Charles Snow - The Masters

‘I’ve got it out! I know for sure I’ve got it out!’

‘Which part of it?’ said Francis Getliffe.

‘The whole damned caboodle. The whole bloody beautiful bag of tricks. I’ve got the answer to the slow neutron business, Getliffe. It’s all just come tumbling out.’

‘Are you certain?’ asked Francis, unwilling to believe it.

‘Of course I’m certain. Do you think I’d stick my neck out like this if I weren’t certain It’s as plain as the palm of my hand.’

Francis cross-questioned him, and for minutes the technical words rapped across the table — ‘neutrons’, ‘collision’, ‘stopping power’, ‘alphas’. Francis was frowning, envious despite himself, more eager to find a hole than to be convinced that Luke was right. But Luke was unperturbed, all faces were friendly on this day of certain joy; he gave his explanations at a great speed, fired in his homely figures of speech, was too exalted to keep back his cheerful swear words; yet even a layman came to feel how clear and masterful he was in everything he said. Gradually, as though reluctantly, Francis’ frown left his face, and there came instead his deep, creased smile. He was seeing something that compelled his admiration. His own talent was strong enough to make him respond; this was a major work, and for a moment he was disinterested, keen with admiration, smiling an experienced and applauding smile.

‘Good work!’ he cried. ‘Lord, it’s nice work. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve heard for a long time.’

‘It’s pretty good,’ said Luke, unashamed, with no pretence of modesty though his cheeks were flushing scarlet.

‘I believe it’s wonderful,’ said Jago, who had been listening with intent interest, as though he could drown his anxieties in this young man’s joy. ‘Not that I understand most of your detestable words. But you do tell us that he has done something remarkable, don’t you, Getliffe?’

‘It’s beautiful work,’ said Francis with great authority.

‘I’m more glad than I can say,’ said Jago to Luke. Nightingale had turned his head away and was looking down the hall.

‘When did you know you’d made a discovery?’ cried Jago.

‘I thought a week ago the wretched thing was coming out,’ said Luke, who used a different set of terms. ‘But I’ve thought so before a dozen bloody times. This time though I had a hunch that it was different. I’ve been pretty well living and feeding at the lab ever since. That was why I didn’t come to the meeting on Monday,’ he added affably to Despard-Smith, who gave a bleak nod.

‘The little powwow,’ Roy said to Despard-Smith, by way of explanation.

‘I could almost have sworn it was right that night. But I’ve been bitten by false bloody dawns too many times. I’ve not been to bed since. I wasn’t going to leave off until I knew the answer one way or the other.

‘It’s wonderful,’ he burst out in a voice that carried up and down the table, ‘when you’ve got a problem that is really coming out. It’s like making love — suddenly your unconscious takes control. And nothing can stop you. You know that you’re making old Mother Nature sit up and beg. And you say to her “I’ve got you, you old bitch.” You’ve got her just where you want her. Then to show there’s no ill-feeling, you give her an affectionate pinch on the bottom.’

He leaned back, exhausted, resplendent, cheerful beyond all expression. Getliffe grinned at him with friendly understanding, Jago laughed aloud. Roy Calvert gave me half a wink (for young Luke’s discretion had vanished in one colossal sweep) and took it upon himself to divert Despard-Smith’s attention.

In the combination room, Jago presented a bottle to mark ‘a notable discovery completed this day by the junior fellow’, as he announced for the formal toast. Hearing what was to happen, Nightingale rushed away before the health was drunk. Despard-Smith, who had his own kind of solemn formal courtesy, congratulated Luke and then settled down to the port. Luke took one of the largest cigars and smoked it over his glass, drowsy at last, his head humming with whirling blessedness. And Jago, with a gentle and paternal smile, did what I had never seen him do, and took a cigar himself. The two sat together, the square ruddy boy, happy as he might never be again, and the man whose face bore so much suffering. As each listened to the other, the tip of his cigar glowed. They were talking about the stars. It was thirty-six hours before the election.

Francis Getliffe and I left them together, and walked to the gate. I hesitated about asking him up to my rooms, and then did not.

‘That’s very pretty work of young Luke’s,’ he said.

‘I gathered as much from what you said.’

‘I doubt if you know how good it is,’ he said. He paused. ‘It’s better than anything I’ve done yet. Much better.’

He was so quixotic, so upright, so passionately ambitious: all I could do was pretend to be ironic.

‘It’s time we two had a bit of luck,’ I said. ‘These boys are running off with all the prizes. Look at Roy Calvert’s work by the side of mine. I may catch up if I outlive him twenty years.’

Francis smiled absently, and we stopped under the lantern.

‘I ought to say something else, Lewis.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I thought Jago showed up very well tonight. There’s more in him than I allowed for.’

‘It isn’t too late,’ I said very quickly. ‘If you vote for him—’

Francis shook his head.

‘No, I shouldn’t begin to think of altering my vote,’ he said. ‘I know I’m right.’

The day before the election, December 19th, passed with dragging slowness. Throughout the morning there was no news: only Roy visited me, and as we chatted we were waiting for the next chime of the clock: time stretched itself silently out between the quarters. It was not raining, but the clouds were a level dun. Before lunch we walked through the streets and Roy bought some more presents; afterwards he left me alone in my room.

There Brown joined me in the middle of the afternoon. It was a relief to see him, rather than go on trying to read. But there was something ominous in his first deliberate question.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘whether you had Chrystal with you.’

‘I’ve not seen him since the meeting,’ I said.

‘I’ve not seen him,’ said Brown, ‘since he approached me afterwards in the sense that I’ve already given you my opinion of. But I thought it might not be unwise if I got into touch with him today. I’ve called round at his house, but they said that they thought he’d gone for a walk early this morning.’

I looked at the darkening window, against which the rain had begun to lash.

‘It seems an odd day to choose,’ I said.

‘I’ve tried his rooms,’ said Brown. ‘But it looks as though they had been empty all day.’

‘What is he doing?’

Brown shook his head.

‘I’m afraid that he’s in great distress of mind,’ he said.

It was for one reason alone that he was searching for Chrystal: he might still be able to influence him: using all the pressure of their friendship, he might still be able to keep him to Jago. On that last day, Brown had no room for other thoughts. He knew as well as I did where Chrystal had been tending. But Brown was enough of a politician never to lose all hope until the end, even though it was forlorn. One could not be a politician without that kind of resilient hope. When Chrystal asked him to be a candidate, Brown had felt for a time it was all lost. But now he had got back into action again. Chrystal was undecided, Chrystal was walking about in ‘distress of mind’ — Brown was ready to throw in all his years of understanding of his friend, there was still a chance of forcing him to vote for Jago next morning.