“Yes sir,” Balzac admitted. “But I can explain -”
“Does the Fifth Avenue Merchants’ Association know about this?” one of the draft-board members exploded. “If they do, they will surely prosecute. And if they prosecute, the results are liable to reflect adversely on this body. Do you realize that?”
“I do,” the chairman said soothingly. “But there are obviously many more ramifications to this case than we expected. Let us simply resolve to do our duty and face whatever consequences may result. Now, young man, just why did you feel it necessary to besmirch the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue with your saliva?”
“It was uncontrollable,” Balzac tried to explain. “I had tasted the contents of the bag, and when she told me what it was, I simply reacted as anyone might have. I spat. And that’s when this cop grabbed me.”
“Good for him!”
“New York’s Finest!”
“Glad to see they’re on the job!”
“Gentlemen!” Once again the chairman rapped for order. I appreciate your sentiments. But if we don’t let the young man tell his story without further interruption, we’ll be here all week. Go on now, Mr. Hosenpfeffer.”
“Well, it all gets kind of confused after that. There was this lawyer, and these demonstrators, and counter-demonstrators, and some woman who lost her kid, and the Girl Scouts, and—”
“The Girl Scouts! An admirable organization. I just love their cookies. You didn’t happen to buy any, did you?” one of the board members asked Balzac.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “Don’t you like Girl Scout cookies?”
“I love them, sir. I just love them. But there was so much confusion—”
“Sounds damned suspicious to me,” the draft-board member grumbled. “Denying little girls their birthright. Refusing to buy their cookies. A lousy couple of bucks . . .”
It s a very worthy cause, sir,” Balzac was quick to say. “It’s just that there were so many worthy causes there all at the same time, and I was trying to explain to this policeman, and—”
“How is it that the policeman didn’t arrest you?” the chairman asked.
“I’m coming to that, sir. He was going to when Miss Candie here returned and explained to him just why it was that I spat on the sidewalk. That’s when he let me go. But I was still so shook up that I had to have a cigarette. And that’s when I burned my draft card.”
“Then you admit it!” The chairman pounced. “You admit that you burned your draft card!”
“Yes. But it was an accident. You see, the pack of matches flared up in my hand, and—”
“What kind of matches?” another member of the board asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked you what kind of matches. I mean, you’ll admit that it’s pretty unusual for matches to just flare up. What I’m getting at is just what kind of incendiary matches were these? How did they come into your possession? What was their point of origin? How did they get into the country in the first place?”
“I don’t see what-—-” Balzac started to say.
“Oh, you don’t, don’t you? Well, young man, you may not realize it, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. If this draft-card burning really wasn’t deliberate on your part, then there’s always the chance of planned sabotage. How do we know that there aren’t more of these incendiary matches being sneaked into the unsuspecting hands of other draft-card holders? How do we know it isn’t all part of a carefully worked out conspiracy designed to undermine this nation’s conscription program? How do we know it doesn’t go further than that? How do we know these matches aren’t being foisted off on those holding security clearances, or White House passes, or—I shudder to think of it—Diners’ Club cards!”
“Gee, I never thought of that,” Balzac admitted. “I guess I’m pretty naive, all right. I thought it was just a simple accident. It never occurred to me that it might be part of an international plot.”
“Now, just a minute,” the chairman interrupted. “We’re by no means sure of that as yet. Your innocence has yet to be established. So far all we have is your unsubstantiated story that this matchbook flared up and burned up your draft card. All this talk of deliberate sabotage might just be a red herring you’re using to throw us off the track. The point is, can you prove you didn’t do it on purpose?”
“Miss Candie here saw it happen. She’ll bear me out.”
“Well, young lady?” The chairman turned to Penny.
“That’s true,” she said. “The matchbook flared up, and the next thing I knew his draft card was destroyed.”
“How do we know you’re not in cahoots with him?” a board member asked.
“And even if you’re not,” another wanted to know, “how can you be so sure of what was in his mind at the time of the draft-card burning? Maybe the matchbook flaring up was just a big act to pull the wool over your eyes.”
“Yes,” said a third. “Also, it’s even possible that the young man did it deliberately without even being aware that he was doing it deliberately.”
“You lost me going around that last curve, Al,” the chairman protested.
“It’s psychology, George,” Al explained. “Suppose this young man had a subconscious desire to burn up his draft card, and without his conscious mind being aware of it this prompted him to set fire to the book of matches in such a way that it couldn’t help setting fire to the draft card. Wouldn’t that make him just as guilty?”
“Subconscious? Is that like subversive?” a fourth member interjected.
The chairman ignored the question. “You’re right,” he agreed with Al. “He’d be just as guilty. Even more so. Nothing’s worse than a subconscious coward. Nothing’s more of a threat to the security of the nation than a man who’s a traitor and doesn’t even know he’s a traitor.”
“I’m not a traitor!” Balzac wailed. “It was just an accident!”
“It really was,” Penny echoed. “Just an accident!”
“Perhaps,” the chairman said judiciously. “Perhaps it was. I’m not prepared to say until myself and my colleagues have given the matter full deliberation. If you have nothing further to say in defense of this heinous crime, then I would ask you to wait in the anteroom so that we can get down to these deliberations.”
Balzac led Penny from the room. They collapsed together, side by side on a bench in the antechamber. “What do you think they’ll do to me?” Balzac asked after a moment, nibbling on his cuticles.
“I don’t know,” Penny admitted. “And frankly I’m feeling sorrier and sorrier that I got mixed up in this whole mess.”
“What do you mean? I’m innocent. You know that. You had to help me prove that. It was your duty as a citizen.”
“Maybe. But maybe I’m not so sure you’re innocent any more. Maybe that man in there was right and you just made it look like an accident so you could suck me into being your witness. How do I know? I don’t know anything about you. I never met you before yesterday. Maybe you’re a Communist sympathizer for all I know.”
“Now you’re turning on me, too!” Balzac protested. “It was an accident! You know that! You saw it! It was an accident!”
“I suppose so,” Penny sighed. “I don’t know. I’m so confused. I’m so tired and confused.” She got to her feet. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room and throw some cold water on my face and freshen up,” she told Balzac. She left him and crossed over to the receptionist to ask directions to the ladies’ room.
“Through that door, down the hallway, turn left at the end, first door to your right, second door to your left after the ‘Fire Exit’ sign.”
Penny started out following the directions, but somewhere along the line she got mixed up. She came through a door and found herself on the end of a long line of young men in civilian clothes. She started to back out when a familiar voice sounded out from a few feet in front of her.