The man behind the desk has shifted a thick glass paperweight a bit to the right, his face more expressionless than pensive or absent-minded.He was pale from living in artificial light for most of the day.You can tell that this is someone who is used to living indoors, someone who often sits in an office.To get to his office, one must go through a long, winding underground corridor.Although this arrangement is a bit unbelievable, it is suitable for his identity.It's hard to guess how old he is.He looks neither old nor young.His face was smooth and unlined, but his eyes looked too tired. The other person in the room was older.He had a dark complexion and a soldier's moustache.He was quick and a little nervous.Even now he could not sit still, but paced up and down the room, and now and then a word or two came out of his mouth.

"Reports!" he said petulantly. "Reports after reports, and none of them are damn useful!" The man behind the desk looked down at the papers in front of him.On top of a pile of papers lay a business card bearing the inscription "Thomas Charles Betterton."There is a question mark under the name.The man nodded thoughtfully, then said: "You've read the reports, isn't there a report of any use?" Another shrugged. "How can you tell?" The man behind the desk sighed. "Yes," he said, "that's the problem. It's really hard for us to tell."

The older man went on like machine-gun fire: "Reports from Rome and Turin: He was seen on the Riviera; he was noticed in Antwerp; he was definitely recognized in Oslo; he was definitely seen in Biarritz; he was seen in Strasbourg He was acting suspiciously; he was seen with an attractive blonde on the beach in Ostend; he was seen wandering the streets of Brussels with a hound; he hadn't been seen holding a zebra in a zoo yet , but I dare say that such a report will appear!" "Don't you have any ideas yourself, Wharton? For my part, I'm hopeful about the Antwerp report, though that report hasn't gotten us anywhere yet. Now, of course"—the young man stopped talking, as if Like falling asleep.But soon he woke up again, and said vaguely: "Yes, maybe, but—I find it strange."

Colonel Wharton sat down suddenly on the arm of his chair. "But we have to find out," he insisted, "how and why did they go, where did they go? We have to find out all that. Losing a meek scientist every couple of months and not knowing How did they go, why did they go, and where did they go? That is impossible. Did they go to the place we thought, or where? We always take it for granted that they went to the place we imagined, But now I'm not so sure. Have you read all the internal information about Betterton that has recently been sent from the United States?" The man sitting by the table nodded:

"He had the usual left-leaning views at a time when everyone was left-leaning. But as far as we know, his left-leaning views were not of a lasting nature. He was doing a good job before the war, but he didn't achieve spectacular results. After Heim fled from France, Betterton was appointed as his assistant, and ended up marrying Mannheim's daughter. After Mannheim's death, Betterton worked alone and made outstanding achievements. Due to the ZE fission ( Atomic zero-power fission) made him famous. ZE fission was a brilliant and thoroughly revolutionary discovery. It brought Betterton to the pinnacle of honor. He had already made up his mind to do something in the United States career, but his wife died shortly after their marriage. It caused him great grief. He has since come to England. For nearly a year and a half he lived at Harwell. He married again six months ago."

"Is that a problem?" Wharton asked warily. Jessop shook his head. "Based on what we've been able to find out, there's nothing wrong with her. She's the daughter of a local lawyer. She worked in an insurance company before she got married. From what we've found out so far, she doesn't have strong political tendency." "ZE fission," Colonel Wharton said gloomily in disgust, "what do they mean by these words? I don't understand one thing. I'm an old-fashioned guy. I've never imagined what a molecule looks like, and they Now it's about to split everything in the universe. The atomic bomb, nuclear fission, ZE fission, and fission of this and that. And Betterton is a major fissionist. What do people think of him at Havel?"

"They say he's a nice man. As for his work, there's nothing remarkable or remarkable about it. It's just a little bit of gimmickry in the practical application of ZE fission." Both were silent for a while.Their conversation was rambling, almost saying whatever they wanted to say.Investigative reports are stacked on the table, but they are worthless. "He was, of course, thoroughly vetted when he arrived in the UK," Wharton said. "Yes, everything is very satisfactory." "He's been here a year and a half," Wharton mused. "You know, they can't stand the security, the constant censorship, the monastic life. It all makes them nervous and weird. I've seen enough of this. They start dreaming of an ideal world - freedom, brotherhood, sharing all secrets, working for the good life of humanity. It's at times like this that people who are more or less the scum of humanity Spotted their opportunity and took it!" He wiped his nose. "There's no one more gullible than a scientist," he said. "That's what all the deceitful propaganda says. I don't quite understand why."

