Sustenance (25 page)

“I’ll give you a second set for your own use, before you leave tonight, so you have something to send home.”

She shook herself mentally. “That’s kind of you, Grof,” she made herself say, an odd note in her voice, not knowing what she wanted to tell him, or how, and hoping he was unaware of her tangle of emotions. Had they been alone, she wondered what would have become of her. Tomorrow, she reminded herself, there would be printers and binders working, providing her a kind of shelter from her inexplicable desire.

“Shall we say thirteen hundred hours—one
P.M
.,” he suggested.

“Yes, that should be fine,” she told him with a nod, and hurried into the meeting room.

Washington Young had lingered in the doorway to the press-room, which had been the exercise arena for the coach horses kept here a generation ago. “Those skylights must help,” he said, pointing at the ceiling, where large windows, strengthened with wire, provided wonderful illumination for most of the day, and now showed the glory of sunset.

“They do,” said Szent-Germain. “And the light-tables, as well. I have a cleaner in once a week, to get ink off everything, or the light-tables would be useless.” He nodded in the general direction of the drafting-tables with glass tops and shielded light-bulbs behind the glass. They had been expensive, but had proved their use as soon as they were installed.

“How many copies of books do you turn out from here?” Young asked. “Not to pry.”

“You’re not prying. At present, not as many as I would like. The usual print-run is three or four thousand; I’d like to double that in the next eighteen months, when the other press arrives and the bindery has been added. We’re still having to build up our production and hire out the binding. Why do you ask? Are you interested in a job?”

Young blinked in surprise. “I might be. The work I do right now isn’t very challenging, or very regular.”

“Then have a look at what Eclipse Press does, and decide if it could be your cup of tea.” He went to the shelves in the short corridor between the meeting room and the press-room, and took down a pair of books from one of the upper shelves. “This is what we’re shipping this week.” He held them out to Young, who paused before he took them. “Two more will go out at the middle of April.”

Young touched the covers with knowing fingers, smiling as he did, then he opened the larger book and studied the frontispiece. “Thanks, Grof,” he said at last.

“My pleasure.” He indicated that Young should go ahead of him.

Russell McCall glanced back toward the press-room. “Pretty impressive. But why do you need a second press?”

“I had two before the war, but something happened to one of them,” Szent-Germain answered. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know who took it or why. It may have been for the metal itself rather than for what it could do.”

“But you doubt it,” McCall said, watching Szent-Germain closely.

“I don’t know. I have no reliable information from which to form an opinion.” His enigmatic gaze revealed nothing. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Not really.” McCall gave a quick, cynical grin. “I didn’t mean to prod,” he said. “It’s force of habit.”

“Indeed,” said Szent-Germain as the sound of the door-bell sounded. He shrugged, wondering who it was. “Excuse me.”

“It’s the Kings,” said Pomeroy from just inside the meeting room. “They made it. I was worried that something had happened to keep them away.”

Szent-Germain went to answer the door, taking care to be sure Pomeroy was right. There was a short pause as he disengaged the lock and swung the door open.

Boris and Wilhelmina King stood on the threshold, both looking a bit bedraggled. “Sorry,” said Boris. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“We’re just sitting down for the meeting,” Szent-Germain said. “Go left at the short corridor. I’m going to close up the press-room.” He waited while the Kings came inside; as they went directly to the meeting room, Szent-Germain secured the lock once more. Then he went to turn out the lights in the press-room and to bolt the door closed.

The Coven had gathered in the meeting room, and the last four of them in the room were getting their coffee and tea while the rest settled into their selected chairs. The room was painted a pale, pale blue and there were six sconces on the wall, each shedding bright light. A pair of electric heaters made the place quite comfortable.

Winston Pomeroy held out his large cup to Rogers and asked for a refill. “I always like to have something to drink when I talk,” he explained.

“A very good idea,” said Rogers, taking the cup and filling it for him, then handing it back. “Let me know if you need more.”

“I’ll do that, don’t worry,” said Pomeroy, then addressed the Coven. “Okay, everyone. Sit down.” Those who had not chosen a seat carried their coffee and tea with them as they made their selection from the chairs that remained unoccupied. When Szent-Germain came in, only McCall had not yet sat down. The level of conversational chatting died away and the group turned toward Pomeroy, who cleared his throat and looked at the group. “I suppose we should let Miranda tell us how her job-hunt went.”

There was a little murmur of commiseration; everyone knew that if Miranda had found work, she would not have returned to Paris and the Coven. The group prepared to hear bad news and to find out what gossip she had heard.

Miranda Nevers, who had taken one of the overstuffed Victorian lounge chairs, sat up straight, put her coffee on the side-table, and began, “I’d had some dealings with the university in Grenoble, so I started out there. Nothing worthwhile happened. My department has been putting out some damaging remarks about me, in part to justify firing me. If I were back home and in a good position legally, I’d consider suing my dean and the administration for what they’ve done, but under the circumstances, it would be futile, and if I weren’t in this position, the matter would be moot.” She gave a little, angry shake of her head. “But I tried other places. Padova took my inquiry seriously, but had no openings and no specific policy for taking me on as an adjunct; my Italian isn’t good enough to lecture in the language, so…” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I met Sam Dawson in Milano. A couple of you know him, I think. He’s been doing lectures on physics—his French is good enough for that, but he doesn’t do much Spanish and no Portuguese. He’s working on his Italian, and he’s planning to try the Swiss next; he has good German, which right now is almost as bad as knowing Russian.” She went on for nearly twenty minutes, and was peppered with questions when she finished.

The Kings had a two-day-old copy of
The Washington Post
, and read three articles aloud, articles describing the work of the House Un-American Activities Committee, the FBI, and the fledgling CIA, not in glowing terms but respectfully, which led to another round of discussions within the Coven. When that was over, Axel Bjornson talked about some of the news he had had from a former colleague who wanted to inquire about a conference that was scheduled for the University of Uppsala in Sweden, seeking recommendations about attending, and asking was he—meaning Axel—planning to go; he said he doubted they would want a city-planning professor discussing the ethics of science with them, but he believed that others of the Coven might want to attend. This meant a lively debate on making an appearance at such events, and trying to determine if that would help or harm their current predicaments. Bethune discoursed on the legalities and the possibility of attracting the attention of the CIA, which was bound to have agents at the conference.

The meeting ended a little before twenty-three hundred hours; the Coven left quickly, many of them sharing rides with those who were bound for the Metro. As Charis pulled on her coat, Szent-Germain handed her a set of galleys.

“Oh. Thank you, Grof,” she said, working the galleys into her briefcase. “I’m amazed that you got it to galleys so quickly.”

“Well, as I said, we haven’t our usual load to attend to, and you have been available to advise us, and there was only one project ahead of yours. I’d like your corrections back by April first, or before if you can manage it. I know your current book is demanding a great deal of your time.” He held the door open for her, taking care not to come too close to her, but he could not keep from asking, “Have you changed your mind about the ride?”

“The Kings will drop me off; I don’t want to keep them waiting,” she said, almost out the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At one.”

McCall was the last Coven member to leave, saying to Szent-Germain as he went out, “It’s a nice set-up here, I’ll give you that. You have other presses, you say?”

“I do. The largest is in Venezia.” He knew this was easily discovered, so that mentioning it would not give away anything crucial.

“Venice? There’s quite a history of publishing there, I think.”

“I would agree,” said Szent-Germain, making no mention of how long he had had a press in that city; he watched McCall start his motorcycle, closing the door as McCall roared away into the night. As Szent-Germain went to help Rogers clear the meeting room, Szent-Germain said, “McCall isn’t going to give up until he has answers to his questions.” He spoke in Imperial Latin now, as he often did when he and Rogers were alone.

“Is that because he is a reporter, or because he is trying to find out about you for other reasons?” Rogers asked, in the same language, gathering up cups and mugs and stacking them in a large wash-basin. He poured soap-flakes on them and ran hot water on them.

