“Me? They?”
“One of their V.I.P.’s to whom we humble regular soldiers can refuse nothing, even if he asked for our entire personnel. Do you want the job, yes or no?”
Austin felt he had made enough fuss already and accepted the offer, convinced that there must be some mistake.
“That’s settled, then. We can strike you off our roster as from today. Now, off you go and report to this Dr. Fog. Here’s the address. You’ll be under his auspices from now on.”
“Dr. Fog!”
“He’s the one who asked for you; he’ll tell you all about it himself. Cloak-and-dagger stuff, of course. If anyone asks me, I don’t know a thing about you. Off you go now.”
Austin saluted and left the room. Before reporting to the address he had been given, he consulted a medical directory and found what he was looking for at once: Dr. Fog, Specialist in Mental Diseases. The name was followed by an impressive string of initials.
His memory had not played him false. It was definitely the same Dr. Fog, a psychiatrist of considerable repute in medical circles, with whom he had been in correspondence shortly before the war. He had just graduated and was eager to specialize in the same branch. He had written to ask for advice and had applied for an interview. The doctor had answered all his questions and fixed an appointment for a rather long time ahead because of a journey he had to make. After his return, war was declared and Austin was sent to France. Since then he had not ventured to renew his request for an interview.
It was Dr. Fog himself who was now asking to be remembered to him—and in what peculiar circumstances! What on earth could he have in common with special services? And how was he, Austin, meant to fit into the picture? He did not worry unduly about this second question. As for the first, it was made clear at the outset of their conversation, as soon as he had been shown into a sumptuous chamber—a room more like a drawing room than an office, with thick carpets on the floor, some massive pieces of furniture, and a sober color scheme relieved by an occasional touch of fantasy. This room, situated in a quiet backwater of London, was used for work, research, contemplation, and various elaborate speculations. It was Dr. Fog’s private study.
“I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about, Austin. I’ll satisfy your curiosity right away. I'm not one for making a mystery of things with my close colleagues. I can have complete confidence in your discretion, I trust?”
Austin assured him he was capable of keeping a secret. The doctor paused for a moment, then went on:
“I know you’re a sound sort of chap. Anyway, I’ve got quite a lot of information about you. . . . Yes, we’ve been keeping an eye on you, without your knowing it, just for the sake of the old routine. We wanted to make sure that you weren’t drunk before six in the evening and didn’t sleep with a different girl every night. From my point of view, what matters far more is your training, the plans you have in mind, the branch you want to specialize in, and the letters you wrote me. All that’s perfect. So, since you’re prepared to work with me . . . You’re quite sure about that, are you?”
“Quite sure, sir,” Austin replied. He realized he was dealing with a very important person and had never for a moment dreamed of questioning his proposal.
“In that case I want you to have a complete picture of my service. Don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything you don’t understand. To begin with, as you no doubt realize, I hold a fairly important and very special position in a secret organization.”
At such an ingenuous statement, Austin, who had a feeling that his new chief was not so trusting as he led one to believe, found it difficult to suppress a smile. Dr. Fog, whom nothing escaped, changed his tone.
“Yes, I see ... I was forgetting you were one of us, or almost. You’re thinking, ‘He’s treating me like one of his patients. First rule with mental cases—put them at their ease. All this is part of the bedside manner.’ Isn’t that true?”
Austin blushed and sketched a vague gesture of denial. It was exactly what he had been thinking. The doctor gave a shrug and went on:
“Anyway, this is roughly what you ought to know. It will spare you from racking your brains about it, and I want your brains to be devoted to something more useful. ... As I was saying, I work for a branch of the secret service. . . . Does that surprise you? It
shouldn’t. Personally, I believe the psychiatrist is an indispensable adjunct to national defense in wartime, if only for the purpose of weeding out the dangerous lunatics, both military and civilian, who happen to be in important positions. Don’t you agree?”
At the doctor’s solemn air, Austin again had to suppress a smile and agreed that specialists in mental diseases had a most important role to play in time of war.
“But I was given to understand, sir, that it was not only as a doctor . .
“Don’t be so impatient. That's how I started off, at any rate, though it’s some time ago. I was beginning to have quite a reputation in scientific circles when one of the pundits of the service took it into his head to call me in to examine an important agent who was going to be dispatched overseas. He was not the sort of man to make a hasty decision, you see. Like all pundits, he always took the advice of competent technicians. For once he had given some thought to intellectual qualifications, which was quite bright of him. I accepted the job. Apparently he was satisfied with the way I handled it, since he subsequently kept coming back to me for further advice. In the end I was given an official position. The new candidates were sent along to me before being definitely engaged. Some of the old ones as well, for the mind cracks up fairly easily in this job. I put them through a series of tests. My diagnosis was meant to answer the following questions: Will he made a good agent? If so, in which branch should he be employed—intelligence, action, counterespionage, or what?”
“A sort of professional orientation, based on scientific data, in a very specialized field, sir?”
“That’s about it. I soon developed an intense interest in these duties. There were sometimes some very odd types among those candidates.”
The doctor paused for a moment, lost in thought, as he recalled certain cases to mind. Then he went on:
“Yes, very strange fellows indeed, and engaged in very strange business, too. I had to exercise a great deal of tact and caution. A congenital idiot can sometimes do a very useful job in this profession, whereas an infinitely gifted man may make a deplorably bad agent.”
The doctor fell silent again, then sharply exclaimed:
“If I had vetoed the employment of every idiot, Austin, I should have more or less drained the service, do you realize that?”
“I can well believe it, sir,” Austin replied without batting an eyelid.
“Since the war it has been even more tricky, as there are some mission