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“I’m Charles Wittmann. Please sit down, Mr. Lord.”

  Mr. Lord seated himself. He sat in his chair, upright and vigorous. He surveyed Charles with an uncompromising penetration. He said: “Yes. You’re what I have heard, Mr. Wittmann. I’ve been in Andersburg for a week, and I’ve been investigating you. Quietly, of course.”

  “You’ve been investigating me?” Charles could not keep the acerbity from his voice.

  Mr. Lord put his briefcase on the desk. He kept his hand on it. Again, he studied Charles. “Not only in this town, but in New York, and Philadelphia. We’ve gone over your reputation, thoroughly. For weeks. You see, it was very important for us to know all about you, before I came here.”

  “Who are ‘we’?” asked Charles, with angry disturbance. “Look here, Mr. Lord, this all sounds very mysterious to me. Let us get down to business.”

  The other man said quietly: “My name is not Lord.”

  He opened the briefcase. He removed a thick sheaf of papers from it. And then again, he scrutinized Charles. “It must be understood at once that my visit here is extremely confidential, Mr. Wittmann, and that it must not be discussed with anyone, not even with your three brothers.”

  Charles was silent. He waited. Mr. Lord took out a cardcase from his pocket, laid it before Charles. Charles looked at it. “Colonel John Grayson.” And under it was printed: “Army of the United States. Ordnance Department, Washington, D. C.”

  Charles uttered an exclamation of surprise. Then it seemed to him that all the apprehensiveness, the uneasy foreboding, of the past few days had become concentrated in this moment, in this vital if elderly man, in this very room. “You are Colonel Grayson?”

  “Yes.” Colonel Grayson reached over, took the card, returned it to his pocket. Then, while Charles watched, he spread out the papers he had taken from his briefcase. Charles saw red tape and gold seals and letter-heads. “My credentials, Mr. Wittmann,” said the Colonel.

  Dazed, Charles went through the papers, slowly, one by one. It took considerable time. He could not understand.

  He looked at the Colonel. It was odd that he began to remember Mr. William Jennings Bryan, and the confident assertions of peace he had read in the papers on Monday. A sort of confusion pervaded Charles’ mind. But again, he only waited. The Colonel, too, was silent, sitting there on the edge of his chair.

  “You will notice, from my credentials, that the matter is extremely confidential, and delicate,” said the Colonel at last.

  “Of course,” murmured Charles. He rubbed his cheek. “Of course, Colonel Grayson.”

  The Colonel said: “My name is Mr. Lord.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Lord?” asked Charles, abruptly.

  Mr. Lord let himself lean back, very stiffly, in his chair. “You can do nothing for me, Mr. Wittmann. But you can do a great deal for your country.” He paused. “Your father was a German, was he not, sir?”

  “Yes. But what of it?”

  Mr. Lord said: “You are a German-American.”

  “I am an American,” replied Charles. There was a slight palpitation in his chest. “I was born in America. This is my country.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Lord. “But you have a brother. A Mr. Friederich Wittmann. I understand he considers himself a German, and is a little—shall we say—arrogant about it.”

  “You said—Mr. Lord, that I can do something for my country,” said Charles. The beating against the stiffness of his collar was very strong.

  “Your father was a very young man when he came to America, with your grandfather, Walther,” said Mr. Lord, as if Charles had not spoken. “They came here because they preferred freedom to regimentation. Am I correct?”

  “You are correct.” A feeling of suffocation came to Charles.

  Mr. Lord took his papers and returned them to his briefcase. He locked the latter carefully. He put it on his knees. He stared at Charles strongly, and his very pale eyes narrowed.

  “Mr. Wittmann,” he said, “I can tell you very little. You must not ask me for more than I can tell you, for I am not permitted to answer. I can give you only a little information. Within a week or so, perhaps a few days one way or another, you will be approached by an official of one of America’s largest manufacturers of armaments. That officer will try to buy from you a certain invention, which you own in your own name. An aeroplane steering-control assembly.”

  Charles was more dazed than ever.

  “You paid two thousand dollars for that invention, Mr. Wittmann. This official will offer you much more. He is prepared to pay you any price you ask.”

