Читать книгу Unconditional Surrender онлайн

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"Ludovic. Mr. Spruce has accepted something I wrote for Survival."

"Yes, of course," she said. "I know all about you now. I read your manuscript too. Everard is awfully impressed with it. He said it was as though Logan Pearsall Smith had written Kafka. Do you know Logan?"

"Only by his writing."

"You must meet him. He's not here tonight. He doesn't go out now. I say, what a relief to meet a real writer instead of all these smarties Everard wastes his time on" (this with a dark glance from her feet to the air-raid warden). "Look; there is some whisky. We've only got one bottle so we have to be rather careful with it. Come next door and I'll give you some."

"Next door" was the office, a smaller room austerely, even meanly furnished. Back-numbers of Survival were piled on the bare floorboards, manuscripts and photographs on the bare table; a black sheet was secured by drawing pins to cover the window. Here, when they were not engaged on domestic tasks--cooking, queuing or darning--the four secretaries stoked the cultural beacon which blazed from Iceland to Adelaide; here the girl who could type answered Spruce's numerous "fan letters" and the girl who could spell corrected proofs. Here it seemed some of them slept for there were divan beds covered with blankets only and a large, much undenticulated comb.