now. The actors are all so obviously what they are. That’s what I mean about our boy. He ought to be obvious, too.”

He was glad they had gone for a walk. The sky in the east was growing brighter, and in a few minutes it would be sunrise. He felt almost happy, walking with his partner. In the distance he could hear the explosion of a motor warming up, and the noise of the island generating plant, and then he heard another sound, nearer, but some distance away. She must have heard it too, because she put her hand on his arm, and they both stood still, listening.

“Someone singing,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered, “over by that house, I think.”

“San Francisco,” she said. “You remember, don’t you?”

Of course he remembered. She was referring to the footsteps outside the hotel door in San Francisco, and that snatch of outmoded song, and now in the dark a man was singing another song from The Red Mill. The singer’s voice was excellent. It sounded carefree and happy, and full of the joy of living.

“…In old New York!” The words came carelessly and incongruously through the darkness. “The peach-crop’s always fine!”

They stood motionless on the road, listening. Of course, it was only the time and place, he was thinking, that emphasized the coincidence, but nevertheless it was the sort of thing that could not have happened once in a thousand times. It was the kind of long shot that might possibly have a meaning, and you never could tell exactly how things were balanced. He could tell himself it was only Wake Island, but still there was the coincidence.

“It comes from over by the lagoon,” he told the girl beside him. “Let’s move over that way.” The song was coming from ahead and slightly to the right of them, and it continued as they walked.

They’re sweet and fair and on the square!

The maids of Manhattan for mine!

Then the song was gone, but it had been just ahead of them, and there was light enough to see the lagoon, by now.

“From The Red Mill,” Jack Rhyce said, in a loud and hearty voice. “It sounds like home, doesn’t it? Do you remember the rest of it, Ruth dear?”

“Why, no, Jack,” she said, “of course I don’t. Not that old song. Do you?”

“Why, Ruth dear, you can’t fool me on old songs. It goes like this: You cannot see in gay Paree, in London or in Cork! The queens you’ll meet on any street in old New York.”

He had not sung it badly, and it was not a bad idea—in fact, it was the exact thing he might have done, considering. It seemed very natural when he heard a voice call back.

“Hey, let’s do it again, whoever you are. In old New York! In old New York! …”

The east was growing pink, but it was still not full day, so that shapes did not have the same definition that they would a few minutes later. A man in khaki swimming trunks was walking toward them. His yellow hair was dripping sea-water, and he had a towel over his right shoulder. At first, Jack Rhyce thought that the early light gave an extra illusion of size, but a second later he saw that the man was very large—two inches taller than he, he guessed, and a good twenty pounds heavier. He was beautifully built, too, tall and blond, heavy sandy eyebrows, greenish eyes, and a large mobile mouth.

There was occasionally a time when you could be sure of something, beyond any reasonable doubt. You never could tell when or how the sureness would strike, but such a moment of utter conviction was with him now. He felt his heart beat with a quick, savage triumph that extended to his fingertips. It was one of those moments that made all drudgery worthwhile. He knew that he must be right. He knew that he could not be wrong. It was just as though someone were whispering in his ear, “There he is, there he is.” It could not be anybody else. He knew as sure as fate that he was looking at Big Ben.

Nevertheless, even in that moment of revelation, he contrived to keep his balance because his training had been good. He knew that the one thing that would save the picture was to maintain the mood of the moment, which was one of joy of life and friendliness. Cover was the main thing, his common sense was saying, always cover. He found himself joining in the song without a quaver, just gay, always gay, and he put his arm around Ruth Bogart to emphasize this genial spirit.

The peach-crop’s always fine!

He was singing. “Come on, Ruth …”

They’re sweet and fair and on the square!

The maids of Manhattan for mine!

He paused to catch his breath, and the big man in the khaki swimming trunks raised his hand like an orchestra leader.

“Now we’re hitting it,” he said. “Come on, let’s give it the works. Let’s go. You take the lead, I’ll follow. You know I’d pretty well forgotten those last two lines.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet another Red Miller,” Jack Rhyce answered, “especially on a rock like this. All right, here we go. Come on and join in with us, Ruth.…”

You cannot see in gay Paree, in London or in Cork!

The queens you’ll meet on any street in old New York.

If you had to be a damn fool, it was usually advisable to be one all the way down the line, and it required no intuition to tell him that it was important to be a damn fool now. He knew as sure as fate that he was talking to Big Ben, although he still had to prove it, and his main hope was that Big Ben did not have intuition, too—at least not so early in the morning. In the waxing light the man’s size was more impressive than it had been before. In spite of all Jack Rhyce had learned at the Farm, he was not sure how things would come out if they reached a showdown in the next few seconds—but of course there was not going to be a showdown.

“Say, that was good,” the big man said. And as far as Jack Rhyce could see, his smile was friendly, and his eyes showed no glint of suspicion. “You’re not joining this flying installation here, are you?”