  “Go on,” said Charles.

  “Mr. Wittmann, you are a free agent. I cannot say to you: ‘You are forbidden to sell your patent to this company.’ Under the law, Mr. Wittmann, you can tell us to go to hell.”

  Charles said: “We are not the biggest concern in the country, Mr. Lord. I’m afraid I’m not following you very well. You are not telling me very much, you must admit. Why would this—officer—want my patent?”

  “Because it is the best aeroplane steering-control assembly patent so far registered. Because, Mr. Wittmann, this company will want it, and they don’t want it for America. They want it for a—for a foreign power, shall we say?”

  The beating in Charles’ neck had become sickening. But he could speak calmly: “It’s done all the time, isn’t it? Companies here manufacture for companies abroad. Patents are bought, exchanged, used. We’re at peace, Mr. Lord.”

  “Yes,” said the Colonel, very quietly, “we are at peace. Yes, Mr. Wittmann, I grant you that.” He waited, his hands gripping his briefcase. “I’ve told you all I can, Mr. Wittmann. I have asked you not to sell that patent to this unnamed company. That’s all.”

  Charles’ mind groped. He felt ponderously stupid. He said: “You have some reason. Yes, you have some reason. All of you.”

  “I did not say that, Mr. Wittmann. I have told you all I can tell you.”

  The sense of stupidity increased in Charles. And now, all at once, terror struck him, a quite unreasoning terror, like a blow. He was not well acquainted with fear; it was a stranger to him. He did not know why he should feel so beset and so afraid. He stood up, and looked down at the Colonel, and he put his hands on his desk and leaned on his shaking arms.

  “You know something,” he said. “And if you know something, you can stop it. Why don’t you stop it? Now? Now?”

  A change came over the Colonel’s face. “I am only a soldier, Mr. Wittmann. I have only my orders to see you, and to talk to you.”

  Charles repeated: “You know something. Why don’t you stop it?”

  Then the Colonel turned in his chair and looked at the windows. “Mr. Wittmann, I am not a politician. I follow orders. I read only the newspapers you read. I am told very little more than I have told you. I can only guess. Soldiers, Mr. Wittmann, are supposed to be mechanical creatures. We go where we are sent. We kill when we are told to kill. We are given slogans, bands, flags, uniforms. It is supposed to be enough for us.”

  Charles heard himself saying: “You wouldn’t have come to me if it were only a small matter. Say, the Balkans, or the Chinese. We—we’ve made a good thing out of China. America isn’t just having an attack of conscience. We just laugh at the comic opera of the Balkans. And it isn’t Mexico. If—if something happens—Mr. Lord, America will be in it. You know that, don’t you?”

  The Colonel did not reply.

  “Who?” said Charles.

  Still, the Colonel did not answer.

  “Not England,” said Charles, hoarsely. “Not Russia. There’s only one other country—”

  The Colonel lifted his hand. “Mr. Wittmann, I told you I know nothing.”

  But Charles said: “We are at peace. The whole world is at peace, except for a few minor little scuffles here and there. If—if something is brewing, we can stop it now. Even if we have to pass laws. We can stop it before it starts.”

  The Colonel slowly turned to him. “I think I said I wasn
’t a politician, sir.” His eyes were a blue flash in his face. “I know nothing about international politics. I’m only a soldier. There are times, Mr. Wittmann, when it is expedient to make—war. When it is profitable. When the people want it. The people, Mr. Wittmann, can always stop war simply by insisting that they want no war. But they never do, sir. They never do. They like it.”

  “No.”

  The Colonel nodded. “Mr. Wittmann, I may be only a soldier, but I am not a man without education. I’m not ignorant of my fellow-man. Neither are you. History, as someone has said, is a dull account of wars. Why, Mr. Wittman? Were the people led into them by lies, or did they want to believe the lies so that they’d have an excuse for war? Did they, to be very simple about it, just want to kill? Kill anyone, anywhere? The desire to kill is one of man’s most explosive and strongest instincts.” He regarded Charles with somber curiosity. “You know that, don’t you? Civilization is an attempt to guide that instinct into safer channels, such as making machines, goods, and so on. We have tried to substitute business and other competition for war. But there comes a time when the whole thing is blown to hell. Instinct is stronger than civilization, or morals, or religion. And there are men who know that only too well: politicians, armaments makers, Presidents, kings, leaders of the people. Men who will profit by the people’s love for war, and who will gain power by it, or financial rewards.”

