Chapter III: Part 3

“It’s ridiculous!” said Deane, her dark eyes brilliant with anger. “Is Roberts out of his mind?”

Drew did not answer, but settling back in his chair, took from his pocket a gold cigarette case inlaid with an exquisite Mosaic design in various metals, opened it, and without offering its contents to the others, selected a rather bulky cigarette which he lit at once, before returning the case to his pocket. A singularly aromatic odor was first noticed by Martin. He looked at Drew in surprise. Then a wisp of smoke floated toward Deane who wrinkled her nose.

“One of your disgusting cigarettes,” she said. “I don’t see why you smoke them.”

“It’s a beautiful herb,” replied Drew contentedly. “Martin understands it.”

“Of course,” said Martin.

“Will you smoke?” Drew inquired of him, reaching for the case once more.

Martin smiled slowly and shook his head.

“But I can see it in your eyes,” persisted Drew.

Deane looked at Martin excitedly, then turned to the other.

“Please, Drew, don’t ever offer Martin hashish.”

“Ah!” said Drew, slightly amused. “So you know!” Then, taking a long, deep draw on the cigarette, he let the smoke escape in little puffs from his mouth and nose. His attitude became more languorous. The timbre of his voice changed and he sighed. “A quiet night,” he said. “My lovely friends.... You _are_ lovely, aren’t you?” he continued, speaking carefully.

“Yes,” answered Martin, studied and frowning. “Lovely.”

Deane reached over impulsively and laid her hand on Drew’s.

“Won’t you put it out, darling?” she pleaded. “I hate to insist, but it gives me a feeling of——”

“Of apprehension,” supplied Drew, rising slowly and slowly crossing the room to the open window. He tossed out the half-smoked cigarette, then returned, partly on his tiptoes.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke like this,” said Deane quite urgently. “It gives you bad dreams. You hate yourself, too.”

Drew raised his hand with a listless movement.

“Later—perhaps. But now everything is very sweet.” He smiled dreamily. “This clarity, after my extreme confusion, forgives an old sin. An image!—memories unfolding that bring a figure more alive than you.... A splendid figure.... Burning with clandestine color.... Unfaithful!... He tried, though, more than I....” Drew leaned back again, resting his head against the chair. His lips were partly open and there was a flush of pleasure upon the high oval of his cheek.

Deane arose without a word and went into the kitchen. Martin imagined that she was making coffee. As the aroma came into the living room, Drew opened his eyes, looked at Martin and shivered.

“A good awakening,” he said, smiling nervously.

“Yes,” said Martin. “The cigarettes are mild.”

“Too mild,” said Drew. “I should have eaten the salve, but I was afraid. I was nervous from spending last night with Roberts. It was terrible to see him act the way he did. He cried out once. It was like a bellow.” Feeling slightly dizzy, Drew stopped talking for a moment and wiped his forehead.

Martin waited quietly.

“This evening,” Drew continued, “I went to my bedroom and took the jar from my cabinet, holding it as though it contained radium. I was uncertain, as I always am on approaching this Nirvana; but to-night I was afraid. As I removed the lid, exposing the ointment, its ungodly musk affected my breathing. There was something sinister in its appearance. I peered deeply into it, and the jelly seemed to glow and change from a dark green to a paler color. It trembled and faded to a lighter shade, and stayed that way. Then the odor poured afresh into my nostrils. I felt staggered and closed the lid.” Drew shivered again, then relaxed in his chair, while Martin watched him.

Deane brought in three steaming cups of coffee. Martin drank his hurriedly, taking the hot liquid in large swallows. Drew sipped his, while Deane’s remained untouched.

Seized with excitement after this fresh stimulant, Drew arose suddenly, put down his cup, turned to Deane and said, “I must go. And I know you will understand, Deane, if I ask Martin to leave with me.” With feverish haste he put on his coat and Martin, with an expressive look at Deane, followed him from the apartment.

As Deane fastened the door after them she leaned upon it for a moment, her forehead resting against the panel, her small hands tightly closed.

* * * * *

Drew and Martin walked swiftly up the street, for the cold night breeze whipped in from the Atlantic. Martin turned down the brim of his hat and put his hands into the pockets of his topcoat. Drew looked around at him.

“Would you like to be at sea to-night?” he asked.

“I was just thinking about it,” answered Martin. “There isn’t a bad night on land but that I think of the men on ships.”

The air seemed to exhilarate Drew and he spoke again, enthusiastically.

“Will you answer a rather intimate question, Martin?”

“If I can.”

“Well, don’t be angry. But are all the stories that seamen tell—I mean the tall tales—just fancy, or are they mostly true?”

“That’s a trade secret,” said Martin thoughtfully, noticing that Drew’s classical manner had become more feminine since they had left Deane’s. Then, as though suddenly changing his mind, he added, “Yes, Drew. Most of them are true. You don’t have to exaggerate or romance about the sea. It gives you a bellyful whether you want it or not. Of course, all the adventures that sailors tell about probably didn’t happen to them. But they happened some place and to someone. I have a good collection of tales I’ve swapped, and I couldn’t tell you right now the true ones from the borrowed.”

Drew took Martin by the sleeve and they came to a halt. There was a curious, understanding expression in Drew’s eyes.

“I like you very much,” he said. “Please don’t misunderstand me, Martin, but I think a great deal of you. I’d like to know you better—to have your friendship.”

“You have my friendship, Drew.” Martin held out his hand and was surprised at the other’s firm, steady clasp.

Drew nodded his head in the direction of a subdued, blue glow on the opposite corner.

“There’s a cocktail lounge,” he said, “where once in a while I go when I’m tired of routine. I’ve never taken anyone there before, but I’d like you to come with me this evening. It’s very quiet—a place where one can rest or think as he desires. Will you?”

“I’d be glad to,” Martin answered simply, still wondering at Drew’s eagerness.

A waiter hurried to them as they entered.

“Mr. Noland,” he said, bending his head slightly before Drew. Then, glancing at Martin with mild, respectful curiosity, he led the two men to a small booth in a remote corner of the lounge where he received their order and left quietly.

Martin was attracted by the room—its lighting, the suggestion of avidity. Directly across from them, and near the wall, a fountain sent up a soft golden spray from its center, around which individual columns of multi-colored water rose and fell. A mural, hung just behind the fountain, caught its indiscreet fires. There, the lights blended into a seeming gradation of silver fungus until only the sharp blue antlers of a stag, at the top of the painting, stood out thirstily over the water.

Martin looked away from the fountain. Drew was watching him with a reflective expression, with such a gentleness foreign to men’s eyes that Martin was immediately intent. For there, in Drew, he saw the central, fine equation between his friend and savage, weeping Lesbos. The two united, defying by extreme cunning and deceitful fingers a dogmatic scythe of science which uses the symbol X for one impossible of definition. And what he saw beneath, caused Martin to tremble and lean back in his seat, with his heart beating faster as though the secret had been upon his lips or in his mind. However, that fever which comes upon a man as he sights dimly before him the object of his life’s search—the feeling that it might kill if the secret was discovered, left him suddenly. Vaguely he knew that he had touched the edge of it, and that was all. In one way he was glad that the revelation had not come to blind him. He was not ready. Nor could he, by any trick he knew, even follow. There were years before him, other trails to entice him, so he argued. And as he opened his eyes, rather painfully, Drew, concerned and full of question, brought him round again to sanity, and not a mind deliberately drugged by the spin and shuttle of the fountain’s aimless _carrousel_.

The waiter came at this moment and set the glasses upon the table. Even the man’s crisp, white hair seemed a part of the scheme of the lounge, Martin thought. Fancies, ridiculous and uncalled-for, occurred to him in succession until he wished that he could stay quiet forever with Drew, whom he trusted most of all in this irrepressible hysteria. However, the waiter withdrew quickly enough, resting his hazel eyes only for a moment upon Martin, who spoke to Drew with a restrained irritation.

“Was this intended?” he asked. “It seems, Drew, to be something planned.” He waved his hand impulsively. “All this,” he continued, “is native to you and unfamiliar to me. It has—it has a quality—” Martin stopped talking.

Drew picked up his drink.

“I suppose it does have what you say, or suggest,” he answered. “I’ve felt it many times. But it was not defined to me before to-night. I came here to rest, because it was restful; but I shall never come here again, because you have given it a suggestion of intimate life which is offensive. It wasn’t planned at all, Martin, and I was never native until you said so.” Drew leaned forward frowning, puzzled. “What kind are you?” he asked. “You, Martin, could vulgarize the very Church.” He sipped his drink, although Martin left his own glass untouched. “Prosaic as it may be,” Drew went on, “it is not myself with whom I’m concerned. It isn’t myself, or Roberts, or even you that I am most deeply worried about. It’s Deane.” He lifted a finger, decisive, commanding. “In her you have found sweetness, tenderness and passion—a physical, well trained animal. Don’t speak!” He held his finger warningly again as Martin’s brooding shoulders straightened. “You’ve talked uncannily enough, Martin, to make even me wonder. I love your thoughts—the upside down philosophy that makes me laugh when I believed I could never laugh again. But Martin, you surely won’t abuse this powerful—yes, this beautiful gift with Deane. Don’t misunderstand me, I beg of you once more. It isn’t evil, Martin, to use a weapon at your command. It isn’t really that you’re a devilish anti-Christ, as I first thought.” Drew lowered his voice, speaking almost frantically. “It may be that you are even Christ himself. You have your Cross and finally you’ll rest there. For you are no more invulnerable than the Man on Calvary, who under pressure—under striated clouds asked for an end of it. Is there anyone _you_ can ask in that intolerable moment?” Drew wiped his forehead, drank deeply and spoke again, although he avoided Martin’s flaming eyes. “I repeat,” he persisted, “‘that intolerable moment!’ And it matters very little whether you consider me a fanatical, abusive priest, or—” and now the spray from the fountain seemed to lean toward Drew. Heavy lines of moisture which he failed to notice, covered his forehead. “Martin,” he said, “I know Deane. I love her ‘in my fashion.’ I—I too, was taken from a medium of ordinary happiness into this rarefied, spiritualistic land you understand so well.” Unable to speak further, Drew brushed his handkerchief across his eyes and placed his hands upon the table. To his astonishment—almost to his grief, he saw them tightly gripped by Martin, who seemed to hover over him, transfigured....

They got up and put on their coats. With surprise, they noticed that the shutters of the lounge were drawn and that the bar was untended. Alone in a corner, the white-haired waiter sat dozing. Drew pressed a bill into the hand of the sleepy attendant and opened the door himself. Out in the street the wind was blowing harder than ever and a pale green light clung like a heavy paste to the eastern horizon.

_CHAPTER VIII_

Martin left the typographical plant. He thought he was a funny one. Being fired made him feel a little childish. It might be hurt or anger, or it might be something more esoteric. He didn’t know. But his face was colorless and his eyes gleamed unnaturally.

“I guess it isn’t anything to sigh and fret about, ‘dear boy,’” he said. “It was Roberts, of course; and I can’t buck him. This city’s even more of a machine than I had thought.” He walked until he was thirsty, went into a restaurant and had two cups of coffee. Then he walked some more. He stopped in at another restaurant and tried to eat. He couldn’t. So he had a third cup of coffee and decided to call up Roberts. The conversation was pertinent.

“It’s Martin Devaud. Is Mr. Roberts there?”

“Hello, Martin. It’s myself.”

“I’m fired. May I see you this evening?”

“Come at six.”

“Right.” And they hung up.

Martin continued to walk. His throat was dry and he yawned frequently. As evening approached he grew more and more nervous. Several times he lost his bearings and with some difficulty he found Roberts’ street. In the elevator, which was warm and a little close, he tried to keep himself from shivering.

Roberts was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, starched, but open at the collar. He greeted Martin extravagantly, then seeing his pallor, so unnatural, he brought out whisky and soda.

Martin held up his hand.

“No soda,” he said.

Roberts’ eloquent features absorbed at once the harshness of Martin’s despair. He understood. Nevertheless, propriety made him ask, “Straight? That’s dangerous.”

“Straight, please. And it’s not half so dangerous just now for me as being sober.”

Roberts shrugged his shoulders.

“You may take the bottle, if you care to, and lie down with it,” he answered petulantly.

Martin looked him straight in the eyes.

“A drink will suffice,” he said.

Roberts flamed and quieted and the color came again.

Martin smiled a little maliciously as he watched him.

“What a story, or picture!—if you wept in all that brilliance!” he said calmly.

Roberts poured his own glass to the brim with whisky and drank it before he answered. His eyes were hot—completely without modulation.

“Drink yours!” he commanded, pouring another.

Martin took the glass to the window and threw it, whisky and all, into the street.

“May it kill!” he said, whiter-faced than ever.

“You talked to me once of melodrama,” said Roberts acidly. “I’ve never seen it so rampant, so unorthodox, so uncontrolled. I’ve had enough! Tell me—tell me—or by God!——”

“I want to know if you had me fired,” said Martin, simply.

Roberts became placid at once. He waved his slender hands and, half-closing his eyes, smiled patronizingly.

“Surely you do not—” he began, when Martin cut him off.

“Surely, hell. I wondered. I thought it was probable.”

Roberts still watched him from under his lids.

“I don’t understand.”

“I said I’m fired.”

“Well?”

“I want to know why.”

Roberts folded his hands. It was almost a gesture of dismissal.

“I talked with your employer, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “The conversation, I must say, was disappointing. He told me frankly that your work of late had been lax.” Roberts cleared his throat. “I’ve been somewhat afraid of that. You can’t burn the candle at both ends, Martin. The social and the economic won’t mix.”

“Roberts—save your platitudes for a darker night!” Martin was glaring at him. “So that was really it! You intimated as much at one time.”

Roberts went over to him, touching the back of Martin’s hand with indescribable tenderness.

“Are you tired enough now, my friend, to have a drink with the one man in the world who sees you in your entirety?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ll drink,” said Martin wearily, leaning back in a chair and closing his eyes. He took the glass from Roberts, holding it loosely, and drank from it without thinking.

Roberts now put his hand on Martin’s head.

“I have given my time to place you,” he said gently. “You would not rebuke me for that.”

Martin felt the lassitude of the whisky, of the words; yet some fundamental stroke of his own blood kept him from acceptance. He seemed to hear a bold, ancestral cry, and sat straighter.

“You’re modern, Roberts. You have a modern sword.”

“I’ve never hurt you, Martin. I’ve tried to help.”

“Of course. But your body is too demanding.”

“Meaning?——”

“I won’t fence. I’ve seen an ugly mind—an inexpensive one.”

“Devaud,” said Roberts, in a sharp, clear voice, “you don’t belong among civilized people. One can’t talk to you decently without your making an unpleasant issue. You’re a confounded savage and worse, because you have the instruments of this superficial world, too. And all of your cruelty—yes, you’re cruel!—and I suppose all of your vices are tucked under your fine exterior. No wonder Deane is intrigued! But if she could see you just as I see you now, with that brutish look in your eyes, then——”

Martin interrupted him.

“Don’t mention her name,” he said, in a low, moody voice.

Roberts moved away from him quickly.

“Martin—did you make this appointment to build, or to destroy?”

“Neither. I just wanted you to know that my understanding belongs to you.”

“Then it’s the only thing that belongs to me.” Roberts spoke bitterly. “Martin! For the last time I ask you to forget a cycle that has brought you only unhappiness.”

Martin got out of his chair.

“You should never try to be clever with me, Roberts. I respect the frank demands of the body. Petty intrigues disgust me. Your intricate desires have overruled your intelligence. As an invert I respected you. As a subverter I find you intolerable.”

Roberts walked toward him, motioning, his head shaking. His shining black hair fell across his face which had turned from red to a lurid purple. The white part of his eyes took on the same color. His appearance was that of some monster in a fable.

“I’ll—” he said, “I’ll not—I’ll not—” his head bobbed up and down. “I will never let you——”

“You’re prodding yourself sick,” said Martin in disgust. “You’re jarring the very devil out of yourself,” he flung at him and left the room, his shoulders swaying.

Martin went to a liquor store and bought a gallon of wine. In his room, he sat down on the edge of the bed, kicked off his shoes and began to drink. Half-drunken, he lay back and soon fell asleep.

He awoke in the late morning. He knew his position. The contact had been broken. Sick from the evening’s drinking he got out of bed and looked at his face in the mirror. His cheeks were pale and there was an unhealthy expression in his eyes. He felt his heart. Its methodical, heavy beat disturbed him. He poured a glass of wine and drank it swiftly. The nerves deadened. His apprehension died and he stood again before the mirror, regarding himself calmly. He shaved and dressed, took another glass of wine and went out, going directly to the typographical plant.

His former employer was writing. Martin looked at him vaguely, hesitating before his desk.

“What is it, young man?” asked Jackson, glancing up with impatience.

“No one told me why I was fired,” said Martin indistinctly. “Will there be anything later?”

His condition seemed a little pitiable to Jackson, although, the employer told himself, such individualities really belonged outside the mathematical régime of commerce. One had to dispose of them accordingly.

“There will be nothing later,” he stated firmly. “You were inefficient. I can see no reason for returning you to this Company.”

“I want to work,” said Martin. “That’s the reason.” His fingers rubbed the top of the desk and he looked unsteadily at the man behind it.

Jackson arose.

“You’re drunk, Devaud,” he said. “It is not a question of personalities. Good-day.”

Martin gave him a perplexed look. The impeccable tailoring of his employer’s suit had suddenly become offensive to him. Completely bewildered by this strange revulsion, Martin turned and walked out of the room.

“Good-day,” he said, and went down the steps and out into the street. “Good-day,” he kept repeating into the ears of astonished passers-by. He stopped, after he had wandered awhile, before a restaurant; for he smelled the aroma of coffee. Then he shook his fist at the window.

“_That_ won’t split this illness!” he said, and walked on, mumbling.

In his room he sat down once more on the edge of the bed. His mind, levitated by wine and discouragement, projected itself. Images rose before him. Secretive, luxurious women were in his fantasy. He drank again and went to bed. He slept, awakened, washed his face and slept once more, reality and the dream becoming as one. Day and night passed.

The sun rose, slanted, fell over the windowsill and crept up the bed into Martin’s eyes. He awakened, his heart pounding. He stood up and finished the last of the wine.

“Internal application only!” he observed. Repeatedly the mirror drew him. “Poison if taken externally,” he continued amiably; then seeing the foolish expression on his face, turned away in disgust.

He looked at himself again.

“Emancipation!” he shouted. “To business! To weaving, undecipherable sex and even my own hot mouth!” In amazement he looked into the crypt of his eyes. That soft sound of weeping.... “From the ceiling,” he cried. “Not from these French fried lips!” He went back to bed.

In a dream he placed his hand on his hard body.

“The unborn,” he whispered, breaking his hand on himself. “Modest child of onanism.... One daughter who will not ride the world on her ruby-jeweled bird’s nest!... One lad who will not ride the world on a bird’s nest!”

He awoke and looked at the ceiling. The room was death. Outside, snow was falling, flakes padding the window. He stared into the darkness. To escape without struggle—his body falling—and then, rest—infinitely deep and sweet.... His imagination stretched steeply into awareness. Not into chaos or unreality. The wind pressed snow on the window, through the window and into his arms. He felt the cold. Holding his hands into the air, he prayed....

“God!”

No bright arm of light; no sound of wings. It was four in the morning and his terror had grown to a deadening satisfaction. The rose shadows of steepled city buildings at night rang dimly in his court, their inner warmth full of promise and engaging noise. He looked out of the window, and shook his head.

“Too young and stupid, my infantile prince,” he said, and touched the gooseflesh on his arm, kissing with faint disdain its embarrassed nubs. “Back to bed again to sleep and jump like a poisoned cat.” And another day waved her dreaming, blue hands, regretfully——

Martin knew an alternative in that purple morning. A gun—the shot—the quick flutter of his hand.

“No,” he whispered. “Too demure. Fruitful, but demure.”

Outside, the sun blended into trucks and the yapping noise of turning wheels. He dressed and went into the street, stopping at the nearest bar. And strangely, in all his tiredness and fear, arose the man as he had been—straight from the ocean, with clear eyes that had watched the sea so often, and with hand half-raised as though holding the helm of his ship. It was momentary; but the bartender stood looking at him quietly and with respect.

“A Guinness’s Stout,” said Martin.

“A nip or a pint, sir?” asked the man.

“A nip and a pint.”

The black liquid hung to Martin’s glass as he raised it to his lips. The stout ran through his dry throat and into his stomach, washing away the starved slime. It spanged against his knotted intestines, loosening their disgusted quiver. It broke the cordy fold of nervous tissue.

Martin bent over the bar, touched by its rustic intimacy. Out of its shining, wooden face arose the image of Deane, slim-throated, filling the mist. She moved closer. Martin mused over the bar and drank, and drank again. The liquor sank to his nerves and he awoke.

Deane forgotten?... Her bell-like gown drifting over his teeth—sprung from the fog—outlined in the smoke of his thoughts....

The subway was crowded. Meaty faces lined in pink, pale array before him. A woman, mother of too many, rubbed a glove over her nose, worry misting her eyes, a dustpan supporting her neck. Across from her perched a she-gazelle on meatless haunches, hair and breasts correctly arranged. The train stopped and Martin went up the stairs into the cold wind. He entered a building and walked down the hall to Deane’s apartment.

She opened the door and stood before him, a bright, tremulous blur. He swayed a little and she caught him by the shoulder, assisting him into the room. He tried to stand straight, smiling gently through his brackish eyes.

“It’s all right, Deane, but I can’t stop my mind,” he said. “I can’t stop it from turning.” He licked the dry scale of his lips. “I can’t do it.” He closed his eyes tightly to keep in the moisture and talked on rapidly, glibly.

From the window came the city lights. Deane sat in a chair, brooding, a frightened look on her face; for Martin’s hysteria grew in the strength of evening. His motions became more selfish. Every idea turned upon itself.

“Somewhere,” he said, “there is a worm. A relentless worm canting my words, embarrassing me—deep, vicious and blinding.”

“What do you want me to do, Martin?” All of Deane’s tolerance—her understanding and affection were contained in this question; but he was deafened with pain and apprehension and all the seeds of disaster which fall, germinate and grow so swiftly in certain poisonous gardens. He put his hand across his face.

“Let’s get a doctor,” he said. “A magical doctor ... a sorcerer ... a doctor for a sorcerer.”

Deane nodded her head. And if he could have seen her then, in the gown he loved and with all the concern in her eyes, it might have taken him from this evil spell. But he was blind and sick and walked like a dead man; while in his agony he cried, “No! Nothing! Get nothing!” Tormented, he went across the room to her, and as he faltered, Deane caught him in her arms.

_CHAPTER IX_

Martin felt the hum of an elevator, fresh air in his face and the movement of an automobile. He knew that he was talking too much to an individual he’d never seen before, and suddenly found himself in a long bright corridor that smelled of medicine. He was helped into a semi-darkened room and felt a glass between his lips. He thought of Roberts, swallowed and choked.

“It’s ether,” he said.

“No, it isn’t,” said the nurse, standing by him and trying to get him into bed. “It will be good for you.”

Martin saw her for the first time. Then he felt himself falling. The nurse steadied him, and suddenly everything was clear. He felt well, stimulated. He wanted to talk some more.

“So! Martin finally reaches Hell! Our pathological bundle of yeast becomes animate in Bedlam!”

“_Won’t_ you get into bed?” asked the nurse. “You will be sleepy in a minute.”

“All right.” He stood up, swaying. “Martin in Hell. Being tucked in bed by an angel with wide hips. Coasting to sleep with a bellyful of ether. A true Nirvana for a true aesthete.” He stopped talking. Again hysteria struck him. But this time it was soft and languorous and he held it tightly as it moved in his groin. His breathing was quiet.

The nurse sat beside him in the darkened room. He breathed slowly now, beginning to jerk and posture. He held his hand in the air as though emphasizing a dream.

In the early morning he awakened. His hand moved over the side of the bed, reaching for a bottle of wine. His fingers went back and forth over the rug. Then he opened his eyes and saw the woman sitting beside him.

“Are you my nurse?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m your nurse. Won’t you go back to sleep?”

“I hurt,” said Martin. “I hurt all over, but my back is the worst. And I need a drink.”

“What would you like?”

“Whisky. A big one.”

“I’ll get your medication,” said the girl, and left the room.

Martin looked around him. A hospital—neurotherapy; adjacent to a madhouse! Weakened your resistance in one and shipped you into the other! His body ached and his mind still turned. On with the medication!—and then what? From dipsomania to dope in twelve treatments. Bring on the bed-straps. Damned efficient nurse, that one—watching him jump around. Patient. If only his back wouldn’t hurt so terribly. Must be the kidneys. Need flushing. Why not use a plunger? Imagine that immaculate nurse astride him, pounding his gizzard with a plunger!

The nurse returned with two glasses. One was full of orange juice. The other she held away from her nose.

“More ether?” asked Martin.

“It isn’t.”

“Well, ether or not—down the hatch!” And taking a deep breath he swallowed.

The nurse steadied him once more and he pressed his head into her breast, breathing sharply, like a man struck in the throat. He allowed himself to tremble. His feelings changed from sick horror to quietude and a faint elation. He let his head drop on the pillow. This time the paraldehyde brought relief, but no immediate sleep. Words kept ringing in his mind and he talked on, without cessation. The nurse listened to him, laughing occasionally. In the morning’s light, Martin slept.

When he awoke, the nurse was gone. He was alone on a bridge with madmen. He was afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of fear. A word sounded in his mind—phobiaphobia, fear of fear. Nothing tangible to fight. The deep-seated root of the worm in his imagination. His feeling of isolation became complete, unbearable. He got out of bed and walked into the hall. A student nurse looked warily at him as he approached—unshaven, with bloodshot eyes, his unfastened robe trailing.

“Where’s the head nurse?” he asked. “Where is she?”

“Here I am.”

Martin turned on her, white faced and trembling.

“For God’s sake, nurse. Is this a hospital? Get me a drink. Get me something. And don’t leave me alone.”

She helped him into bed and brought the same medication. Sober, terror-stricken, Martin could not face the shock of the incredible drug. The nurse held him, and again Martin drank, feeling the same shudder and movement of the deep-seated tissue. He reached out and felt the woman’s arms. A sharp, sweet odor in his nose prolonged his trembling. The nurse wrapped a blanket around him, leaned over and kissed his damp forehead. Martin rested, watching her move quietly around the room. Was her kiss a gesture of sympathy? He met her gentle brown eyes and knew she understood.

The greater part of the next two days and nights he slept, only awakening to drink the bright, relieving poison. The third day he remembered Deane—her laugh, the surge of her skirts; and each thought was a torment.

That evening two psychiatrists came to talk with him. One, his own doctor, young and solemn; the other, the consulting physician, mature, shrewd, Olympian. Martin explained his fears, bringing up the residue of his experiences. During his story he caught fragments of remarks from the older man. Suggestive words such as _masochism_ and _sadism_ set fire to his imagination. When they left him without comment he was more lonely and fearful than before. In desperation he entered deeper into his mind, finding new horror with each analysis. By night the momentum had grown to such an active fear that the nurse did not dare leave the room. Martin followed her with his eyes.

The special night nurse came on duty, fresh, buxom and cheerful. Martin drew new hope out of her vitality. As he watched her straightening his bed he felt resentment at his own weakness. What was he?—to be fussed over and coddled like an old dog. He watched the strong shanks of the girl move steadily around the room. A curious thought entered his mind and he laughed. The nurse turned and looked at him, fearing new hallucinations.

“No,” said Martin, “I’m not hysterical. Come here and sit on the bed.”

“I can’t,” said the girl.

“Well, then,” said Martin, “pull that chair closer and sit here.”

She did as he requested, and Martin reached out for her hand. It was soft and warm. He pressed it tightly, looking into her eyes. The girl’s cheeks flushed but she did not pull away. Martin looked up at the ceiling, each fresh thought bringing anger—the keen, strong happiness of anger. This young animal beside him had given him a new perspective. He turned again to the nurse and held her hand more tightly, stroking it, and explaining his movements with his eyes. He reached out for her waist and smiled to see her pull away. She was afraid. Not he. What did he have to be afraid of? Phobiaphobia? How foolish! This complex, that complex——

“Listen, nurse,” he said. “I’m cured.”

