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Bart Stanton liked to walk along those quiet streets of an evening, just to let the peacefulness seep into him. And, knowing it was rather childish, he still enjoyed the small pleasure of playing hookey from the Neurophysics Institute. Technically, he supposed, he was still a patient there. More, now that he had accepted Colonel Mannheim's assignment, he was presumably under military discipline.
Christophe's next article, though not a model of courtesy, did not contain a single offensive remark about anybody. Mannheim's method was very simple: they were all amazed at not having thought of it before: Christophe never read what he wrote in the Review, and he hardly read the proofs of his articles, only very quickly and carelessly.
If he wasn't training physically, he was listening to lectures from the psychologists or from Colonel Mannheim laying plans and considering possibilities for the one great goal that seemed to be the focal point of his whole life. What would happen if he failed? He would die, of course, and Mannheim's Plan Beta would immediately go into effect. The Nipe would be killed eventually.
I wonder whether I read all that stuff complete or just browsed through a copy of Bartlett's Quotations. Fragments. We've got to get organized here, brother. Colonel Mannheim's little puppet is going to cut his strings and do a Pinocchio. "O.K., Bart," the P.T. said, giving Stanton a final slap, "you're all set. See you tomorrow." "Right. Gimme my clothes."
"I'll say this," Bart Stanton said musingly, "our friend, the Nipe, has plenty of guts. And patience." He smiled a little and then amended his statement. "From our own point of view, that is." Colonel Mannheim's face took on a quizzical expression. "How do you mean? I was about to agree with you until you tacked that last phrase on. What does point of view have to do with it?"
"What does it matter to me?" he said. "It is not my affair." He went to sleep. But next day the first person he met when he went out was Mannheim, who called him "Bluecher," and asked him if he had made up his mind to conquer all France. From the garrulous newsmonger he learned that the story of the box had had a success exceeding all Mannheim's expectations. "Thanks to you!
They parted very good friends: and Christophe was not a little surprised three hours later at rehearsal to see Mannheim's head poked through the little door leading to the orchestra, smiling and grimacing, and making mysterious signs at him. When the rehearsal was over Christophe went to him. Mannheim took his arm familiarly. "You can spare a moment?... Listen. I have an idea.
Only one thing worried him: the thought of having to be alone in such a pleasure. He had no remorse about Mannheim's father or the Gruenebaums, whose box he was taking: but he was remorseful about those whom he might have taken with him. He thought of the joy it could give to other young people like himself: and it hurt him not to be able to give it them.
"Some excitement ourselves, to-day, down at the store, believe me. The Old Man's son started in to learn the retail selling end of the business. Back of the showcase with the rest of us, waiting on trade, and looking like a Yale yell." Pa would put down his paper to stare over his reading specs at Al. "Mannheim's son! The president!" "Yep! And I guess he loves it, huh?
That was the name. He had met him once in the days when he was writing for Mannheim's review. Then, they were enemies: Christophe was only just beginning, and the other was already famous.
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