How long ago? he wondered. Five years, or was it six? A man by the name of Johnny Brown, he remembered, had been the model. Johnny was a good man and he had used him several times. Later on, when he had tried to find him, he had been unable to locate him. He had not been seen for months in his old haunts along the waterfront and no one seemed to know where he had gone.
Five years ago, six years ago—sold to put bread into his belly, although that was silly, for when did he ever paint other than for bread? And here it was. He tried to recall the purchaser, but was unable to.
There was a closet, and when he opened it, he found a row of brand-new clothes, boots and shoes lined up on the floor, hats ranged neatly on the shelf. And all of them would fit—he was sure they would. The setters and the baiters of this trap would have seen to that. In the highboy next to the bed would be underwear, shirts, sock, sweaters—the kind that he would buy.
«We are taken care of,» Enid had told him, sitting on the sofa with him before the flaring fire. There could be, he told himself, no doubt of that. No harm was intended them. They, in fact, were coddled.
And the question: Why? Why a few hand-picked people selected from many millions?
He walked to a window and stood looking out of it. The room was in the back of the house so that he looked down across the grove of ghostly birch.
The moon had risen and hung like a milk-glass globe above the dark blur of the ocean. High as he stood, he could see the whiteness of the spray breaking on the boulders.
He had to have time to think, he told himself, time to sort it out, to get straight in his mind all the things that had happened in the last few hours.
There was no sense in going to bed; tense as he was, he’d never get to sleep. He could not think in this room, nor, perhaps, in the house. He had to go some place that was uncluttered. Perhaps if he went outside and walked for an hour or so, if no more than up and down the driveway, he could get himself straightened out.
The blaze in the fireplace in the drawing room was little more than a glimmer in the coals when he went past the door.
A voice called to him: «David, is that you?»
He spun around and went back to the door. A dark figure was huddled on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
«Jonathon?» Latimer asked.
«Yes, it is. Why don’t you keep me company. I’m an old night owl and, in consequence, spend many lonely hours. There’s coffee on the table if you want it.»
Latimer walked to the sofa and sat down. Cups and a carafe of coffee were on the table. He poured himself a cup.
«You want a refill?» he asked Jonathon.
«If you please.» The older man held out his cup and Latimer filled it. «I drink a sinful amount of this stuff.» said Jonathon. «There’s liquor in the cabinet. A dash of brandy in the coffee, perhaps.»
«That sounds fine,» said Latimer. He crossed the room and found the brandy, brought it back, pouring a dollop into both cups.
They settled down and looked at one another. A nearly burned log in the fireplace collapsed into a mound of coals. In the flare of its collapse, Latimer saw the face of the other man—beard beginning to turn gray, an angular yet refined face, eyebrows that were sharp exclamation points.
«You’re a confused young man,» said Jonathon.
«Extremely so,» Latimer confessed. «I keep asking all the time why and who.»
Jonathon nodded. «Most of us still do, I suppose. It’s worst when you first come here, but you never quit. You keep on asking questions. You’re frustrated and depressed when there are no answers. As time goes on, you come more and more to accept the situation and do less fretting about it. After all, life is pleasant here. All our needs are supplied, nothing is expected of us. We do much as we please. You, no doubt, have heard of Enid’s theory that we are under observation by an alien race that has penned us here in order to study us.»
«Enid told me,» said Latimer, «that she did not necessarily believe the theory, but regarded it as a nice idea, a neat and dramatic explanation of what is going on.»
«It is that, of course,» said Jonathon, «but it doesn’t stand up. How would aliens be able to employ the staff that takes such good care of us?»
«The staff worries me,» said Latimer. «Are its members trapped here along with us?»
«No, they’re not trapped,» said Jonathon. «I’m certain they are employed, perhaps at very handsome salaries. The staff changes from time to time, one member leaving to be replaced by someone else. How this is accomplished we do not know. We’ve kept a sharp watch in the hope that we might learn and thus obtain a clue as to how we could get out of here, but it all comes to nothing. We try on occasions, not too obviously, to talk with the staff, but beyond normal civility, they will not talk with us. I have a sneaking suspicion, too, that there are some of us, perhaps including myself, who no longer try too hard. Once one has been here long enough to make peace with himself, the ease of our life grows upon us. It would be something we would be reluctant to part with. I can’t imagine, personally, what I would do if I were turned out of here, back into the world that I have virtually forgotten. That is the vicious part of it—that our captivity is so attractive, we are inclined to fall in love with it.»
«But certainly in some cases there were people left behind—wives, husbands, children, friends. In my own case, no wife and only a few friends.»
«Strangely enough,» said Jonathon, «where such ties existed, they were not too strong.»
«You mean only people without strong ties were picked?»
«No, I doubt that would have been the case. Perhaps among the kind of people who are here, there is no tendency to develop such strong ties.»
«Tell me what kind of people. You told me you are a philosopher and I know some of the others. What about Underwood?»
«A playwright. And a rather successful one before he came here.»
«Charlie? Jane?»
«Charlie is a cartoonist, Jane an essayist.»
«Essayist?»
«Yes, high social consciousness. She wrote rather telling articles for some of the so-called little magazines, even a few for more prestigious publications. Charlie was big in the Middle West. Worked for a small daily, hut his cartoons were widely reprinted. He was building a reputation and probably would have been moving on to more important fields.»
«Then we’re not all from around here. Not all from New England.»
«No. Some of us, of course. Myself and you. The others are from other parts of the country.»
«All of us from what can be roughly called the arts. And from a wide area. How in the world would they—whoever they may be—have managed to lure all these people to this house? Because I gather we had to come ourselves, that none of us was seized and brought here.»
«I think you are right. I can’t imagine how it was managed. Psychological management of some sort, I would assume, but I have no idea how it might be done.»
«You say you are a philosopher. Does that mean you taught philosophy?»
«I did at one time. But it was not a satisfactory job. Teaching those old dead philosophies to a group of youngsters who paid but slight attention was no bargain, I can tell you. Although, I shouldn’t blame them, I suppose. Philosophy today is largely dead. It’s primitive, outdated, the most of it. What we need is a new philosophy that will enable us to cope with the present world.»
«And you are writing such a philosophy?»
«Writing at it. I find that as time goes on, I get less and less done. I haven’t the drive any longer. This life of ease, I suppose. Something’s gone out of me. The anger, maybe. Maybe the loss of contact with the world I knew. No longer exposed to that world’s conditions, I have lost the feel for it. I don’t feel the need of protest, I’ve lost my sense of outrage, and the need for a new philosophy has become remote.»