Jessop smiled, a weary smile. "Oh yeah," he said, "that's what it is. They think they know everything. It's dangerous. We people are different. We don't have ambitions, we don't want to save the world, we just want to do a little work." , pick up a broken part or two or remove a wrench or two while it's jamming the mechanism." He tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "I wish I knew a little more about Betterton," he said, "not his life history and his activities, but the instructive little things of everyday life, such as what kind of jokes cause He laughs, what makes him swear, who he admires, who he hates."

Wharton watched him curiously. "How about his wife? Have you tested her?" "Tested several times." "Can't she help?" Another shrugged and said: "She hasn't done us any favors yet." "Do you think she knows something?" "Of course, but she doesn't admit that she knows anything about the situation. All her reactions are normal in this situation: anxiety, sadness, worry, no hints or suspicions in advance, husband's life is completely normal, there is no nervousness of any kind Wait. Her opinion is that her husband has been kidnapped."

"You don't believe her?" "That's a hard question for me to answer," said the man behind the desk sternly. "I never trust anyone." "But," Wharton said slowly, "I think we should also be modest and not jump to conclusions. What kind of person is she?" "An ordinary woman you meet every day at bridge." Wharton nodded knowingly. "That makes things harder to figure out," he said. "She's coming to see me soon. We're going to go through all the questions again." "That's the only way," Wharton said, "but I can't take it. I don't have the patience." He stood up. "Well, I won't hold you back anymore. We haven't made much progress yet, have we?"

