flower beds and were strolling leisurely on a path that took them a little distance from the terrace, his voice dropped. “Don’t show surprise or shock at anything I say. You will argue with me, and I shall appear to be explaining away your doubts. Yes, you should interrupt me naturally, but no comments on what I am telling you. No astonishment, please.” For she had turned her head to look at him with her eyes wide and her lips parted. “When we reach that patch of grass ahead of us, we’ll stop for a little. My back will be to the terrace, so you will face it. Eyes will be watching us. And there is one highly skilled lip reader among them. That is why you must stay absolutely normal. What you say will be known.” He fell silent, stopped to look at a rosebush.
She stopped, too, but kept her face averted from the terrace. “My turn to talk?” I’m on the verge of a story, she told herself, excitement once more stirring. I feel it, I sense it, I can smell it. All that playacting of his in the lobby, all that little pantomime on the terrace of attempting to pacify a complaining guest—yes, he is a man in trouble, bigger than any of those I thought I had.
“Briefly. We haven’t much time—ten minutes at most.”
“Then I’ll go on asking about my notes.” Her face turned to admire the yellow rosebush they had passed. She halted briefly. “Why the delay? My material didn’t need to be censored. It’s absolutely harmless,” she ended with considerable indignation.
He looked back, too, at the cluster of flowers, long enough to let any watcher see his lips. “Harmless? We must be the judge of that. And I assure you, we only hope to make everything easier for our guests when they pass through the airport. Let me explain.” They resumed their leisurely stroll, their faces now unseen from the terrace. “Good,” he said. “You’re very good, Miss Cornell. Now let’s get to that stretch of grass.”
“Why not the sundial in the centre of the rose bed? When I seem pacified, you could appear to be explaining its design to me.”
He smiled; not just a gleam in his eyes, this time, but a smile that freed the pale expressionless face from its controlled mask. “A pretty picture. But the dial is bugged. So are these garden benches.”
“What?”
“No astonishment, Miss Cornell!”
Is this more playacting, but now for my benefit? The sudden suspicion grew; kept her silent.
He seemed to read her thoughts. “I am being serious, Miss Cornell. Believe me. This may be the most serious decision I shall ever make. My life is in your hands.” They had reached the stretch of grass, their slow pace dwindling to a halt. They stood there, quite naturally it seemed, Karen facing him, his back to the terrace.
She recovered herself. My hands? “Thank you for explaining. But I still have some doubts. Yesterday, for instance”—Yesterday, what? “The agriculture people didn’t really answer my question about acid rain. I’ve heard much of your forest land is being killed by it. Is this true?”
The mask had been dropped; there was a tightening of worry, almost of desperation, on his lips. His eyes searched her. He drew a deep breath. “I am planning to defect. Will you help me?”
“I thought it was the other way around,” she said, then bit her lip. Nearly a mistake, she told herself, and managed to laugh. “Tell me more about this acid rain problem. It’s widespread. We have it also.”
“Will you help?” His eyes, light grey, intense, were pleading. “I am putting you in danger, I know. But you will be helping your country, too.”
She stared at him. Then she nodded.
His hand had slipped quietly into the inside pocket of his double-breasted jacket, pulled out the top of a manila envelope. He held it for a moment, just long enough for her to see Tuesday: Village Visits. Her handwriting, partly smudged by the coffee she had upset over the envelope; a proper mess that had left the envelope stained
She stopped, too, but kept her face averted from the terrace. “My turn to talk?” I’m on the verge of a story, she told herself, excitement once more stirring. I feel it, I sense it, I can smell it. All that playacting of his in the lobby, all that little pantomime on the terrace of attempting to pacify a complaining guest—yes, he is a man in trouble, bigger than any of those I thought I had.
“Briefly. We haven’t much time—ten minutes at most.”
“Then I’ll go on asking about my notes.” Her face turned to admire the yellow rosebush they had passed. She halted briefly. “Why the delay? My material didn’t need to be censored. It’s absolutely harmless,” she ended with considerable indignation.
He looked back, too, at the cluster of flowers, long enough to let any watcher see his lips. “Harmless? We must be the judge of that. And I assure you, we only hope to make everything easier for our guests when they pass through the airport. Let me explain.” They resumed their leisurely stroll, their faces now unseen from the terrace. “Good,” he said. “You’re very good, Miss Cornell. Now let’s get to that stretch of grass.”
“Why not the sundial in the centre of the rose bed? When I seem pacified, you could appear to be explaining its design to me.”
He smiled; not just a gleam in his eyes, this time, but a smile that freed the pale expressionless face from its controlled mask. “A pretty picture. But the dial is bugged. So are these garden benches.”
“What?”
“No astonishment, Miss Cornell!”
Is this more playacting, but now for my benefit? The sudden suspicion grew; kept her silent.
He seemed to read her thoughts. “I am being serious, Miss Cornell. Believe me. This may be the most serious decision I shall ever make. My life is in your hands.” They had reached the stretch of grass, their slow pace dwindling to a halt. They stood there, quite naturally it seemed, Karen facing him, his back to the terrace.
She recovered herself. My hands? “Thank you for explaining. But I still have some doubts. Yesterday, for instance”—Yesterday, what? “The agriculture people didn’t really answer my question about acid rain. I’ve heard much of your forest land is being killed by it. Is this true?”
The mask had been dropped; there was a tightening of worry, almost of desperation, on his lips. His eyes searched her. He drew a deep breath. “I am planning to defect. Will you help me?”
“I thought it was the other way around,” she said, then bit her lip. Nearly a mistake, she told herself, and managed to laugh. “Tell me more about this acid rain problem. It’s widespread. We have it also.”
“Will you help?” His eyes, light grey, intense, were pleading. “I am putting you in danger, I know. But you will be helping your country, too.”
She stared at him. Then she nodded.
His hand had slipped quietly into the inside pocket of his double-breasted jacket, pulled out the top of a manila envelope. He held it for a moment, just long enough for her to see Tuesday: Village Visits. Her handwriting, partly smudged by the coffee she had upset over the envelope; a proper mess that had left the envelope stained
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