  He stood up. They faced each other across the desk. A broad band of sunlight struck through the windows, lay between them, shining.

  “The world’s in a bad way, Mr. Wittmann,” said the Colonel. “The people are restless. Change is brewing. There are a lot of men who don’t like the idea of change. They’d prefer to set one nation to killing another nation than to—to let their own people be free. The people aren’t as ‘contented’ as they used to be, either.”

  He smiled a little. “We’re adventurous animals, Mr. Wittmann. Can you suggest any adventure which is more appealing than war? Any other adventure which frees man so thoroughly from a civilization he instinctively hates, because it restrains him and inhibits him? War offers irresponsibility, excitement, murder, hatred, plunder. What would you suggest in its place?”

  But Charles could only lean on his shaking arms and say nothing.

  The Colonel held his briefcase. Now his smile was gone. “You must give our country some credit, Mr. Wittmann. We are busy visiting men like you, who hold dangerous patents, or who can manufacture dangerous things. We are trying, Mr. Wittmann, trying very hard.”

  Charles said: “I will say ‘no’ to anybody. You knew I would. But what of the others?”

  The Colonel shrugged eloquently. He said: “The hope of peace is only in the people of the nation. If they don’t want it, we can’t enforce it. At the end, it rests with them. When there is war between two nations there is never just one guilty party. There are always two. There are ways to stop wars, but I’ve never yet heard of any nation using them, not once, in all recorded history.”

  “I have a son,” said Charles. He felt weak and undone.

  “I have three sons, and six grandsons,” said the Colonel. Again he smiled. “My grandsons wouldn’t mind a war.”

  Something about Charles must have moved him. “I can only tell you again, Mr. Wittmann, that there are quite a number of people who are trying to avert any war, or the possibility of any war. That is why I came to you today. Try to remember that. We are doing what you said ought to be done. We are trying to stop things before they have a chance to start.”

  He waited. Charles’ head had sunk between his broad shoulders. The Colonel said: “Again, Mr. Wittmann, I can’t insist too strongly that all this is very confidential.”

  Charles said: “That—patent. It belongs to America.” His voice dropped away.

  The Colonel nodded. “Good. Of course.”

  He went towards the door. He began to open it, then stopped. He looked back at Charles. “But, after all, we are at peace.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Thursday was an important day. It was also the day when Jochen would again be defeated, as Charles had so often defeated him before. In the past, contemplation of Jochen’s coming discomfiture had always given Charles several juicy moments of pleasure and contentment, had added an extra richness to his breakfast and a heightened approval of life as he lived it.

  But the importance of this Thursday had become diminished for Charles. Something had gone out of him the past few days. His thoughts wheeled back inexorably to Jimmy. He tried to shrug away his deep inner fear and foreboding. One never knew what those fellers in Washington were up to, especially since Wilson had been elected. One could expect anything. Even a melodramatic visit, such as the Colonel’s. All part of the kind of hysterical tension which Wilson and his Cabinet had communicated to the country at large. It was nonsense, of course. It would remain nonsense, until he, Charles, had received that unknown “official” from an “unknown company” which manufactured armaments. Charles could think of no such company except Bouchard and Sons, of Windsor. Windsor was only forty miles away. If anyone—ridiculous!—had any idea of visiting Charles Wittmann of Andersburg, the idea was certainly very faint.