"Unfortunately, not yet. Please check that Oslo report specifically. That's a possible location." Wharton nodded and went out.Another picked up the receiver and said, "I want to see Mrs. Betterton now. Ask her to come in." He sat there in a daze, until there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Betterton was ushered in.She was a tall woman, about twenty-six or seventeen.One of her most notable features is her extremely beautiful scarlet hair.Beneath the beautiful red hair, her features seemed almost insignificant.She also had blue-green eyes with thinly lashed lashes, as we so often see on the faces of red-haired women.He noticed that she was not dressed up.As he welcomed her and seated her comfortably in a chair by his desk, he wondered why she didn't make up.It made him somewhat inclined to think that Mrs. Betterton knew more than she had ever admitted. In his experience, women who are extremely sad and anxious usually don't neglect to groom themselves.Conscious of the damage grief has done to their countenance, they try to mend the damage.He suspected that Mrs. Betterton had deliberately left herself undressed to better play the role of a distraught wife.She said out of breath: "Oh, Mr. Jessop, I hope—new news?" He shook his head and said gently: "Mrs Betterton, I am sorry to have you come again like this. We cannot give you any definite news yet." Olive Betterton said quickly: "I know that. You said so in your letter. But, I don't know, if after that--oh, I'm glad to be here. To stay at home all day wondering and dreaming--that's the worst. Because you can't do anything!" The man called Jessop comforted her and said: "Mrs Betterton, please don't mind if I ask you the same question over and over again, emphasizing the same points. You understand that there is always the possibility that you will suddenly remember some little thing, something that you have not thought about before. things, or things you didn’t think worth mentioning in the past.” "Yes, yes, I understand that. Please ask me everything again." "The last time you saw your husband was on the 23rd of August?" "yes." "That's when he left England for a conference in Paris?" "yes." Jessop went on quickly. "He attended the meeting for the first two days. He did not attend the third day. He is said to have told one of his colleagues that he was not going to the meeting that day but was going on a 'bateau mouche' trip." "Take a 'fly boat'? What is a 'fly boat'?" Jessop smiled slightly. "It's one of those boats that sail the Seine." He looked at her warily. "Doesn't that seem like your husband's business?" She said suspiciously: "Not so much. I think he'd take a very active part in all the discussions at the meeting." "It is possible. However, the subject discussed that day was not one that interested him. He might therefore have reason to give himself a day's rest. But do you think it is unlikely that your husband would do so?" She shook her head. "He didn't go back to his hotel that night," Jessop went on, "and he didn't cross the frontier, as far as can be ascertained. Do you think he might have had another passport, in another passport?" what name?" "Oh, no. Why should he?" Jessop watched her. "Have you never seen him have such a thing?" She shook her head vigorously. "Haven't seen it, and I don't believe he's got a second passport. I can't believe it's happening. I don't believe he left on purpose, as you're trying to find out. Something must have happened to him." It's gone, or—or maybe he's lost his memory." "Is he always in good health?" "Yes. He works hard and gets a little tired sometimes, that's all." "Has he shown any signs of trouble or depression?" "He wasn't bothered or depressed about anything." With trembling fingers she opened the bag and took out the handkerchief. "It's all horrible," her voice was shaking, "I can't believe it. He never left me before without telling me. Something must have happened to him. He may have been kidnapped, or To the mob attack. I try not to think about it, but sometimes I feel like that's the way it must be. He must be dead." "Please don't think so, Mrs. Betterton. There is no need to speculate like that. If he had died, his body would have been found by now." "Not necessarily. Terrible things happen a lot. He may have been drowned or pushed into a gutter. I'm sure anything can happen in Paris." "I assure you, Mrs. Betterton, that Paris is a very safe city." She took the handkerchief from her eyes and gazed at Jessop very angryly. "I know what you're thinking, but it's not like that at all. There's no trade or divulge of secrets. He lived his life in the light of day." "What are his political beliefs, Mrs Betterton?" "As far as I know, he's a Democrat in the US. He votes for the Labor Party in the UK. He's not interested in politics. He's a scientist, a scientist through and through." She added without flinching: "He A brilliant scientist." "Yes," said Jessop, "he's a brilliant scientist. That's the whole point of the matter. He might be lured out of the country by a high price and gone somewhere else." "It's not true." She was angry again. "It's what the papers are trying to prove. It's what you people think when you ask me. It's not true. He never walked away without telling me before." , never left without telling me of his plans." "Then he didn't tell you anything?" He fixed her with sharp eyes again. "Nothing. I don't know where he is. I think he's been kidnapped, or, as I said, dead. If he's dead, then I have to know, I have to know right away. I can't go on Waiting like this, wondering. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I'm sick with anxiety. Can't you help me? Can't you help me at all?" So he got up and walked around the desk.He whispered: "I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Betterton, I'm terribly sorry. I assure you that we are doing everything in our power to find out what happened to your husband. Every day we receive reports from various places. .” "Where did the report come from?" she asked warily. "What does it say?" "These reports all have to be carefully studied, checked, and tested. But, generally speaking, I'm afraid the reports are extremely vague." "I had to know," she whispered again dejectedly, "that I couldn't live like this." "You are very fond of your husband, Mrs. Betterton?" "Of course I care about him. You know, we've only been married for six months, only six months!" "Yes, I know. Excuse me, but there was no quarrel between you?" "Oh, it didn't happen." "Has there been any trouble with any other woman?" "Of course not. I told you we were only married last April." "Believe me, I am not saying that such a thing is probable, but we must consider every possibility that could explain his departure in this way. You say that he has not been irritable, anxious, irritable and tense lately. Uneasy, are you?" "Yes, yes, yes." "You know, Mrs. Betterton, that people in jobs like your husband's are nervous. They live under severe security conditions. In fact," he said with a smile, " It's almost normal to be nervous." She didn't smile back. "He's just the same as always," she said firmly. "Is he happy at work? Has he discussed his work with you?" "No! His work is too technical." "Don't you think he was disturbed by the ability to destroy what he was studying? Scientists sometimes have that feeling." "He never said anything of the sort." "You know, Mrs. Betterton," he said, leaning over the table and leaning closer to her, throwing off some of his indifference, "what I'm trying to do is to know what your husband looks like, to know what kind of person he is. kind of person. And yet, somehow, you don't help me." "What more can I say, what can I do? I have answered all your questions." "Yes, you answered all the questions I asked, but most of them you answered in the negative. I need something positive, something constructive. Only if you know what kind of person he is Only then will you be able to find him better." She thought about it for a moment and said, "I get it, or at least I think I do. Well, Tom's a happy guy, a good-natured guy. And of course he's smart." Jessop smiled, and said, "That's some good qualities, indeed. But would you please introduce something more personal. Does he read a lot?" "Yes, quite a lot." "What kind of books do you read?" "Oh, biographies or something. Book association recommendations. When he's tired, he reads crime novels." "A rather average reader, actually. Does he have any particular hobbies? Does he play cards or chess?" "He played bridge. We used to play bridge once or twice a week with Dr. Evans and his wife." "Does your husband have many friends?" "Oh, a lot, he's a sociable guy." "I mean more than that. I mean, is your husband a very caring man for his friends?" "He used to play golf with one or two of our neighbors." "Don't you have any friends who are particularly close or intimate with you?" "No. You know, he lived a long time in America and was born in Canada. He doesn't know many people here." Jessop glanced at a piece of paper in his hand. "It is said that three people came to see him from the United States recently. I have the names of these three people here. As far as we can understand, these three people have recently come from foreign countries and have been in contact with him. That is why The reasons for our particular attention to these three. Now to the first, Walter Griffiths. He came to Harwell to see you." "Yes, he's visiting England, and dropped by to see Tom." "And how did your husband react?" "Tom was amazed to see him, but delighted at the same time. They knew each other well from their time in America." "But you are sure you know all about him?" "Yes, we know all about him. But we want to hear what you think of him." She thought about it and said: "Oh, he's serious, but a bit chattery. Very polite to me, seems to like Tom, and is eager to tell him all that's happened to them since he got to England. It's all local miscellaneous stuff. I don't mind that." interest because I don't know anyone they're talking about. And, while they're reminiscing, I'm making dinner." "Didn't political issues come up in their conversations?" "Are you implying that he is a Communist?" Olive Betterton blushed. "I'm sure he's not that type of guy. He's held a government job in the United States—I think it was in the D.A.'s office. And while Tom has said some mocking things about political censorship in America, he's also said seriously that we People here don't understand what's going on on their side. He says political censorship is necessary. That shows he's not a Communist." "Mrs Betterton, please, please don't be angry." "Tom isn't a Communist, I keep telling you so, but you don't believe me." "No, I believe you. But the question has to be asked. Now, to the second foreigner he came into contact with, Dr. Mark Lucas. You met him at the Dorset Hotel in London. .” "Yes. We went to the show, and after the show we had dinner at the Dorset Hotel. Suddenly this man called Luke or Lucas came up and said hello to Tom. He seemed to be a scientist who studied chemistry. The last time he Meet Tom in America. He's a German émigré who has taken American citizenship. But you must have—" "Surely I already know that? Yes, I do, Mrs. Betterton. Was your husband surprised to see this man?" "Yes, he was surprised." "Are you happy?" "Happy too, and happy—I think so." "But you're not very sure, are you?" He pressed on. "Well, he wasn't very fond of Tom, that's what Tom told me afterward, and that's the way it is." "Is it a chance encounter? Have they arranged