“Yes. You seem to be much better.”

“Better nothing!” cried Martin. “I’m well. There isn’t anything wrong with me. I was drunk.”

The girl stared at him for a moment, then put her hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve never believed the things you’ve told me,” she said. “At first, I thought there was something a little bit—” Her cheeks turned red and she laughed. “But now, I know you’re just a normal man.”

Martin thought of the woman he loved. Deane! He could go to Deane now. There was nothing wrong. He thought of his doctors. Surely they had known. They had left him with that fear—its implication of neuroses and reference to disgusting complexities. How many lay that night, fed with bromides and sedatives; crucified on theories!

In the morning when the psychiatrists returned, Martin raised his head from the pillow.

“Good morning.”

The young doctor nodded his head briefly, blinked his eyes and faced the light from the window, his face expressionless.

“Good morning. Did you sleep?” asked the older physician, in a perfunctory tone.

“Very well indeed,” Martin said. Then sitting up a little straighter, he added, “Doctor! I don’t want to anticipate a diagnosis, but I’m not sick. You understand that I merely gave a history of the fantasies and sublimated desires that are in all our minds, but which we are rarely dyspeptic enough to publicize.”

The older doctor watched him furtively. Martin saw that he resembled a spider, and grinning to himself, thought that there were probably a few cobwebs about him. But in the younger doctor’s eyes he saw concern and liking, and even the faint touch of friendship.

“What do you mean?” asked the older man at last.

Martin climbed out of bed, put on his robe and stood before the consulting psychiatrist.

“You understand.”

“You have been a child,” said the physician sternly.

“You understand,” repeated Martin.

The psychiatrist took firm hold of his shoulders. There were furious lights about the man—not understanding; merely curiosity and hatred for something unintelligible. He tightened his grasp on Martin’s shoulders, shook his head angrily and stormed out of the room. But the younger doctor, with all the suns between his eyes, observed in formula Martin’s pulse and all the rest of it, dismissing his patient with a friendly, sympathetic nod as soon as he could.

When Martin left the hospital it was snowing. The medication had destroyed his orientation. He leaned against the wall of the building for a moment, then tried to walk straight while he looked for a taxi.

Inside the cab he wrapped his coat about him and held his ankles from the cold air. Sick from the drugs and weak from lack of food, he thought once more of Deane and smiled. He was tired, but he had won.

When he arrived at the apartment he stopped just inside the door. There was a woman sitting in a chair. Who was she? Where was Deane? Was this woman alive? For her face was pale, and her eyes, too large, too dark, seemed to have lost all comprehension.

“What is wrong?” he asked excitedly. “What is it?”

Deane did not answer but sank down in her chair, covering her face with hands that trembled.

Martin felt sick. The air in the room suffocated him.

“Deane! It’s Martin!” he cried.

Her hands dropped to her lap.

“I talked with your doctors,” she answered simply. “I talked with them for two hours. I was ashamed—humiliated.”

“Ashamed of what? Ashamed of me? Why! I’m all right now!”

“I spoke with your doctors,” Deane repeated, as though in fatal acceptance. “It was horrible.”

Martin took off his coat. He had on no shirt. He looked past Deane for a moment, leaning heavily against the wall.

“They have taken my girl.” He spoke bitterly. Then in a louder, more distracted voice, he repeated—“_They have taken my girl._”

He continued to look about him as though in a daze.

“What have they done to you?” he kept asking. “Damn them! Collaborators with madhouses—sucking my giddy ideas, engendering the malingerer. They’ve doped you with psychological jargon, hypnotized you with fine phrases.... Breeders of hypochondriacs! I’m not afraid of them any longer, I have nothing but contempt for them. I wanted the clear advice of mature, impersonal intellects, and I meet with personal vindictiveness.”

“They said you have a persecution complex,” replied Deane. “They tried to help you.” Her throat was dry and the room was spinning round.

“‘Persecution complex!’” repeated Martin with a contemptuous gesture. “It’s contagious. It’s a disease—an indiscriminate application of words typing an individual, placing him in a box, granting him the elasticity of brick. They are dealing with humanity—not with bricks. What do these rigid intellectualists know definitely, after all? Stumbling about in the most infantile science of the lot. A befuddled group of astrologers of the mind. The more competent admit they know little—admit that while they do the best they can, that often they must strike out blindly, hoping that nature will effect a cure.”

Deane’s eyes did not change; but the delicate lids, with their heavy lashes, gave a sudden, nervous flicker. What was this perspiring man talking about? She still felt sick. He didn’t have on a shirt. If she could only rest. She knew that her mind was bleeding. Each of Martin’s words opened a new point in her brain.

“They are dangerous because they are clever,” he went on. “And some of them are diabolical. Theirs is a subtle lechery. They love this parade of erotics. Orgasms by proxy! Intelligent, perverted and ruthless!”

Deane now looked steadily at him. The ice locking her mind moved restlessly.

“They do good, Martin. Not everyone plays with love and pain the way you do.”

“Let me rest, Deane. I want to rest.” He leaned for a moment against the divan and then got up. “You’re the only one I care about,” he said wearily. “Can these ponderous technicians, with their burden of world-pain give you happiness? Can you let their hard lines of conduct, which apply to the diseased, disturb our concept of life? Top-heavy and non-elastic—surely they cannot appeal to your ideas!”

Deane knew that he was splendid in his agony. She wanted to kiss his cheeks. She wanted to forget his tiredness, his indictment of psychiatry. She felt that his imaginings were unfair; untrue; those of a sick man. She knew that he had talked bravely and fought desperately for her. She felt all these things. But she stood up and turned away.

