boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

342 Anthony Boucher
“The … the devil—” Dr. Palgrave gasped.
I tried not to smile. “You’ve learned it now, sir. You’ve learned that your holy
world of science isn’t sacred to them, doesn’t stand apart from the rest of the world.
There are no islands any more. There never have been. No man is an island, entire
of himself. And every man who is not a part of their black force is going to find
himself and all that he holds holiest destroyed when it suits their convenience. One
by one, we learn our lesson. Some of us had sense and soul enough to learn it as
part of mankind from seeing the sufferings of others; some, like you and me, had
to be pushed around personally to learn it. But every lesson learned, from whatever
motive, is one more blow aimed at their heart.”
“That’s telling him, brother,” said the Commandoman.
Dr. Palgrave stood erect, and his eyes did not blink. “Your next step, sir, I believe,
will be to resume your former condition of grime. I shall aid you in any way possible.
Consider this house your sanctuary, and inform those who follow after you, if you
are fortunate enough to return, that this villa is theirs.”
“Thanks, brother. I’ll do that little thing.”
“And tell your commander of this experience. He will doubtless not believe you,
but insist that he communicate with the general staff. Take these formulas, and see
that they reach the finest physicists in England. They will at least understand the
possibility of what I am doing. Then we can arrange some communication and figure
out a method for practical applications. I can already foresee, for instance, how
futile would be advance secret-service notice of a Commando raid if the Commando
moved back to do its damage the day before it landed here.”
The Commandoman swung to his feet. “Me,” he said, “I don’t understand a word
of this. I know something screwy has happened and I got away from the Gestapo,
and was I ever on a sweet party! But I’ll do what you say, brother.” He raised two
spread fingers.
My own part in the experiments for the next week and the details of my escape in the
fishing boat are not essential to this narrative. I can best conclude it by a newspaper
dispatch which I read when last in London, and the comment thereon by one of
my friends in higher military circles.
v i c h y, June 23.—The Vichy government announces the execution of
twelve hostages for the recent sabotage at the Barras plant near *** and
the murder of Colonel Heinz von Schwarzenau on June 12th. “The Jews
and Communists involved in the treachery,” the announcement reads,
“have not yet been apprehended. It is believed that they were aided and
reinforced by a party of Commando troops. Twelve more hostages will
be shot daily until they are under arrest.
“But you know, old boy,” young Wrothbottam insisted, “that’s devilish peculiar.
There was no Commando raid at *** on the twelfth. And what’s odder yet, there
was one on the thirteenth. Reported operations successful, but there hasn’t been a
word about it in the Vichy dispatches.”