Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) Read Online Free PDF Page B

way—remembering Berlin as he had seen it only twenty-four hours ago, remembering the new refugees with their small bundles of belongings and the new fears—that idea worried him. In another way, he was cheered: it was good to see people who had been first-rate fighting men throw off regimentation so quickly. The gloomy predictions of some columnists five years ago didn’t make much sense now. The adjustment problems were drinking a beer or a rye after a day’s work and making vague plans for definite relaxation this evening.
    “Just back?” the barman asked, filling Paul’s empty glass, glancing at his service ribbons and then at his face. “You’ll get used to it,” he said reassuringly. “Once had a couple of them things.” He nodded to the ribbons on Paul’s chest. “Guess the old woman stowed them away in the attic along with her wedding dress.” Then his dark, heavy and thickening face concentrated on polishing the glasses until they shone like crystal. His strong broad hands arranged them delicately in their neat pyramid in front of a gleaming mirror. Over his shoulder, he’d throw in a remark to each conversation: the drought, the Dodgers’ chances this year, the plane missing over the Baltic, the Rangers in the play-offs at last, this new play called The Cocktail Party and what right had any of those psychiatrists to send a good-looking girl to be pegged down for the ants to eat?
    The blonde girl had met a friend almost as pretty as she was, with the same hauteur and mice-gnawed hair. (Can this be a fashion? Paul wondered in dismay.) They were both losing something of their grand manner in a heated discussion about ranch-type houses. Paul Haydn, keeping his eye on his glass, hoped that whatever type of house it was, it wasn’t as ugly as its name. Or should he have said “new-type name”? He repressed a grimace, for the barman might think aspersions were being cast on his excellent Martini. Yes, Paul thought, one slipped quickly back into the old routine after all: he was half-way to becoming an editor again with an aversion for nouns being used as adjectives. He paid and left the cosy comfort of the bar, avoiding the blonde’s carefully ignoring eye. He came out on to the busy sidewalk, hesitated. He was still undecided whether he ought to accept Rona’s invitation or not. It was scarcely six o’clock yet.
    He argued with himself around the block. Rona had made one thing very clear by the invitation: they were friends, nothing more. She would never have asked him to join the party if she had felt any other emotion when she met him. Not Rona. It was just as well to get that straight, especially if he were going to take his job with Trend again. (He wished the magazine would change that damned name, though: what once had seemed on the smart side, now seemed comic. Like a cute inscription on a book’s fly-leaf, seen years later when the clever touch made you shudder.) But perhaps he wouldn’t become an assistant editor again in Trend’s Feature Department. Perhaps he’d find something else for a change. Then he wondered, as he had wondered vaguely for the last month, why he should have been given this late chance to return to his job with Trend. What was wrong with the man who had taken his place at the end of the war? In 1945, Trend had been a little stilted when he hadn’t rushed back to his job with them, especially (they reminded him coldly) especially since they had kept it open for him as they had agreed in 1941. Yet, a few weeks ago, when he had written them hesitantly about a recommendation to help him get started once more in New York, their reply had been effusive. (Come right home, the sooner the better, we love you. Salary advanced to cover war-service years, Feature editorship when Crowell retires next year. Come home, come home, start at the old stand in May.) Flattering, to say the least. Reassuring. Useful, too. But what about the poor devil who had been assistant-editing