Martin knew. He put on his coat and smiled at her. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. Instead, he left the apartment.

_CHAPTER X_

Rio went down to the Seaman’s Institute for breakfast. He had come to a conclusion about Martin. He felt that it was useless to look for him. And Rio needed the sea. It would be easy to get a ship.

The Mediterranean?—Algiers on a hot night, a skiff rubbing its brown keel on a plaque of sand. Turpentine.... South America?—Through the deep night wind one single light on Tierra del Fuego, an invalid blonde on the cruise ship, port of Rio.... Intercoastal?—The French “Babee” Quarter in Cristobal, water changing under the heat.

Rio scuffed his shoes on the concrete floor and looked up moodily. Then he saw him. Martin was sitting alone at one of the small tables. Rio pushed back his chair and walked over to him.

“Well,” he said, looking at Martin’s white face. “Well.”

“Hello, Rio.” Martin raised his cup, but the coffee spilled before it reached his lips, and without drinking, he replaced the cup on the table.

“You’re a fine guy,” Rio was frowning.

“Yes.”

“Try again.”

“No.”

Rio took his arm and they went into the street. In Rio’s hotel, Martin lay down on the bed. The other sat beside him.

“You ain’t quite so funny now,” said Rio.

Martin nodded.

“Where you been?”

Martin raised himself on his elbow.

“I’ve been playing bats with a visitor from Saturn. You know it has many moons. The visitor told me all about them.”

“Yeah,” said Rio dryly. “You only got one. But it ought to be kicked.”

“It has been,” said Martin.

“You son-of-a-bitch.”

Martin couldn’t manage sympathy and started to cry. He didn’t make any noise and there were no tears. There was just a choking, helpless movement as he looked steadily at his friend.

Rio got up, lit a cigarette, then sat down once more on the bed and put the cigarette between Martin’s lips.

“I know all about it, buddy,” he said. “Once in Dairen I piled off a ship....” He looked away as dreamily as a big ape.

Martin laughed inside to see this fellow trying to be tender, but he listened to the story and it made him feel better. Finally he sat up.

“One night in the tropics, Rio, you told me I wasn’t a sailor. I knew you were right, so when we came into New York I got off. I went on Relief and met a man named Roberts at the Employment Station. He was intelligent and interesting, but he was like this—” Martin held out his arms.

Rio nodded.

“However, that didn’t make any difference,” Martin continued, lying down again. “And later, he got me a job.”

“Now ain’t that pretty,” said Rio.

“He got me a job,” Martin went on, “and asked me up to his place. Anyway, to make this a good yarn, along came the girl. I liked her. Roberts’ vanity was hurt. Perhaps he even liked me. But I thought I loved the girl.”

“You do.”

“All right, then. I do.”

“So?”

“So Roberts had me fired.”

“So?”

“I got drunk and the girl told me I was through.”

“You weak punk,” said Rio.

Martin hit him in the face. It was a glancing blow off Rio’s nose and there wasn’t any drive behind it. He tried to get in another one, but Rio shoved him back on the bed and held his shoulders down. Martin saw that the big sailor was grinning.

“It’s all right, buddy,” said Rio. “How about some food?”

Martin looked at his friend’s nose. There was a trickle of blood coming from it.

“All right,” he said, still watching the blood which was dripping over Rio’s lip.

“Here’s a couple of nickels,” said Rio, laying a bill on the bed. “Get some sleep and some food.”

Martin sat up again.

“Where are you going?”

“Down to the docks.”

“What ship?”

“The _Steeldeer_.”

“Where’s she going?”

“Around the Loop.”

“Any chance to make her?”

“The crew’s signed on.”

“I’m sorry to see you go.” Martin couldn’t stop the hurt in his voice.

“I ain’t goin’,” said Rio, not looking at him. He left the room without further explanation and Martin went to sleep.

* * * * *

It was Saturday afternoon and the office force at the Employment Station had gone home. Roberts alone remained. He was writing when he heard someone come in. He did not look up.

“My name’s Rio.”

The adviser threw down his pencil.

“I remember you,” he said, regarding the man in front of him with intense annoyance, “I might add—unfortunately. I have no desire to see you. I have not seen your friend.”

“But Mr. Roberts. I got some news. I seen him. I seen Martin, the cripple.” The big sailor laughed. “He was thin, at that.”

Roberts went around the desk and faced Rio.

“Get out,” he said.

“But Mr. Roberts!” Rio was still smiling. “I like you.” He rubbed his face gently against Roberts’, who moved back in astonishment and disgust.

“I said, _get out_!” The adviser spoke between his teeth.

“But I like you, Mister.” Rio put one hand back of Roberts’ neck and the other across his cheekbones. The adviser tried to move but the pressure stopped him. He stood quietly, his eyes looking frantically back and forth, the color in his cheeks flickering. Rio squeezed harder. Above the hand on his face Roberts could see his torturer dimly. The pain changed to lassitude and Roberts wasn’t afraid anymore. He remembered that he had dropped his Derby on the street a night or two ago. He had intended to send it to the cleaner’s, but had forgotten it. He could not condone such negligence. Then he went to sleep.

Rio looked at the man he was holding. Roberts reminded him of an old sailing vessel on which he’d once made a trip. She’d struck a reef off Cocos Island. Rio had watched the ship from the beach. Her stern was up and her sails dead. A red anchor light flickered like this man’s eyes before she sank in shoal water.

He carried Roberts to a chair behind the desk. Then he left the Employment Station, went to a phone booth and looked up Deane Idara’s address.

