“I really hadn’t thought about it yet, and from the looks of the schedule I’ve been handed I won’t have much chance to think about it for a while.”
“They will ask you upstairs, and it shows lack of promise for an author not to be writing, so just say you are not ready to comment on it yet. That should hold them for a while—till you can get something started.”
Rann began to relax with Margie. “I really have no idea what I will write or even if I will write anything publishable again. There is a compulsion to put things down on paper, but not necessarily a compulsion to write things to publish. Do you know what I mean?”
“Certainly, I know exactly what you mean.” Margie was matter-of-fact as she went on. “The best thing to do is not to worry about it. You will write again and there is no way to prevent it if you wanted to. You are a writer. From my experience in this business, I would say that writers fall into two categories. The first is one who studies his crafts of expression and description, knows his word tools perfectly, studies what comprises a novel or a story, devises a plot from beginning to end, and then sits down and applies his knowledge and does his work. He is frequently very good. This kind of writer can be trained. The other type is one who is haunted by an idea or a situation in existence and who cannot rid himself of it until he puts it down on paper. He may only write down the situation and present no solution, for there may not be one in existence. He may not know grammar or punctuation or even spelling, but that doesn’t matter. Someone can be hired to punctuate and spell or correct these, but no one can be hired or trained to do what he does. He writes only out of existence, and his stories are made up of the situations of which life is made, the constant sights and sounds and smells and emotions of which every day is made. His work is alive, it breathes. This man must write. He cannot help it. He is a writer. The first one can write news or advertisements or manuals or not write at all, if he chooses. Not true for our second man. He writes only out of himself. He cannot have a writing task assigned to him, or even assign one to himself, and sit down and perform it as a duty. You are this second type. They are not always genius, but here is where genius comes along. You may not be a genius. It is too soon to know. You are a writer, however, it’s not too soon to know that, and you are a darned good one too!” She glanced at her watch. “Oops! Drink up. God will be angry if we are late.”
Rann left his drink unfinished and followed her to the elevator. He could not control a chuckle when he recalled her reference to George Pearce as “God.” He felt he was entering into yet another new world with an entirely different kind of people than he had ever known. It was exciting to him and he felt the excitement throughout his being. They were alone in the elevator.
“Incidentally,” he said, “thank you for what you had to say. It was not only a compliment but quite a vote of confidence.”
“Don’t even think about that angle.” She gave him a broad smile. “I tell only the truth in my life. Not that I’m moralistic, either, but it’s simpler if you only tell the truth. That way you don’t always have to keep up with yourself. I told the truth. Know it, and now let’s let the press know it. George Pearce is talking to them now about what a great guy you are and how smart you are and all that, which is why he wanted you to be a few minutes late. He has also given them a biographical sketch we drew up for this purpose. Just relax and be yourself. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Rann looked at her while she spoke. An attractive woman, thirty to thirty-five, difficult to judge, smart, pearl-gray business suit, matching shoes, an interesting oval face with lines of mirth at the corners of her eyes, her dark hair gathered on the back of her head neatly into a bun, the ever-present notebook and pencil in her hand.
Rann also smiled at her instruction to relax and be himself after all the talk at luncheon about his image and the new clothes and haircut and his schedule for the rest of the month.
The elevator door opened and they stepped into a red-carpeted hall, an open door at one end. George Pearce came down the hall to greet them.
“I didn’t expect this good a turnout.” His face crinkled into a grin. “Yesterday’s blurb must have helped. This is going to be easy for you, Rann. Just remember that most of these are top people and they are friends.”
There were about forty men and women with their backs to the door when they entered the room, besides the public relations men Rann had met at luncheon. A table had been set up as a bar on the left wall of the room and the senior public relations man stood there. Another table had been set up facing the door. Behind the table were floor-to-ceiling French windows draped in crimson velvet exactly matching the carpets. It was to this table Rann, Margie, and George Pearce made their way. The man from the bar came over with three drinks and everyone watched them in expectant silence while George Pearce referred to his notes. He cleared his throat and rose.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you all have your biographical notes, which should eliminate a lot of questions except that I will tell you they were written by Mr. Colfax’s mother while he was out of the country and his information may very well differ from hers on some points. So don’t hesitate to ask any questions you may have.”
The reporters responded to this with a laugh.
“I’m going to ask that Mr. Colfax remain seated throughout the interview and that you do the same and that the waiter keep everyone’s glass filled. Hands? Yes, Miss Brown.” George Pearce took his seat and sipped his highball.
“Mr. Colfax, I have for some time wondered how one so young could write a book such as
Their questions for the next forty-five minutes dealt mostly with his background and his reference work regarding his book, and Rann answered them all as completely but as briefly as possible.
A young woman in the back row who had not spoken before raised her hand. George Pearce consulted Margie before he spoke.
“Yes, Miss Adams. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve met you before.”
“No.” The woman’s voice was well modulated. “I’m just in from the West Coast. I’m Nancy Adams from the
Rann felt his neck redden. “Miss Adams, I don’t know anything about the black market in Korea.”
“But you wrote of it so realistically. How could you do so if you do not know anything about it.”
“I have been asked not to discuss that.”
George Pearce cleared his throat and pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, about to speak.
“Asked by whom, Mr. Colfax?” Nancy Adams went on, hurriedly.
“One of the officers in charge.”
“In charge of what, Mr. Colfax? Were you tried for involvement in the black market?”
“No, I was cleared of any involvement.”
“But cleared by whom, Mr. Colfax, if not by trial?”
“By a group of officers in charge.”
“Not a court-martial?”
“No.”
“Just a group of officers?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Colfax, in your book there are some ranking officers involved in the black market. Couldn’t it be possible that the ones who gave you a clean bill were those you wrote about?”
“No.”
“But how do we know, Mr. Colfax, if, as you say, you don’t know? What was the name of the officer in charge?”
“He was not involved.”
“Then if you were not involved and he was not involved, why not give his name?”
“It was General Appleby.” Rann wished he hadn’t spoken the name, but the woman had made him nervous with her persistence.
George Pearce rose. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hate to break this up but I know Mr. Colfax has to dress for dinner. Thank you very much and I hope that this has been helpful.”
“Mr. Colfax, one more short question, please.” It was the first woman who had questioned him. “I think my
