The Great Automatic Grammatizator 7 страница
Around twelve‑thirty my wife announced that she wanted to go to bed.
"Just one more rubber?" Henry Snape said.
"No, Mr Snape. I'm tired tonight. Arthur's tired, too. I can see it. Let's all go to bed."
She herded us out of the room and we went upstairs, the four of us together. On the way up, there was the usual talk about breakfast and what they wanted and how they were to call the maid. "I think you'll like your room," my wife said. "It has a view right across the valley, and the sun comes to you in the morning around ten o'clock."
We were in the passage now, standing outside our own bedroom door, and I could see the wire I had put down that afternoon and how it ran along the top of the skirting down to their room. Although it was nearly the same colour as the paint, it looked very conspicuous to me. "Sleep well," my wife said. "Sleep well, Mrs Snape. Good night, Mr Snape." I followed her into our room and shut the door.
"Quick!" she cried. "Turn it on!" My wife was always like that, frightened that she was going to miss something. She had a reputation, when she went hunting–I never go myself–of always being right up with the hounds whatever the cost to herself or her horse for fear that she might miss a kill. I could see she had no intention of missing this one.
The little radio warmed up just in time to catch the noise of their door opening and closing again.
"There!" my wife said. "They've gone in." She was standing in the centre of the room in her blue dress, her hands clasped before her, her head craned forward, intently listening, and the whole of the big white face seemed somehow to have gathered itself together, tight like a wine‑skin.
Almost at once the voice of Henry Snape came out of the radio, strong and clear. "You're just a goddam little fool," he was saying, and this voice was so different from the one I remembered, so harsh and unpleasant, it made me jump. "The whole bloody evening wasted! Eight hundred points–that's eight pounds between us!"
"I got mixed up," the girl answered. "I won't do it again, I promise."
"What's this?" my wife said. "What's going on?" Her mouth was wide open now, the eyebrows stretched up high, and she came quickly over to the radio and leaned forward, ear to the speaker. I must say I felt rather excited ITlyself. "I promise, I promise I won't do it again," the girl was saying.
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"We're not taking any chances," the man answered grimly. "We're going to have another practice right now."
"Oh no, please! I couldn't stand it!"
"Look," the man said, "all the way out here to take money off this rich bitch and you have to go and mess it up."
My wife's turn to jump.
"The second time this week," he went on.
"I promise I won't do it again."
"Sit down. I'll sing them out and you answer."
"No, Henry, please! Not all five hundred of them. It'll take three hours."
"All right, then. We'll leave out the finger positions. I think you're sure of those. We'll just do the basic bids showing honour tricks."
"Oh, Henry, must we? I'm so tired."
"It's absolutely essential that you get them perfect," he said. "We have a game every day next week, you know that. And we've got to eat."
"What is this?" my wife whispered. "What on earth is it?"
"Shhh!" I said. "Listen!"
"All right," the man's voice was saying. "Now we'll start from the beginning. Ready?"
"Oh Henry, please!" She sounded very near to tears.
"Come on, Sally. Pull yourself together."
Then, in a quite different voice, the one we had been used to hearing in the living‑room, Henry Snape said, "One club." I noticed that there was a curious lilting emphasis on the word 'one', the first part of the word drawn out long.
"Ace queen of clubs," the girl replied wearily. "King jack of spades. No hearts, and ace jack of diamonds."
"And how many cards to each suit? Watch my finger positions carefully."
"You said we could miss those."
"Well–if you're quite sure you know them?"
"Yes, I know them."
A pause, then "A club."
"King jack of clubs," the girl recited. "Ace of spades. Queen jack of hearts, and ace queen of diamonds."
Another pause, then "I'll say one club."
"Ace king of clubs..
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"My heavens alive!" I cried. "It's a bidding code! They show every card in the hand!"
"Arthur, it couldn't be!"
"It's like those men who go into the audience and borrow something from you and there's a girl blindfold on the stage, and from the way he phrases the question she can tell him exactly what it is–even a railway ticket, and what station it's from."
"It's impossible!"
"Not at all. But it's tremendous hard work to learn. Listen to them."
"I'll go one heart," the man's voice was saying.
"King queen ten of hearts. Ace jack of spades. No diamonds. Queen jack of clubsЙ" "And you see," I said, "he tells her the number of cards he has in each suit by the position of his fingers."
"How?"
"I don't know. You heard him saying about it.,, "My God, Arthur! Are you sure that's what they're doing?"
"I'm afraid so." I watched her as she walked quickly over to the side of the bed to fetch a cigarette. She lit it with her back to me and then swung round, blowing the smoke up at the ceiling in a thin stream. I knew we were going to have to do something about this, but I wasn't quite sure what because we couldn't possibly accuse them without revealing the source of our information. I waited for my wife's decision.
"Why, Arthur," she said slowly, blowing out clouds of smoke. "Why, this is a marvellous idea. D'you think we could learn to do it?"
"What!"
"Of course. Why not?"
"Here! No! Wait a minute, Pamela… " but she came swiftly across the room, right up close to me where I was standing, and she dropped her head and looked down at me–the old look of a smile that wasn't a smile, at the corners of the mouth, and the curl of the nose, and the big full grey eyes staring at me with their bright black centres, and then they were grey, and all the rest was white flecked with hundreds of tiny red veins–and when she looked at me like this, hard and close, I swear to you it made me feel as though I were drowning. "Yes," she said. "Why not?"
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"But Pamela… Good heavens… No… After all…
"Arthur, I do wish you wouldn't argue with me all the time. That's exactly what we'll do. Now, go fetch a deck of cards; we'll start right away."
Dip in the Pool
ON the morning of the third day, the sea calmed. Even the most delicate passengers–those who had not been seen around the ship since sailing time–emerged from their cabins and crept on to the sun deck where the deck steward gave them chairs and tucked rugs around their legs and left them lying in rows, their faces upturned to the pale, almost heatless January sun.
It had been moderately rough the first two days, and this sudden calm and the sense of comfort that it brought created a more genial atmosphere over the whole ship. By the time evening came, the passengers, with twelve hours of good weather behind them, were beginning to feel confident, and at eight o'clock that night the main dining‑room was filled with people eating and drinking with the assured, complacent air of seasoned sailors.
The meal was not half over when the passengers became aware, by the slight friction between their bodies and the seats of their chairs, that the big ship had actually started rolling again. It was very gentle at first, just a slow, lazy leaning to one side, then to the other, but it was enough to cause a subtle, immediate change of mood over the whole room. A few of the passengers glanced up from their food, hesitating, waiting, almost listening for the next roll, smiling nerviously, little secret glimmers of apprehension in their eyes. Some were completely unrufled, somewre openly smug, a number of the smug ones making jokes about food and weather in order to torture the few who were beginning to suffer. The movement of the ship then became rapidly more and more violent, and only five or six minutes after the first roll had been noticed, she was swinging heavily from side to side, the passengers bracing themselves in their chairs, leaning against the pull as in a car cornering.
At last the really bad roll came, and Mr William Botibol, sitting at the purser’s table, saw his plate of poached turbot with hollandaise sauce sliding suddenly away from under his fork. There was a flutter of excitement, everybody reaching for plates and wineglasses. Mrs Renshaw, seated at the purser’s right, gave a little scream and clutched that gentleman’s arm.
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"Going to be a dirty night," the purser said, looking at Mrs Renshaw. "I think it’s blowing up for a very dirty night." There was just the faintest suggestion of relish in the way the purser said this.
A steward came hurrying up and sprinkled water on the table cloth between the plates. The excitement subsided. Most of the passengers continued with their meal. A small number, incluing Mrs Renshaw, got carefully to their fee and threaded their ways with a kind of concealed haste between the tables and through the doorway.
"Well," the purser said, "there she goes." He glanced around with approval at the remainder of his flock who were sitting quiet, looking complacent, their faces reflecting openly that extraordinary pride that travellers seem to take in being recognized as 'good sailors'.
When the eating was finished and the coffee had been served, Mr Botibol, who had been unusually grave and thoughtful since the rolling started, suddenly stood up and carried his cup of coffee around to Mrs Renshaw's vacant place, next to the purser. He seated himself in the chair, then immediately leaned over and began to whisper urgently in the purser's ear. "Excuse me," he said, "but could you tell me something, please?"
The purser, small and fat and red, bent forward to listen. "What's the trouble, Mr Botibol?"
"What I want to know is this." The man's face was anxious and the purser was watching it. "What I want to know is will the captain already have made his estimate on the day's run–you know, for the auction pool? I mean before it began to get rough like this?"
The purser, who had prepared himself to receive a personal confidence, smiled and leaned back in his seat to relax his full belly. "I should say so–yes," he answered. He didn't bother to whisper his reply, although automatically he lowered his voice, as one does when answering a whisperer.
"About how long ago do you think he did it?"
"Some time this afternoon. He usually does it in the afternoon."
"About what time?"
"Oh, I don't know. Around four o'clock I should guess."
"Now tell me another thing. How does the captain decide which number it shall be? Does he take a lot of trouble over that?"
The purser looked at the anxious frowning face of Mr Botibol and he smiled, knowing quite well what the man was driving at. "Well, you see, the captain has a little conference with the navigating officer, and they study the weather and a lot of other things, and then they make their estimate."
Mr Botibol nodded, pondering this answer for a moment. Then he said, "Do you think the captain knew there was bad weather coming today?"
"I couldn't tell you," the purser replied. He was looking into the small black eyes of the other man, seeing the two single little specks of excitement dancing in their centres. "I really couldn't tell you, Mr Botibol. I wouldn't know."
"If this gets any worse it might be worth buying some of the low numbers. What do you think?" The whispering was more urgent, more anxious now.
"Perhaps it will," the purser said. "I doubt whether the old man allowed for a really rough night. It was pretty calm this afternoon when he made his estimate."