  Charles had had dealings with the great Bouchard and Sons in the past. He had manufactured certain precision tools for them, but only in small quantities. They had machine tool shops of their own, enormous ones, in which the Wittmann buildings could be absorbed without noticeable expansion. Then they had placed a large order with Charles about two years ago, and he had received a very gracious and flattering letter from Mr. Jules Bouchard, himself, president of the company, congratulating him on the quality of the merchandise. Charles was inclined to think kindly of Bouchard and Sons, and had hoped for more orders. They had not come, but Charles was certain they would come. After all, he and his company owned many valuable machine-tool patents. Of course, Charles knew in a very vague and amorphous way that many people, and newspapers, accused Bouchard and Sons of helping to “foment” wars, but Charles had thought the accusations a trifle more than extravagant, and crudely sensational. Armaments makers could never really “foment” wars, in a direct sense. They merely supplied arms for nations who demanded wars. It was all “business,” and not in the least sinister.

  While dressing, and scowling to himself, Charles was reminded that he had felt depressed even before Colonel Grayson’s visit. Why was it? He could not quite remember. It had something to do with the tariff, and that pompous, serious old ass, William Jennings Bryan. While putting the tie-pin into his neat brown tie, Charles suddenly paused, his hands still.

  There was no use in trying to “pooh-pooh” the recollection of Colonel Grayson’s call. Now little snatches of articles in newspapers and magazines came back to him, small winds of calamity. “Der Tag.” That was it. There had been a report, sometime, in some paper, that the German Government had entertained a large group of high-ranking British military and naval men, and a toast had been given—by whom?—to “Der Tag.” The Day. What day? Charles sat down on the edge of his bed. His big room with the overpowering dark mahogany furniture was very hot. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and under his collar.

  Ominous fragments began to drift through his mind. The New York Times European correspondent had recently reported that French newspapers were beginning to publish obscure but inflammatory articles against Germany. It was curious, the Times reporter had remarked, but the same articles, “almost word for word,” had appeared in German newspapers against France. Very subtle—but there they were. Little prickling suspicions, little dancing points of flame, in a great quiet forest. Then there had been another report, also guarded, to the effect that even the Russian newspapers were asking rhetorical questions about “any future wars,” and so were the British, the Austrian, the Greek, the Bulgarian, and the Serbian. Sazaroff. The “merchant of death.” Charles put his fist against his wet forehead, and tried to remember. It had all seemed so unimportant and absurd to him. Anyway, all that was in Europ
e. “Smoking chimneys, peculiar activity,” had been reported by the American press, in and about the German armaments firm, Kronk. The munition works at Schultz-Poiret at Le Creusot in Burgundy had shown this “activity” also, and only very recently, and Bedors in Sweden, and Robsons-Strong, in England. “Widespread,” said Charles, to himself, sweating. “Too widespread.” His knuckles, pressed to his forehead, began to ache. “Something” was going on, as Colonel Grayson had hinted. However, if “something” was going on, it was happening in the capitals of Europe. Sibilant whispers from American newspapers began to return to Charles’ memory. He remembered the newspapers he had just recently read. All that talk of peace—. It was that talk which had so depressed him. It was strange, but he knew that he had not consciously linked up the memory of this everlasting peace talk with the memories of what he had been reading—so very casually—for many months. Now everything fell into order, like a baleful pattern. Above that pattern stood the face of his son, Jimmy.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know!” said Charles aloud, with muddled anger. He felt the hot August heat all about him. He heard a knock on his door, and called furiously: “Yes? What is it?”

  Apparently the knocker was taken aback at his tone, for the answer was timid: “It’s me; Mrs. Meyers, Mr. Wittmann. I wondered if you was sick. It’s almost half-past eight.”

  Charles said, trying to make his voice normal: “All right. You just startled me. I got up late. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  He found a fresh handkerchief for himself, then held it stupidly in his hand. He moved his short neck restively. Europe was always seething under the surface. The Kaiser had helped to stabilize the passions of Europe. He was a man of sense, though Charles had little admiration for men who were martinets, and who expressed huge contempt for the people. The Kaiser was not a man to start a great war. Hadn’t Teddy Roosevelt mentioned the Kaiser with respect not too long ago? Hadn’t the Kaiser entertained him, and hadn’t Teddy, himself, spoken of the wonderful sense of security and industry one encountered everywhere in Germany? Yet, once Teddy had said something rather odd. He, Charles, could not quite remember it, but it was something to the effect that “something was brewing” in Europe.