“It could be either, or he might be a mole: we would be fools to think it is impossible for the Coven to be infiltrated. I know they have detected others and thrown them out, but does that mean that all the members have no connection to any intelligence group? I doubt it. There’s so much at stake, they must have had offers.”

“Do you think it’s going to cause problems?” Rogers asked, bearing his load of cups and mugs into the wash-room behind the meeting room.

“I’d guess that it already has. Remember that fellow in Venezia? The one who tried to persuade me not to publish Black Listed Americans? He didn’t say how he came to know I was going to do this, since it wasn’t yet formally announced, but he had gained the information somehow, and where better than from someone in the Coven? You didn’t tell anyone, and I didn’t tell anyone about the Coven members, but somebody had to.”

“Do you mean William C. Lambeth?” Rogers asked as he filled a second basin with rinse-water, and set it in crowded proximity to the large wash-basin.

“That’s the man,” Szent-Germain said. “Friendly in his way, open-faced, engaging, yet with that underlying righteousness so many Americans possess. It’s the Puritan in them; it makes them think in absolutes.”

“Does that include the Coven?” Rogers inquired.

Szent-Germain picked up the coffee-brewer—an old-fashioned machine made along the lines of an Italian steamed-coffee-maker—and bore it into the wash-room. “I’ll bring the samovar next.”

“There are a few pastries left. What would you like me to do with them?”

“Cover them and put them in the bread-box. No doubt a few of the printers won’t mind having slightly stale pastries in the morning. They’re usually hungry, and pastries are better than bread.” He looked at the tray with its few remaining pastries. “If we throw them out, we’ll attract rodents.” He went back to the meeting room for the samovar.

“You spoke with Young?” Rogers asked, continuing with the washing.

“I did. I think he may well decide to work here, at least for a while.” He carried the samovar into the wash-room, setting it down on the table next to the sink.

“Is that what you wanted?” Rogers asked, knowing that Szent-Germain was capable of making an offer to see what the response would be.

“I believe so; des Ponts is getting tired of being master press-man; he wasn’t trained for it, and it’s against his nature. I don’t see that Renaud is going to be ready to take over for des Ponts, not with his asthma,” said Szent-Germain, and began to wipe the cups and mugs Rogers had placed on the drainboard, returning them to their place in the narrow cupboard next to the old-fashioned cooler. As soon as the tables in the meeting room had been wiped clean, and the basins stored beneath the sink, Rogers washed the zinc sink, and declared himself ready to leave. The two of them donned their coats, Szent-Germain retrieved his briefcase, turned out the lights, secured the doors and windows, and locked the front door as they left, stepping into the frosty night.

The Delahaye was the last remaining automobile in the alley; Szent-Germain unlocked it, climbed in, and opened the passenger door for Rogers. “Have you seen anything out of place?”

“There’s a ragged man asleep on a bench just inside the park. Probably one of those shell-shocked soldiers, poor man,” said Rogers. “I can see him in the light-spill from the streetlights.”

“But you have doubts? that you have seen him before?” Szent-Germain ventured as he started the engine.

“I do.”

“What are they?” He turned on the headlights and put the car in reverse, then backed out of the alley.

“They’re nothing specific, except that I have seen just such a ragged man before, outside your present flat. It may be that the men look alike because they are afflicted in the same manner, but perhaps not.”

“Keep alert to another such man,” Szent-Germain said as he shifted into second gear and headed in the general direction of the Sorbonne, keeping with the speed of the light flow of traffic.

“You will meet Professor Treat tomorrow?”

“At one, yes,” said Szent-Germain.

“About her book?” Rogers sounded curious; he did not want to reveal his concern.

“I don’t know,” Szent-Germain said. “I’ll have to wait until she tells me.”

They went on in silence until they were almost at the flat. Then Rogers said, “I’ll shave you tonight, unless you plan to go out again?”

“Thank you. I would appreciate it,” Szent-Germain told him as he stopped to open the garage door—a sheet of corrugated metal on a simple counterweight system.

“I hope it goes well,” said Rogers as Szent-Germain drove into the garage and turned off the ignition.