“A writer in civilian life, an intellectual . . . On active service always volunteered for the dangerous jobs . . . In principle there’s nothing wrong with that . . . One of those heroes who escaped from their own country . . . Nothing wrong with that, either . . . Sent back to France, carried out various clandestine operations with zeal and intelligence . . . Ah, here’s the hitch
. . . His mission ended in disaster, but it wasn’t his fault . . . Managed to escape . . . Well, you can read it all for yourself. When you’ve finished, we’ll put our heads together and see if this chap is still employable and, if so, in which branch. If he is, mind you, there’s only one possible solution. He’ll have to come directly under me—the others, the professionals in the service, don’t trust an agent who has been captured by the enemy, even if he does escape . . . I may as well tell you now, Austin, I’ve often been known to give people a second chance when they’ve been turned down by the other sections. So far the results haven’t been too bad. . . .
“Well, anyway, this fellow was put out of harm’s way . . . Given some trivial staff job or other—perhaps with good reason, who knows? But we’re terribly short of people with brains, and he’s certainly no fool. That’s how I came across him. His name is Cousin. We'll have to think of a new name for him now. Names can be quite important; I usually try to choose one that suggests a particular characteristic of the man in question, often in a very roundabout way. Think it over, will you.”
“I will, sir.”
“We’ll go into it again when you’ve been through the file.”
He rose to his feet. As he reached the door, Austin asked:
“You’ve already examined him, sir?”
“Very briefly, several months ago.”
“Is he a normal case?”
“ ‘Normal’ is a word that doesn’t mean very much, you know. His brain seems to function correctly. And yet . ..”
Dr. Fog fell silent for a moment, then a strange look came into his eyes, the same glitter that had suggested something satanic to Austin’s mind. He went on with a smile, giving his assistant a friendly tap on the shoulder:
“When you get to know me better, Austin, you’ll realize that normal people—I mean absolutely normal in the ordinary sense of the word—don’t interest me at all. I don’t have any truck with them myself. I send them along to another section.”
10
“Well, what’s your verdict, Austin?”
These were the words with which Dr. Fog greeted him when he came into the office two days later, just as though he had always belonged to the service. To justify this confidence, Austin decided to give his opinion without further delay. He had spent the whole night working on Cousin’s file, which filled him with admiration for the personality that emerged from it with startling clarity, and left him puzzled by the note of reservation he had detected in some of the doctor’s comments.
“A very favorable impression, sir,” he declared staunchly. “Before the incident at the farm his conduct had always been beyond reproach. Even then, it seems, his only fault was to overestimate this fellow Morvan. That led to disaster, alas, but he can’t be blamed entirely—his colleague had proved his worth for several months; anyone would have trusted him completely."
“So that’s what you think, is it?” Dr. Fog observed in a noncommittal tone.
“That’s my considered opinion, sir.”
“So you feel quite confident—as I do, mark you—that he can be entrusted with another mission in enemy-occupied territory?”
“From our point of view, yes. I even think this recent experience of his will stand him in good stead in his future dealings with his subordinates. It remains to be seen whether he’d be willing to go back.”
“He has already suggested it,” Dr. Fog replied calmly. “He has volunteered a second time.”
Disregarding the gasp of admiration Austin had not been able to suppress, he went on to explain:
“On his return, he first went off on leave. Then, as I told you, he was assigned to this unimportant staff job. He languished there for several weeks, forsaken and forgotten, like many casualties in the service, apparently resigned to his fate, filing utterly useless documents during working hours and painting the town red at night, like many other worthy young men who are at present saving the Empire and the civilized world.”
“So you know all that as well, sir?” Austin asked quietly.
“I'm interested in the fellow. It’s only natural I should follow his career. . . . Well, anyway, he had dropped out of the picture completely when one fine day he wrote at great length to the authorities, asking them to entrust him with another mission in France. Since then he has repeated his application and persisted in his request.”
“I bet it was after a night out that he thought of it, sir! At any rate, after his previous experience, it shows exceptional strength of character.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” Dr. Fog murmured dryly. “It actually is rather unusual. Blusterers who are courageous at a distance—which is already saying something; quite a lot of people aren’t courageous even at a distance, let alone at close quarters—usually volunteer once. But once they’ve had their fingers—or their feet—burned, they’re not particularly anxious to have the treatment repeated.”
“Volunteering to go back after gambling with death, knowing that the risks are now infinitely greater! And yet you still seem to have some doubt about him, sir?”
“My dear fellow,” said the doctor, “far be it from me to curb your enthusiasm, but as far as I’m concerned, you know, volunteers . . .”
He paused, then continued as though he were thinking out loud: