The United States Embassy escort, over Saralee’s weak protests, purchased the newspaper for Garrett, and two others besides, both of which also featured the visage of Carlo Farelli on their front pages. As they strode to the waiting Caravelle, Garrett requested the Embassy man to translate the captions and stories, and, innocently, he did so. Listening to the language of the Danish correspondents in Stockholm-‘Italian Saviour of Human Hearts’, ‘The Genius Who Has a Heart’, ‘Nobel Laureate in Medicine Arrives in Stockholm in Triumph’-Garrett blanched, and Saralee suffered, seeing the wrath in his twitching features.
Before boarding the jet, Garrett snatched the newspapers from his host, barely remembering to thank him for his kindness, and soon lost himself in his seat. In the hour that they had been aloft since Copenhagen, Saralee observed, he had never once let the newspapers off his lap, and constantly he had returned to them and to Farelli’s hateful countenance.
Now Saralee determined to break the spell. ‘John, you haven’t looked around the plane once. Isn’t the décor divine? I adore pastel.’
Petulantly, Garrett did not lift his head. He had no interest in pastel at the moment.
Saralee would not be put off. ‘We’ve still got twenty-five minutes. Why don’t you have a drink? I’ll have one, if you will. Let’s have real French champagne.’
‘If you insist.’
‘I’m only thinking what’s good for you. Besides, this is an occasion. We’re almost there. You’re going to get the Nobel Prize.’
‘All right, Saralee, please. In fact, it’s a good idea.’
She rose from her chair. ‘You call the hostess. And no flirting when my back is turned. I’ve seen them. I’m going to the washroom. I want to look fresh.’ She crossed into the aisle, bumping his knees, and knocking the newspapers to the floor. ‘Be right back.’
Garrett collected the newspapers, and folded them on his lap once more. He took a cigar from the inside of his coat-cigars were a recent habit, in keeping with his new station-moistened and bit off the tip, and applied his lighter. Puffing discontentedly, he stretched his neck to see what lay outside the window. Nothing met his sight but azure sky. They were at 28,000 feet, he remembered. It only proved that you could be as unhappy close to heaven as on the ground.
He thought that he had heard his name spoken, and rotated his body towards the aisle, past the ball of smoke he had exhaled. He found a serious young lady standing beside his seat, inspecting him. Except for her outlandish hairdo, severe bangs, too girlish, with the remainder of her auburn hair piled vertical in a manner indescribable, she was not unattractive. Her face was young, twenty-five to twenty-eight, he reckoned, and the immediate total impression was that of a hatchet. The bright brown eyes were narrow, the nose an instrument for pecking, the mouth thin and small. Her neck seemed inordinately long, and the effect, created perhaps by the cowl collar of her tweed suit, was that of a woman peeking out of a manhole. The thick suit hid her figure entirely.
‘Dr. John Garrett?’ she repeated.
‘Yes,’ he replied, shifting, not sure if he was to rise or not.
‘I’m Sue Wiley of CN-Consolidated Newspapers, New York.’
‘How do you do?’ he said politely.
‘I came into Copenhagen this morning. I was in Berlin on the Spandau Prison story. I’d been assigned to head in your direction-’ She indicated Saralee’s empty seat. ‘May I sit down a second?’
‘Please do. Wait-’ He stood up and moved into Saralee’s chair, and allowed Sue Wiley to take his own place.
‘I’m doing the big CN Nobel series. I’m sure you’ve seen the exploitation.’
He had no idea what she was speaking about, but he nodded vague assent.
‘Fourteen articles, one thousand words apiece,’ she said. ‘It’ll run for two weeks in fifty-three papers. It’s a big one, breaking right after the ceremonies. You’re from L.A., aren’t you?’
‘ Pasadena,’ he said correctly.
‘No difference. We’ll have outlets in L.A., Frisco, Chicago, New York, anywhere you turn your head. Anyhow, when I got on this plane, I figured a bunch of nothings and wasted the last hour manicuring my nails. But when the steward was getting me a drink a little while back, he tipped me that there was a Nobel winner on the plane. I could have fallen over. I thought all of you were in Stockholm already.’
‘No, not really, as you can see,’ he said cautiously. ‘As a matter of fact, it is my understanding we’re arriving early, as these things go. In past years, most winners came in a few days before the final ceremony. But I’m told, this year, they wanted us earlier. They have a big programme.’
She blinked her eyes, which he soon learned was with her an unconscious and disconcerting habit, and went on merrily. ‘My luck, is all I can say, having you cornered here. I wasn’t going to get out pencil and pad until tomorrow. But you can save me a lot of time.’
‘We’ve only fifteen minutes, Miss Wiley. Wouldn’t it be sounder to wait?’
‘Mr. Garrett-forgive me, Dr. Garrett-I don’t want to boast, but I can make fifteen minutes do like fifteen hours. And it’s painless, I assure you.’
‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’
‘From the day one. Not the usual hackneyed platitudes. My byline’s going to be on this one, and like I told you, it’s a biggie. I want to turn all of you inside out. After all, you’ve nothing to hide. You know the angle, the Gods as mere mortals. And I’m doing the same with the Nobel crowd. What gives in those smoke-filled rooms? I mean to find out.’ She unsnapped her handbag, preliminary to locating pencil and pad. ‘Let’s plunge.’
But, in his own mind, Garrett had made his decision. An unimaginative man outside the laboratory, he was not given to breaking rules. The long letter from the Nobel Foundation, signed by a Count Bertil Jacobsson, had listed precise instructions on handling of the press. While he could speak to the press freely in his native land, it was hoped that once on his way to Sweden, and while inside Sweden, he would avoid individual contact with the press as much as possible. If forced to reply to questions while unescorted in Copenhagen or Stockholm, it was hoped that he would make his comments noncommittal and brief. The reason for this advice was that, in past years, statements made carelessly, in unsupervised press interviews, had led to sensationalized stories. With these experiences fresh in mind, the Nobel Foundation had scheduled a series of formal press interviews, for the present winners, in Stockholm on the afternoon of December third. These would be supervised, and the results could be better guaranteed to be favourable.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss Wiley, but I’m afraid I’m not allowed to talk right now,’ he said.
Her head swivelled towards him. The eyes blinked furiously. ‘Are you kidding? Since when are scientists prima donnas?’
‘Don’t misunderstand me, Miss Wiley,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to break the rules.’
‘What rules?’ she challenged.
He tried to explain the strictures placed upon him and his colleagues by the Nobel Foundation.
‘Gestapo nonsense,’ she exploded, when he was through. ‘They just want to muzzle everyone so the Swede newspapers can get the big breaks. We’re Americans-you and I-and we have different principles, don’t we? I’ll be bending your ear a dozen times. Why not start now? Of course you will-’