to meet again in the future?" "No, it was purely a chance encounter." "I see. The third foreigner he came into contact with was a woman, Mrs. Carroll Speed, also from America. How did he meet her?" "She seemed to be a UN worker, I think. She knew Tom already in the US. He called him from London, she had arrived in the UK, and asked Tom, 'Can we come to her for dinner sometime? '" "So, have you gone?" "Did not go." "You didn't go, but your husband did." "What!" She stared. "He didn't tell you about that?" "No." Olive Betterton looked bewildered and disturbed.The person who asked her felt a little sorry, but did not relax asking.For the first time he thought he might have caught something. "I don't understand what's going on," she said vaguely. "It seems strange that he didn't tell me about it." "They dined together at Mrs Speed's Dorset Hotel on Wednesday 12th August." "August 12th?" "yes." "Well, he went to London about that time, . He hastened to answer in a tone that reassured her: "She's not at all attractive, Mrs Betterton. She's a young, able professional woman in her early thirties, not particularly good-looking. There is absolutely nothing to suggest that she was intimate with your husband. Why didn't your husband take this We also found it strange to tell you about the circumstances of the second meeting." "Okay, okay, I see." "Now, please think carefully, Mrs. Betterton. During that period, that is, in the middle of August—a week or so before this interview, did you notice any change in your husband?" "No, no, I didn't see any change in him. Nothing that caught my attention." Jessop sighed. The phone on the desk buzzed again.Jessop picked up the phone. "Speak!" he said. The man on the other end of the line said: "Sir, here comes a man who has asked to see the man in charge of the Betterton case." "What's his name?" The man on the other end of the line coughed softly and said: "Oh, I'm not sure how to pronounce the name, Mr. Jessop. Maybe I'd better spell it for you." "Okay, let's fight." He jotted down the letters coming over the phone line in his makeshift notebook. "Poles?" he asked when he finished. "He didn't say that, sir. He spoke English fluently, with just a little accent." "You tell him to wait." "Okay, sir." Jessop put the phone back where it belonged.Then he looked across the table at Olive Betterton.She sat very still, with an air of resigned and hopeless calm.He tore the page bearing the visitor's name from the makeshift notebook and pushed it across the table to her. "Do you know anyone by that name?" he asked. Her eyes widened as she looked at the paper.He saw at once that she looked surprised. "Yes," she said, "yes, I know. He wrote to me." "when?" "Yesterday. He was Tom's first wife's cousin. He had just arrived in England. He was very concerned about Tom's disappearance. He wrote to ask me if I had any news, and--and he expressed his deepest gratitude to me. sympathy." "You've never heard of this man before, have you?" She shook her head. "Have you heard your husband speak of him?" "No." "Then he may not be your husband's cousin at all." "No, probably not. But I never thought about it in that way." She looked surprised. "You know, Tom's first wife was a foreigner. She was the daughter of Professor Mannheim. From the letter, The man seemed to know everything about Mannheim's daughter and Tom. The letter was well written, formal and foreign, you know. It seemed sincere. Besides, if he wasn't real, he What's the point?" "Oh, that's a question one should always ask oneself." Jessop smiled. "We ask it so often here that we take the smallest thing to mean a great deal." "Yes, I think you will." She trembled suddenly, "It's like this room of yours, set in the middle of a maze of corridors, like in a dream, you think you'll never be able to get out of it again." out here..." "Yes, yes, I can see it might have a claustrophobic effect," said Jessop lightly. Olive Betterton raised a hand and pushed back the hair that fell over his forehead. "You know, I can't bear it for long," she said, "sitting at home and waiting. I want to go somewhere else for a change. A foreign country, preferably. To a place where there are no journalists constantly giving You call, and people don't stare at you all the time. Now I always meet a lot of friends, and they keep asking me what news I have." She paused, then continued, "I think... I am going to give up. I Been trying to look brave, but I can't take it anymore. My doctor has agreed. He said I should go somewhere else at once for three or four weeks. He wrote me a letter and I took I'll show you." Fumbling in her handbag, she produced an envelope, pushed it across the table to Jessop, and said: "You'll know what the doctor says." Jessop took the letter out of the envelope and read it. "Yes." He said, "Yes, I see." He put the letter back in the envelope. "So I can leave?" He looked at Jessop nervously. "Certainly, Mrs. Betterton," he answered.He was a little taken aback. "Why not?" "I thought you would object?" "Objection? Why object? It is entirely your business. Provided you arrange to be in touch with us in case we get any news while you are away." "Of course I want to arrange it that way." "Where do you want to go?" "To a sunny place, where there aren't many Englishmen. To Spain or Morocco." "That's great. I think it's going to do a lot for your health." "Oh, thank you. Thank you very much." She stood up, looking excited and triumphant.But the jitters are still palpable. Jessop got up, shook hands with her, and rang for the orderly to see her out.He went back to his chair and sat down.For the first few moments, his face remained as expressionless as before, but then slowly smiling, he picked up the phone. "I'm seeing Major Glydel now!" he said into the microphone.

---

Notes: