The Prize (27 page)

And then, out of the anarchy of this new population, there appeared, lo, a leader with an Idea, and the leader was plainly Claude himself—he saw that it was he, himself, and no other—and the Idea was a way, an inspiration, a way to feed them and help them survive in a place so unnatural and antagonistic to life.

Hammarlund had gone on talking, but Claude no longer heard him, for he was thinking hard.

‘Hammarlund,’ he said suddenly, ‘be quiet a moment.’

The industrialist immediately fell silent, unoffended, for he observed the strange distant look on the laureate’s face and acknowledged subservience to the
mystique
of the Idea.

‘Hammarlund,’ Claude said slowly, almost to himself, ‘you and this fellow of yours, and all the people you have labouring for you in this synthetic field, are off on the wrong foot. Something so obvious occurs to me—I will tell you. Allow me to speak my mind aloud—feel my way. Do not interrupt. The mistake, I think, I am almost positive, is that you are attempting to imitate nature, all the processes of nature, in the invention of your substitute foods. It would seem to me you must make a clean break from enslavement to nature. If you do not, you will always run a poor second and get nowhere. Why try to improve on God? No. I should think it would be wiser to let God be and to go off on your own. I repeat, a clean break. Start from scratch. Do not make food in imitation of nature but as totally new and daring creations of your own, a chemical larder.’

He lapsed into thought.

Awed, Hammarlund took the risk of intrusion. ‘I am not sure what you mean, Dr. Marceau. Do you mean—?’

‘This,’ said Claude, not to Hammarlund but to himself. ‘Take the problem of creating a synthesis of carbohydrates. Why do indoors what nature has already accomplished out of doors? Why bother to create artificial photosynthesis? Why try to create artificial atmosphere that plants require? Why not go directly to the source—glucose molecules—and from there build an entirely new chemical process that would lead to the discovery of manmade starches?’ He paused. ‘And as to inventing the proteins we find in meat by imitating meat—why meat at all? Why not a new and improved type of product with the same protein values and unencumbered by wasteful sinews and bone?’

Through the haze of concentration, he became aware of Hammarlund, staring down at him, jaw slack. How he wished that Denise stood in Hammarlund’s place, so that he could go on—on and on—throwing the Idea to her and catching it from her until they had their hypothesis. If Denise—Denise!

At once, he returned to his time and place, and remembered where he was and his mission.

‘What is the time, Mr. Hammarlund?’

‘The time? Why’—Hammarlund peered down at his wafer-thin gold wristwatch—‘it is ten minutes to three.’

‘
Mon Dieu!
’ Claude leaped to his feet. He had been here almost one hour and a half. He had completely forgotten his date with Gisèle. She had flown in from Copenhagen hours ago, and was awaiting his call and his person at the Hotel Malmen in South Stockholm. ‘I have a date—I must rush—I am late.’

Hammarlund was beside him, apologetic. ‘What a pity. Your approach to the problem—the brilliance—’

‘Never mind, I will know more when I discuss it with Denise. Call me a taxi.’

‘I can send you with my chauffeur—’

‘No, a taxi. I will be out in front.’

Hammarlund had gone to the telephone on the desk. ‘I do not know what has kept Dr. Lindblom—’

Claude stopped at the doorway. Lindblom. He had forgotten Lindblom, too. Of all things. He tried to summon forth the rancour that he had felt more than an hour ago. But it was no longer there. Lindblom was merely a bothersome beetle, one more minor disturbance with which the true scientist had always to cope. Still, as a matter of intellectual pride, Lindblom must not believe that he had not been found out.

‘Yes, your Lindblom,’ Claude said to Hammarlund. ‘You can give him a message for me. You tell him that I came here to punch him in the nose, and that if I ever find him making advances to my wife again, I shall break his neck. Good day, Mr. Hammarlund!’

Denise Marceau, still in her pink
négligé
, examined her nicotine-stained fingers, and realized that she had smoked an entire packet of cigarettes since Claude had stormed out of the suite in a frenzy of injured manhood.

The suspense, since, had been unbearable. She had paced, she had smoked, and she had wondered how her plot had unfolded at
إ
skslottet. She had made progress, of that she was certain. Claude’s reaction to her affair had exceeded her fondest hopes, and for a while, she had believed that Craig’s prognosis had been incorrect, and her own infallible. But now, with all this time gone, and no word of what had happened, she had begun to entertain serious doubts.

If her plot had worked, she would have known already. Claude would have salvaged his pride by knocking down Lindblom. After that, in a rage of righteous possession, he would have returned here, to the suite, and maybe knocked her down, too, and then would have regretted his fury and would have taken her to bed, and there would have been tender sweetness with all wounds repaired.

But he had not returned, and now she could only guess that he had behaved otherwise, after knocking down Lindblom. Duty performed, manhood restored, he had probably then regained his equilibrium, and determined that now it would be easier, more guiltless, to divorce her, and had gone on to enjoy his assignation with Gisèle Jordan, wherever that was taking place.

