"This sounds curiously like the argument about whether a shark is brave, because he will attack anything no matter how big, or cowardly, because he prefers to feed off the crippled, the sick and the dying. Or is a lion clever, as he shows himself to be in his stalking of prey, or stupid, as he indicates by his irrational behaviour when caged in a zoo?
"The fact is, as all of you should know by now, that the shark is neither brave nor cowardly. And the lion is neither clever nor stupid. They exist outside of these concepts. They are instinctual and those words are meaningless when applied to them. Did it ever occur to any of you that perhaps our tests are meaningless for Mr. Pelham, because they are designed for normal human beings? Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Mr. Pelham is like an animal, showing behaviour patterns that once we would characterize as intelligent, another time as stupid; one time as brave, another time as cowardly? Did it ever occur to you that Dr. Pelham might be a creature of instinct or a human being programmed to act as a creature of instinct? And that to study him and understand him, we must approach him as we would approach a beast of the field? "Did any of that every occur to any of you geniuses?" He sat back and occupied himself with his pipe and with being Nils Brewster. No one else spoke. He puffed rapidly on his pipe, satisfied that he had again won the day, and then went on:
"Frankly, I don't know why any of us care about this Remo Pelham. I surely don't. But-just academically of course-I think he is perhaps best measured against the standards of instinct. Through his unconscious. It would seem to be the province of Dr. Hirshbloom. I suggest we just forget him, and let him go on doing whatever it is a policeman does around here. Leave him for Dr. Hirshif she's interested.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
But it was obvious that Dr. Hirshbloom did not wish to deal with the American. The new Brewster Forum bobby showered the little Hebrew wench with the typical colonial effusiveness that Americans consider charm, and civility people understand as undue familiarity.
Geoffrey Hawkins, Brewster Forum sky-diving instructor and former subaltern of Her Majesty's Royal Marines refused to bestow the recognition of a glance upon either his pupil or that incredible American who insisted upon trying to make a date with her.
Hawkins sat in the Piper Cub, his parachute a cushion behind him and his legs stretched across the width of the small single-engine plane.
It was his job, a labour for daily purse, to instruct any staff members of the Forum who wished to parachute in the art of parachuting. Fortunately, that incredible motley crew of the gross technological giant that George III had allowed to wend its crude way into independence, dared not suffer Hawkins' explicit and daily disdain.
Only the Israeli girl, who undoubtedly had to continue her training, participated in the sky diving. Which was rather a bit of all right, since she had the decency not to attempt a conversation with Geoffrey Hawkins. Either she knew her place, understood decorum, or had nothing to say. Which for a Jew was an incredible virtue. Unfortunately so few other people shared her ability to refrain from conversation.
Like that typically German bore, who pretended to be of another nationality. He had given Hawkins $5,000 to see that Remo Pelham did not land alive. But then he had insisted upon trying to justify it to Hawkins.
Geoffrey Hawkins needed no justification. One had to live. And anyway, it would not be murder. Murder was when you deprived an Englishman of life. Survival was when you took life from an American. And public health was when one removed Irishmen.
It was a bit of a shame however that this Pelham was not Australian. Then one would know that one was rea criminal. Or the seed of a criminal, which was the same thing anyway.
Even in Britain, the gentry had lost sight of what they were. The world had gone mad and Britain had gone mad with it. This pathetic affection and respect for America, a nation which had once had an Irish President. Scots walk around like human beings. Welshmen knighted every day. And all of them calling themselves British. When only Englishmen were English!
The sun had set on the soul of the British empire.
"Hey, buddy. How do you fix this thing?"
It was the American. He was going to jump from 13,000 feet, free fall for one minute, then open his chute and land. He had never been in a parachute before.
Five thousand dollars for this? Geoffrey Hawkins could earn his money by allowing this colonial bumpkin just to attempt free fall. But that would not be thorough. Thor was cutting the leg straps under the leather joints so that when the chute opened, if it opened, it would rise from the shoulder harness and Remo Pelham would keep going down, out of his chute, to the ground. , "Hey, buddy. How do you get this thing on?"
Geoffrey Hawkins turned to the financial pages. If one could properly invest one's $5,000, one could transform it into a rather considerable amount.
"Hey. You with the moustache and the paper. How does this thing buckle?"
Imperial Chemical Industries was up. Good. If one invested in Imperial Chemical Industries, one could not only help civilized industry but oneself. It was a good investment for oneself.
Finally, the Jewess helped him. No character, thought Hawkins. She had refused to talk to the American, had turned away from him, had ignored his blandishments and his insipid pleading, but now she turned to help him with the chute. Leg straps, shoulder straps, the rip cord ring, proper harness position.
When done, she turned away again. "Thirteen thousand feet," she said to Hawkins.
"Umm," he replied, because as jump instructor, he had to.
"We're ready," she said. The soon-to-be-dead American sat beside her.
The Germans had a point. But they were so crude about it. If one were to strip a German to his soul, one would achieve the essence of gauche. Even the way that Hun had slipped the envelope to Geoffrey Hawkins. As if he were reaching surreptitiously into Hawkin's privates.
"Yessir, this is going to be fun," said the American. His brown eyes were shining. His face was shaved of hair. He would clunk like a pinball machine on the Virginia country. He would tilt in all directions.
The engines revved, groaning for power, and the light plane shook.
Her Majesty's forces, according to the Times, were still in Aden by the Persian Gulf. Lucky Aden. But this was America which had so stubbornly insisted upon going it alone and was paying for it daily.
The Jewess had finally relented. She was explaining something to the American. Hawkins listened from behind the Times.
"The plane is going to 13,000 feet. It's a one-minute free fall. You pull your cord immediately. Just follow me. I'll make sure your cord is pulled. You're very stupid trying this the first time."
"Listen, sweetheart, don't worry about me."
"You are incredibly stupid."
"This was the only way I could get to talk to you."
"As I said, you are incredibly stupid."
The two were yelling now, to overcome the motors.
"I want to talk to you," the American said.
"Your leg straps are too loose."
"When can we get together?"
"I'm busy this year. Try me next year at the same time."
Suddenly her voice called out, "Mr. Hawkins! Who gave him this chute?"
She was doing it again. Talking to Geoffrey Hawkins without being addressed first. He ignored her.
"Will you put down that paper? You can't let this man jump in this chute."
Put down the paper? What gall.
Suddenly the dark columns of small type disappeared. The paper went flying. It had been ripped out of his hands by the American.
"I beg your pardon," Geoffrey said in his most disdainful manner, calculated to set the American cringing in apologies.