Greybeard

It was a telling phrase, Timberlane thought soberly. In Washington, the perpetual earthquake ground on day and night, and would grind, until all was reduced to dust, if the gloomy DOUCH predictions were fulfilled. It revealed itself not only in the constant economic upheavals, the soup queues down-town, and the crazy sales as the detritus of fallen financial empires was thrown on to the market, but in the wave of murders and sexual crimes which the law found itself unable to check. This wave rose to engulf Martha and Timberlane.

The morning after the letter from Patricia Timberlane arrived, Martha appeared early in Timberlane’s room. Clothes lay scattered over the carpet — they had been out late on the previous evening, attending a wild party thrown by an Air Strike buddy of Bill Dyson’s.

Wearing his pyjama trousers, Timberlane stood shaving himself in semi-gloom. Martha went over to the window, pulled the curtains back, and turned to face him. She told him about the flowers that had been delivered to her at the hostel.

He squinted at her and said, “And you say you got some yesterday morning, too?”

“Yes, just as many — crates full of orchids, the same as this morning. They must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars.” He clicked off the spiteful buzz of his razor and looked at her. His eyes were dull and his face pale.

”Kind of slouch, eh? I didn’t send them to you.”

“I know that, Algy. You couldn’t afford them. I have looked at the price of flowers in the shops — they’re dear in the first place, and they carry state tax, entry tax, purchase tax, and what the hostel matron calls GDT, General Discouragement Tax, and goodness knows what else. That’s why I destroyed yesterday’s lot — I mean, I knew they weren’t from you, so I burnt them and meant to say no more about it.”

“You burnt them? How? I’ve not seen a naked flame on anything bigger than a cigar lighter since I got here.”

“Don’t be so dumb, darling. I pushed them all down the disposal chute, and anything that goes down there gets burnt in the basement of the hostel. Now this morning, another lot, again with no message.”

“Maybe the same lot, with love from the fellow in the basement.”

“For God’s sake, don’t go slouch on me, Algy!” They laughed. But next morning, another bank of flowers arrived at the hostel for Miss Martha

Broughton. Timberlane, Pilbeam, and Martha’s matron came to look at them. “Orchids, roses, chincherinchees, violets, summer crocus — whoever he is, he can afford to get very sentimental,” Pilbeam said. “Let me assure you, Algy, old man, I didn’t send these to your girl friend. Orchids is one thing you can’t slap on a DOUCH expense account.”

“I am frankly worried, Miss Broughton, honey,” the matron said. “You must take care of yourself, especially as you are a stranger to this country. Remember now, there are no more girls about under twenty. That was the age older men used to go for. Now it’s the twenties-thirties group must watch out. Those older men, who are the rich men, have always been used to — well, to making hay while the sun shines. Now that the sun is going down — they will be more anxious to get at the last of the hay. Do you take my meaning?”

“Dusty Dykes himself couldn’t have put it better. Thanks for the warning, Matron. I’ll watch my step.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll phone a florist,” Pilbeam. said. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t pick up a cool couple of thousand from this slob’s amorousness. Small change is mighty useful.” Pilbeam was due to leave Washington the next day. The order had come through Dyson for him to go to another theatre of war — this time, central Sarawak. As he put it himself, he could do with the rest. During the afternoon, he was down in town collecting more kit and an inoculation when the Fat Choy alert sounded. He phoned through to Timberlane, who was then attending a lecture on propaganda and public delusion.

“Thought I’d tell you I’m likely to be delayed by this raid, Algy,” Pilbeam. said. “You and Martha better go on to the Thesaurus without me and get the drinks moving, and I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. We can eat there if we have to, though the Babe Lincoln down the block gives you less synthetics.”

“It’s chiefly calorie intake I’m having to watch,” Timberlane said, patting his waist line. “See how your sensuality output reacts this evening — I’ve met a real scorcher here, Algy, name of

Coriander and as plastic as funny putty.”

“I can’t wait. Is she married or single?”