Grieved that Craig had likely been right, that her adultery had finally filled her husband with disgust rather than jealousy, Denise walked restlessly to the closet, located a fresh packet of cigarettes in her coat pocket, tore it open, and with pained sadness at the infinity of loneliness that confronted her, she lit a cigarette.

It was then that the telephone rang.

Her heart prayed: Claude.

She ran to the telephone, catching it before the third ring, and spoke into the mouthpiece with wariness.

‘
Allô?
’

‘Denise?’ The high-strung voice was male, but it was not Claude’s voice. ‘Are you alone?’

‘
Qui est là
—who is there?’

‘Oscar—Oscar Lindblom.’

She sighed. Then he was alive. He would know her fate. ‘How are you, my dear? Of course, I am alone.’

‘Your husband—your husband has found out about us!’

‘I know—I know. He found out by accident. Through the waiter who served us last night.’

‘He came to the laboratory to kill me.’

‘Apparently he did not succeed,’ said Denise dryly. ‘Well—what did he do to you?’

‘Nothing. I was not there.’

Denise’s heart sank. He was not there. The third act had been a dud. ‘How do you know he went after you?’

‘He found Hammarlund in the laboratory. He waited for me for about an hour and a half, and then he had to leave. He had a date.’ Denise’s heart sank further. A date? Gisèle. And for herself? Alimony.

Lindblom’s voice continued tinnily through the receiver. ‘I missed your husband by ten minutes. Hammarlund was pleased as punch. He said that he and Dr. Marceau had the longest talk—’

‘About us?’

‘No—no—about synthetic food.’

‘
Synthetic food?
’ Denise exploded. ‘That—that—that
worm!
’

‘What—what did you say?’

‘Nothing. Oscar, listen.’ She had lost, she knew, but she would not retreat without inflicting the greatest casualties possible upon the foe. The old plot had failed, but a fresh one had formed. ‘Tell me, where are you now?’

‘About a mile from you. I had to return to—’

‘Can you come right over?’

‘But your husband—’

‘He’ll be out all afternoon—he will not be back until after dinner.’

‘Denise, please, it is dangerous. He might—’

‘Oscar, I
know
where he is, and he will
not
be back. I am quite alone.’

‘But, Denise—as much as I want to see you—in fact, I was up all last night thinking about us—’

‘I was too, darling.’

‘—it could be terrible, if he came on us. Hammarlund warned me.’

‘Warned you? Of what?’

‘About seeing you again. Just as your husband was leaving, he told Hammarlund to tell me that he would break my neck if he ever found me with you again.’

Denise’s sunken heart lifted and soared. ‘He said that?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Bravado, Oscar, mere bravado. He would not touch a flea. He knows that he is impotent, and that I cannot bear it—and he knows that I love you. I told him so.’

‘You told him?’

‘Why not? It is true.’

‘Oh, Denise—’

‘Darling, I am desolate without you. If I cannot have you here now—’

‘Denise—Denise—’ His voice broke off, and then was heard again. ‘Are you absolutely positive that he will not be back?’

‘I swear to it on the Bible. You are safe, and so am I. Come at once. I must know everything that transpired at the laboratory. And I want you—do you hear?
I want you
.’

She could hear the choking emotion of Lindblom’s voice. ‘I—I—I will be right there.’

The moment that she returned the receiver to the cradle, she regretted the invitation. She had thought that last night would be the last of Lindblom’s pitiful acrobatics. But on instinct, when she understood that all was lost, she had wanted to leave Claude with a picture that would haunt him the rest of his days. She had invited Lindblom with the intention of keeping him in the room, delaying him, and then going to bed with him at the time Claude would be returning. She did not consider what might happen after that. She considered only the humiliation to which he would be subjected. But now, that necessity seemed foolish, and worse, dangerous, especially if she still had the chance to save their marriage. For now, there was one ray of hope. Claude had, after all, displayed a flare-up of husbandly possessiveness in his last words to Hammarlund. This parting threat might have meant one of two things—a defence of pride or honest jealousy.

Why had she so blindly insisted on that child’s coming to her room again, enticed him with the lure of one more fornication? It was some inexplicable intuition and nothing else, a yearning to know, firsthand, at length, what had taken place between Claude and Hammarlund. She could not believe that Claude, in such a wrath, could have coolly sat for an hour and a half and discussed synthetic food. There must have been more, and she would find out. She must trust her feelings and not her sensibility. She would learn if Claude had given any indication of a future for them. If he had not—well, the rest was clear—Gisèle the victor.

She trudged slowly to the bathroom, her slippers plopping against her heels. As to her promise to perform sexual intercourse with Lindblom, she would find a way out of that. She would be attractive, she would permit him to kiss her, even pet her, but beyond such innocence, she would have to say no. She would extract the information that she suspected he possessed, and bid him good-bye. With this last visit, his usefulness would come to an end.