The others at the table had become silent and were trying to hear, watching the purser with that intent, half‑cocked, listening look that you can see also at the race track when they are trying to overhear a trainer talking about his chance: the slightly open lips, the upstretched eyebrows, the head forward and cocked a little to one side–that desperately straining, halfhypnotized, listening look that comes to all of them when they are hearing something straight from the horse's mouth.
"Now suppose you were allowed to buy a number, which one would you choose today?" Mr Botibol whispered.
"I don't know what the range is yet," the purser patiently answered. "They don't announce the range till the auction starts after dinner. And I'm really not very good at it anyway. I'm only the purser, you know."
At that point Mr Botibol stood up. "Excuse me, all," he said, and he walked carefully away over the swaying floor between the other tables, and twice he had to catch hold of the back of a chair to steady himself against the ship's roll.
"The sun deck, please," he said to the elevator man.
The wind caught him full in the face as he stepped out on to the open deck. He staggered and grabbed hold of the rail and held on tight with both hands, and he stood there looking out over the darkening sea where the great waves were welling up high and white horses were riding against the wind with plumes of spray behind them as they went.
"Pretty bad out there, wasn't it, sir?" the elevator man said on the way down.
Mr Botibol was combing his hair back into place with a small red comb. "Do you think we've slackened speed at all on account of the weather?" he asked.
"Oh, my word yes, sir. We slackened off considerable since this started. You got to slacken off speed in weather like this or you'll be throwing the passengers all over the ship."
Down in the smoking‑room people were already gathering for the auction. They were grouping themselves politely around the various tables, the men a little stiff in their dinner jackets, a little pink and overshaved and stiff beside their cool white‑armed women. Mr Botibol took a chair close to the auctioneer's table. He crossed his legs, folded his arms, and settled himself in his seat with the rather desperate air of a man who has made a tremendous decision and refuses to be frightened.
The pool, he was telling himself, would probably be around seven thousand dollars. That was almost exactly what it had been the last two days with the numbers selling for between three and four hundred apiece. Being a British ship they did it in pounds, but he liked to do his thinking in his own currency. Seven thousand dollars was plenty of money. My goodness, yes! And what he would do, he would get them to pay him in hundred‑dollar bills and he would take it ashore in the inside pocket of his jacket. No problem there. And right away, yes right away, he would buy a Lincoln convertible. He would pick it up on the way from the ship and drive it home just for the pleasure of seeing Ethel's face when she came out the front door and looked at it. Wouldn't that be something, to see Ethel's face when he glided up to the door in a brand‑new pale‑green Lincoln convertible! Hello, Ethel, honey, he would say, speaking very casual. I just thought I'd get you a little present. I saw it in the window as I went by, so I thought of you and how you were always wanting one. You like it, honey? he would say. You like the colour? And then he would watch her face.
The auctioneer was standing up behind his table now. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted. "The captain has estimated the day's run ending midday tomorrow, at five hundred and fifteen miles. As usual we will take the ten numbers on either side of it to make up the range. That makes it five hundred and five to five hundred and twenty‑five. And of course for those who think the true figure will be still farther away, there'll be 'low field' and 'high field' sold separately as well. Now, we'll draw the first numbers out of the hat… here we are… five hundred and twelve?"
The room became quiet. The people sat still in their chairs, all eyes watching the auctioneer. There was a certain tension in the air, and as the bids got higher, the tension grew. This wasn't a game or a joke; you could be sure of that by the way one man would look across at another who had raised his bid–smiling perhaps, but only the lips smiling, the eyes bright and absolutely cold. Number five hundred and twelve was knocked down for one hundred and ten pounds. The next three or four numbers fetched roughly the same amount.
The ship was rolling heavily, and each time she went over, the wooden panelling on the walls creaked as if it were going to split. The passengers held on to the arms of their chairs, concentrating upon the auction.
"Low field!" the auctioneer called out. "The next number is low field."
Mr Botibol sat up very straight and tense. He would wait, he had decided, until the others had finished bidding, then he would jump in and make the last bid. He had figured that there must be at least five hundred dollars in his account at the bank at home, probably nearer six. That was about two hundred pounds–over two hundred. This ticket wouldn't fetch more than that.
"As you all know," the auctioneer was saying, "low field covers every number below the smallest number in the range, in this case every number below five hundred and five. So, if you think this ship is going to cover less than five hundred and five miles in the twenty‑four hours ending at noon tomorrow, you better get in and buy this number. So what am I bid?"
It went clear up to one hundred and thirty pounds. Others beside Mr Botibol seemed to have noticed that the weather was rough. One hundred and forty… fifty… There it stopped. The auctioneer raised his hammer. "Going at one hundred and fifty.
"Sixty!" Mr Botibol called, and every face in the room turned and looked at him.
"Seventy!"
"Eighty!" Mr Botibol called.
"Ninety!"
"Two hundred!" Mr Botibol called. He wasn't stopping now–not for anyone.
There was a pause.
"Any advance on two hundred pounds?"
Sit still, he told himself. Sit absolutely still and don't look up. It's unlucky to look up. Hold your breath. No one's going to bid you up so long as you hold your breath.
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