"Plenty of symbolism in Beckwith, too," agreed Carl. "But what about the Professor?"
Kincaid nodded. "O.K.—let's get back to him. Now, where was I?"
"The Americans are guided and protected by the British," prompted Carl.
"Yes. That was the general idea. He said the outside world was always waiting to take us for a ride. Well, we know that. But then he had a twist. He said thereal danger was not from the outside world, but from internal corruption. While we're concentrating on people like the Russians, who are the open enemies, same as the tourist-gougers ashore, the real damage is being done by people inside."
He paused, and Carl was glad of it. He needed a space to collect his thoughts. He could just hear the Professor giving their whole position away, in a few measured sentences, and he was appalled by it. The damned old fool. . . . The only question that remained was, whether Kincaid was smart enough to have worked out the parallel.
Apparently he was not smart enough—not yet. "Thing I don't understand is, the connexion with the ship. Over that last item, I mean. I can see how it's us spending the money, and the British doing the organizing, and the crooks ashore taking us for every cent we've got. But what's the danger inside the ship? Who are meant to be the bad characters here? Or does he mean all the rows that go on? Is that it?"
"Very probably," said Carl, grateful for the false lead. He tried to inject into his voice an easy confidence. "I must say I'm inclined to agree that they have an unsettling effect on our lives, aren't you?"
Kincaid rubbed his chin again. "Maybe that was it. Though it doesn't add up to danger, surely? . . . Why does he talk that way, anyway? Mind you, it doesn't worry me. Fifty years in politics, you get yourself a tough hide. But lots of people don't like it. They think he's needling them."
Carl shook his head. "I'm sure he's not. It's simply that he has an analytical turn of mind—"
"I call it needling," said Kincaid briskly.
It seemed to Carl that he must start mending some fences. "I can assure you, the difference is radical," he began.
Kincaid, conditioned to react to the fatal word, did so instantly. "Radical, eh? Is that the trouble? I might have guessed it! How did he get on board, for God's sake? I tell you, those bastards are everywhere."
"No, no," said Carl, stemming the flow as best he could. "You misunderstand me. What I meant was, there's a world of difference between needling—saying things to provoke or annoy—and theorizing for its own sake. I'm quite sure the Professor was simply trying to make conversation, in the realm of world politics. Probably as a compliment to you. If he got a bit mixed up in the process—" he shrugged, and smiled, as one man of the world to another. "It's understandable. We've got to remember that he's getting old."
"Old enough to know better," grumbled Kincaid. He tossed off the remainder of his brandy, and stood up; he had seen someone else he wanted to talk to. "Well, I just thought I'd mention it to you. That sort of talk's unsettling. Even when it makes sense. It might be a good idea to have a word with him."
"I certainly intend to do that," said Carl.
The Professor was asleep when Carl found him; stretched out on his bunk under a fan, wearing only a pair of patched drawers, his withered old body collapsed, his mouth open to allow the bubbling snores to escape. He must have lain down straight after dinner, and dozed off. Carl, in a quiet fury, reached over and shook him by the shoulder.
"Wake up," he commanded. "I want to talk to you."
"Eh, what's that?" The Professor, fathoms deep in unconsciousness after a day's steady drinking and a prolonged meal, struggled to come to the surface. His eyes blinked through wispy grey hair as he looked at Carl, and he sat up shakily. "Good heavens, Carl, what's the matter?"
"What have you been saying to Kincaid?" demanded Carl.
"Kincaid? That ridiculous mountebank!" The Professor, lowering his stick-like legs over the edge of the bunk, snufHed the words. "I said nothing of any consequence to him, I can assure you. It would be an utter waste of time."
"Don't give me that," said Carl sharply. He realized that he was on edge, harassed by a score of things, worried especially about Kathy, but he was unable to control his anger. "You've been talking to him—about us!"
"Us?" The Professor, collecting his wits, was beginning to comprehend. "Nothing of the sort. I was drawing a simple parallel between—"
"I know all about your simple parallels, you bloody old fool! You as good as told him that we were operating as a gang on board, that we were the real danger to him and the rest of the passengers. Didn't you?"
Deeply offended, the Professor looked down at his curling, yellowish toes. "Really, Carl! Surely you and I have been friends long enough—"
"Don't soft-soap me!" snarled Carl, suddenly beside himself with fury. "I didn't bring you along as a friend. You're hired, hired to do a job, and instead of that you're well on the way to ruining everything." He pointed an accusing finger downwards, stabbing the crass air between them. "Why did you talk like that to Kincaid? Have you gone crazy?"
"Certainly not," said the Professor, feebly trying to regain his dignity. He drew a towel round his shoulders, and thrust his feet into ancient felt slippers. "I said nothing to Kincaid which he could possibly construe—"
Carl broke in. "I'll tell you exactly what you said to Kincaid. You said—or implied—that the danger to him and to the other passengers wasn't when they got ashore, it was right here on board. Internal corruption!" He felt a fresh wave of fury exploding inside him. "God damn it, what were you trying to do? Put him on his guard? Tip him off?"
"He is much too stupid—" began the Professor, wavering.
"He's not stupid at all. He's a hard-shell politician with a nose like a bloodhound. You said more than enough to start him wondering and guessing. I know his sort. He'll worry away at it till he comes up with the right answer." He looked down at the old man. "Professor, I could just about kick you off the ship, right now. In fact, it would be a damned good idea to send you home from Cape Town."
The Professor, now cowed by an anger he had never witnessed before, much less provoked, raised humble eyes. "I'm sorry, Carl. I didn't think. . . . You know how it is when one starts speculating on an intriguing theme."
"I know how you are," answered Carl roughly. "Just a drooling old idiot. Well, I'm warning you—that's the last chance you'll get. If I hear one single word more ... In future, just you keep out of Kincaid's way, and don't talk like that to anyone. Anyone! You understand?"
"Yes, Carl." In spite of the hot, airless cabin, he drew his towel closer round his shoulders, shivering. "I'm sorry, Carl," he said again. "Depend upon it, I shall take especial care in the future."
"You'd better. . . . You just lay off all that sort of talk, else there'll be trouble. And lay off the booze, too. Or I'll cut you off entirely."
"I hardly think it's a matter of the amount of alcohol—"
"And don't argue!" shouted Carl suddenly. "Do you want to drive me nuts? You do what you're told! Don't drink. Don't talk. Don't do anything except be on hand whenever I want you. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Carl." The tattered patrician dignity had all but crumbled away; all that was left was the shell of an old man, half naked, stripped of much more than his clothes. "I give you my solemn promise."