* * * * *

At the Employment Station Roberts heard someone in the hall. He tried to open his eyes, although it didn’t make any difference. It was probably that fellow returning to make sure that he had killed him.... Again came the strange fancies. It seemed to Roberts that he was chasing his Derby which was now being driven violently down the dusty street by the wind. Thump—thump—thump it went along the sidewalk, and at each corner, when he thought he had caught up with it, the wind would rise, and he would have to dash after the hat, trying desperately to retrieve it before the wind got hold of it again. “The cleaner can never make it right now,” he kept thinking dismally. “The dirt will be ground into it.” And once more, the hat made funny, hollow-sounding noises as it turned over and over on the pavement. Suddenly the Derby changed shape—growing enormous, building out misshapen shoulders, becoming a terrifying bulk which turned on him. Stricken with horror, Roberts fled before the onslaught of the monster. Thump—thump—thump— A janitor walked into the room.

“Mr. Roberts!” he cried. “Mr. Roberts!” He ran to the telephone and tried to dial the operator, but his hands were shaking too much.

The adviser knew how he looked. He knew that his mouth was open. Perspiration was pouring from his face and hands. He fought off the darkness. He got his mouth closed. With consciousness came pain—a sharpness at the base of his neck that made him sick.

“Leave the phone,” he commanded sternly.

The janitor hesitated.

“Leave the phone,” Roberts repeated. He could move his arms now and was able to sit straighter in his chair.

The janitor picked up his broom, looked at the adviser again and started sweeping. Roberts was writing when the janitor left.

* * * * *

Rio got out of the elevator and was approaching Deane’s apartment when an elegantly dressed young man stepped from her door, closing it behind him. The sailor’s anger rose at the thought that this woman should betray his friend, as so it seemed. And when the two men neared each other in the hall they both hesitated as if by mutual agreement—Rio, still in his murderous rage, Drew in curiosity. They were barely moving as they started to pass each other. Rio scowled, then stopped a moment to stare at the other, who merely lifted his eyebrows and looked at the small bouquet in his own lapel, smiling as if he had a notion. Rio’s face became red. Thoroughly embarrassed at his mistake, he could not help but smile back. His healthy, undisciplined grin allayed any possible apprehension on the part of Drew who continued down the hall.

Rio found Deane alone. He thought he had never seen a woman so foreign to him—so sweetly unattainable that for one slow instant his deep native blood rebelled, reached out in mind, then caught itself. He held his cap when he sat down.

“I won’t be long, Mrs. Idara,” he said. “My name’s Rio.”

“Martin has mentioned you, Rio,” answered Deane. “I thought it was you.”

The big sailor glared at her.

“I just left Martin. He’s sick.”

“I know.” Deane looked away.

“I’d help him, Mrs. Idara. But he don’t need me.”

“He doesn’t need anyone but himself, Rio.”

“He needs a good woman,” answered Rio coldly.

Deane looked straight at him.

“That is—a stupid one?” she asked.

For a moment Rio stared at her helplessly.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “I can’t talk. But Mrs. Idara, Martin ain’t the first to break his neck over a woman—only mine died, and her skin wasn’t your color.”

“I’m sorry, Rio. I’m sorry it had to happen to you.” Deane made a little gesture of sympathy.

Rio thrust his head forward.

“That’d work better on a live man,” he said bluntly.

“Is Martin alive?” Deane spoke as if to herself.

“He’s crazy,” answered Rio, “but he ain’t dead. And he never lost all his bearings till he met you. He even handled Roberts.”

Deane was astonished.

“You know Mr. Roberts?”

Rio twirled his cap in his hand.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s a friend of mine.”

“You’re a friend of both Martin and Roberts?” Deane asked incredulously.

“I can get along with anybody.” Rio looked at her and some of his hatred appeared in his eyes.

“You love Martin very much, don’t you, Rio?”

“Maybe. He said so one night. The way you and him throw that word around, though, it means anything.”

“I intended it to be a good word, Rio—a brave word.”

Rio grinned. Deane thought it was the strongest, most vicious expression she had ever seen. She wasn’t afraid, but such clear hatred made her hesitate.

“Rio,” she said finally, “I love Martin. But I won’t let him escape the world. It isn’t fear that makes him try it, but he has a quality of evasiveness that clears him from all reality. It has been convenient for him at times, but some day it will destroy him. I love him too much to let this happen.” Deane was tired. She felt older. She didn’t even know that her eyes were full of tears.

Rio stopped smiling and stared at the floor. Suddenly he got up and went over to her.

“I made a mistake,” he said.

He put on his cap and Deane walked to the door with him.

“Rio,” she touched his arm, “tell Martin I need to see him. Will you?”

“I’ll tell him, Mrs. Idara.” Deane’s hand against his arm upset him. He wanted to kiss her. That moment he hated Martin. “I’ll tell him,” he repeated, and walked down the hall, looking surprised.

* * * * *

Martin was sleeping when Rio returned. He awakened and saw the big sailor looking down at him.

“What’s the news?” he asked.

“I seen Mrs. Idara. She wants to talk to you.”

“You saw Deane?” Martin sat up.

“She wants to talk to you,” Rio repeated.

“You’re high-handed.” Martin shook his head. “What about the _Steeldeer_, now that you’ve seen me over the bumps?”

“You ain’t over the bumps, and I don’t want the _Steeldeer_. There’s a boomer in next week, and no goo-goos in the messroom. I’ll see then.”

Martin tried to hide his embarrassment.

“Unaccustomed as I am—” he began.

“Stow it,” interrupted Rio, jamming his cap on his head. “You got a job. I’ll see you later.”

“That’s right,” said Martin. He got out of bed and put on his coat. Then he stood looking solemnly at his friend. “I’ll probably be back next week—or sooner——”

“You better go.”

Martin kept looking at him. Then, without speaking further, he turned suddenly, went to the door and walked out.