worthy of his highly appraised hire.
Piers had been ten years old when he moved to Cornelia’s. That was after his mother died. He didn’t remember her well; he remembered rather Cornelia’s portraits of her. Of what she had been there was for memory only the scent of red roses, laughter, the feel of silk. And the roses had been blighted long ago.
His father had died in the Last War. An airplane crash while he was touring the camps as entertainer. Piers and his father had remained good friends always; separated sometimes for years by Horace Hunt’s moving-picture commitments, separated by a sequence of young and younger stepmothers, their friendship hadn’t faltered. He had wanted to follow his father on the boards. He’d been studying, had even done summer stock and a Broadway walk-on before the war came. After the war it had been too late. It hadn’t been important enough.
Only one thing had been important after that war, to work for peace. Luck had brought him to Samuel Anstruther who needed young men with militant belief in peace to counteract the too many who passively accepted peace as their heritage. For twelve years he had been Secretary Anstruther’s personal representative in Europe and Africa; Gordon had held the all-important Washington post. There were good men at the helm in the other districts but the under-leadership was divided between Gordon and himself. He was the man in the field, the trouble shooter called in before trouble could brew. There had been more trouble in the formative years, in those years before belief in peace, total peace, had been accepted. The past five years had been more or less uneventful. Man, even man in Government, wanted peace. Given assurance that he might have it, he had been eager to cooperate in its furtherance, far more determined than he had been in the past to cooperate in the cyclic necessity for war.
Until these border incidents had begun. The government of South Africa had reported them in March. It was undeniable that they had been fomented; the territory they spotted was too widespread for a mere local squabble. The instigators were held by Europeans to be of Equatorial Africa. That was the expected. What was not expected, what came in nature of a shock, was that Piers’ independent investigating proved that only Germans had reported trouble. It was the sinister echo, out of the not too long ago past, of German voices howling of persecution.
He had waited for Fabian to speak, to report his finding to the commission. And Fabian had not spoken. That Piers could not understand. With charges made against his people, Fabian had blanketed Equatorial Africa in immutable silence. Piers’ request for discussion with Fabian had been swallowed up in that silence. It was then, a fresh incident of purported butchery for stimulus, that Piers had secretly sent word to Secretary Anstruther asking him to confer with him in Africa. If any man could reach Fabian, it was Anstruther. If any man could see through the manipulations against peace, it was Anstruther. It was in the midst of this secret conference that the wire from Fabian had come. And Anstruther had gone to meet death.
With first report of the trouble had descended this enveloping depression. Piers knew history too well not to realize that war had more than once started from just such seemingly unimportant friction. Far more frightening was the presumptive evidence that the incidents were no more than smokescreen for the dread events shaping behind them, that there were deliberate plans for laying waste the world again in a holocaust of destruction.
It must be prevented no matter how many heads fell. He put away his dark thoughts. The heat of his mind must cool, give him respite in order to give him strength. He would go out, join Broadway. He started to the doors but seeing the ungainly bulk of Cassidy slouched against the same pillar, Piers diverted his steps.
He stood before the man. “Come along. We’re
Piers had been ten years old when he moved to Cornelia’s. That was after his mother died. He didn’t remember her well; he remembered rather Cornelia’s portraits of her. Of what she had been there was for memory only the scent of red roses, laughter, the feel of silk. And the roses had been blighted long ago.
His father had died in the Last War. An airplane crash while he was touring the camps as entertainer. Piers and his father had remained good friends always; separated sometimes for years by Horace Hunt’s moving-picture commitments, separated by a sequence of young and younger stepmothers, their friendship hadn’t faltered. He had wanted to follow his father on the boards. He’d been studying, had even done summer stock and a Broadway walk-on before the war came. After the war it had been too late. It hadn’t been important enough.
Only one thing had been important after that war, to work for peace. Luck had brought him to Samuel Anstruther who needed young men with militant belief in peace to counteract the too many who passively accepted peace as their heritage. For twelve years he had been Secretary Anstruther’s personal representative in Europe and Africa; Gordon had held the all-important Washington post. There were good men at the helm in the other districts but the under-leadership was divided between Gordon and himself. He was the man in the field, the trouble shooter called in before trouble could brew. There had been more trouble in the formative years, in those years before belief in peace, total peace, had been accepted. The past five years had been more or less uneventful. Man, even man in Government, wanted peace. Given assurance that he might have it, he had been eager to cooperate in its furtherance, far more determined than he had been in the past to cooperate in the cyclic necessity for war.
Until these border incidents had begun. The government of South Africa had reported them in March. It was undeniable that they had been fomented; the territory they spotted was too widespread for a mere local squabble. The instigators were held by Europeans to be of Equatorial Africa. That was the expected. What was not expected, what came in nature of a shock, was that Piers’ independent investigating proved that only Germans had reported trouble. It was the sinister echo, out of the not too long ago past, of German voices howling of persecution.
He had waited for Fabian to speak, to report his finding to the commission. And Fabian had not spoken. That Piers could not understand. With charges made against his people, Fabian had blanketed Equatorial Africa in immutable silence. Piers’ request for discussion with Fabian had been swallowed up in that silence. It was then, a fresh incident of purported butchery for stimulus, that Piers had secretly sent word to Secretary Anstruther asking him to confer with him in Africa. If any man could reach Fabian, it was Anstruther. If any man could see through the manipulations against peace, it was Anstruther. It was in the midst of this secret conference that the wire from Fabian had come. And Anstruther had gone to meet death.
With first report of the trouble had descended this enveloping depression. Piers knew history too well not to realize that war had more than once started from just such seemingly unimportant friction. Far more frightening was the presumptive evidence that the incidents were no more than smokescreen for the dread events shaping behind them, that there were deliberate plans for laying waste the world again in a holocaust of destruction.
It must be prevented no matter how many heads fell. He put away his dark thoughts. The heat of his mind must cool, give him respite in order to give him strength. He would go out, join Broadway. He started to the doors but seeing the ungainly bulk of Cassidy slouched against the same pillar, Piers diverted his steps.
He stood before the man. “Come along. We’re
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