“No,” Jack Rhyce said, and he laughed. “If you’ll excuse my insulting such a lovely piece of real estate—Thank goodness, no. We’re just passengers from the rest-house, only out for a stroll, and heading west in about an hour.”

The big man draped his towel more carefully around his shoulders.

“Oh,” he said, “you mean Flight Five-zero-one.”

“Yes, I think that’s the number,” Jack Rhyce said. “It’s sort of confusing, all this air travel. We were just saying, a few minutes ago, we didn’t really know where we were. We are on Flight Five-oh-one, aren’t we, Ruth?”

“Yes,” Ruth said. “Don’t be so vague, Jack. Of course it’s Five Hundred and One.”

Even the clumsy use of numerals could help with cover. They were just tourists indulging in a happy wayside adventure. The big man shook his head slowly.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “I’d hoped you were on some crew, or something, so we could think up some more old songs. You’ve got to think up something when you lay off on this rock. Let’s see. There’s a world tour group, isn’t there, on this Flight Five-zero-one? There was something about it, seems to me, at Operations.”

His voice was gentle and lazy, with a drawl that might have belonged either to the Tidewater country, or to the Southwest. Jack Rhyce did not attribute it to Texas, as he listened, and he was interested in more than the voice. Big Ben in trying to place them had overstepped, because it was doubtful whether a world tour group would be mentioned in Operations.

“That’s right,” Jack said, “there is a world tour group aboard, but we don’t happen to be in the party. Miss Bogart and I are being employed by the Asia Friendship League, not that I suppose you would hear of it if you’re working on an airline.”

The big man shook his head vaguely in a way that expressed genuine regret.

“Well, it’s too bad you’re not staying on,” he said, “because you both look like nice folks to get to know, and we might have gone swimming and fishing. We airline folk get lonely even though we move around. And now, as it is, we’re just ships that pass in the night.”

“That’s a very nice way of putting it,” Jack Rhyce said, “but it’s a pleasure even to have made such a short acquaintance. I suppose we really ought to be getting back to that resthouse.”

“Maybe so,” the big man said, “but it’s been a treat for me, too. Well, so long folks, and don’t let those Japs give you wooden nickels.”

“Well, so long,” Jack Rhyce said, “and many happy landings.”

They turned and walked back toward the airstrip. For a while he felt that the big man was watching them, but only for a very short time.

“Turn and wave to him,” he said to Ruth Bogart.

“He’s gone,” she said. “He must be living in one of the huts back there.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s that, at least for the moment.”

“Do you think what I think?” she asked.

“I’m glad great minds think alike,” he said. “It’s lovely that we have so much in common.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “Do you think he is the same man that was singing in the hall?”

“Yes,” he said, “I think so.”

“Do you think he knew that we were in that room?”

Jack Rhyce sighed. You couldn’t think of everything.

“That’s a sixty-four-dollar question,” he said, “but I shouldn’t be surprised if we knew the answer someday.”

No matter how you met a given situation, it was impossible to do everything right. There were other things he might have done at Wake Island, but he did his best to follow the maxims of the business, one of which was to disturb nothing unless it was absolutely necessary. Besides, he was only acting on a hunch. He had no way of proving it; yet if his hunch was right, they had him. Even if it had been wise, there was no necessity to ask questions at the moment. The man was obviously an airline employee. Now that he had appeared at Wake Island, he was as safe as a book in the reference library. Only a few discreet inquiries would be necessary to obtain his full life history, and all his life connections. The main question was how the inquiries should be made. As he said to Ruth Bogart, there was only one sixty-four-dollar question. Did their man know who they were? If so it would be best to break out of cover at once and communicate with Washington. Although hindsight was always clearer than foresight, Jack Rhyce could never convince himself that he had not moved properly at Wake. After all, he was under Gibson’s orders, and he was only ten hours to Tokyo, but doubts still plagued him even after the plane had taken off.

“I might go up forward and have a chat with the crew,” he said, “in a purely social way.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Jack,” she told him. “It could get back to Wake that you were asking.”

Of course she was perfectly right, and besides, there had been no sign of recognition at that meeting, no uneasiness or tenseness that he had been able to detect.

“I didn’t notice anything, either,” she said, “except that I didn’t quite believe that drawl.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I’m not sure.”

“Did you notice his hands?” she asked.

It was an unnecessary question because he had not taken his eyes off them for more than a few seconds. There was nothing harder to disguise, or more revealing, than hands.

“The way he kept his fingers half-closed—they frightened me,” she said.

He did not want to tell her that he had been thinking several times what he could possibly do if Big Ben were once to get him by the throat.

“He looks very able,” he said, “very first-class.”

He was not thinking of the hands when he made that estimate, but of the wide forehead, the greenish eyes, the careless-looking good-natured mouth, and the general ease of motion which showed that mind and body moved contentedly together.

“Well,” he said, and he took the sayings of Buddha from his briefcase, “let’s wait until we see Gibson.” All they could very well do was to wait.