“Eh, eh—I could confide in you, I suppose, you’re a responsible man, reserved; you’d hardly occupy this position if you weren’t”—he paused at length to savor the Colonel’s anxiety, then went on mysteriously, in a lower tone—“But, sir, have you not noticed . . . have you not noticed that this influenza does not choose its victims at random, eh?”
“I simply don’t understand, my dear Sbrinzel, I really don’t . . .”
“Eh, then I shall have to spell it out word for word. These bacilli, or viruses, or whatever the hell they’re called . . . well, they have a special flair, they pick people out as if they could read into their very hearts . . . and there’s no way of deceiving them, eh!”
Molinas looked at him in perplexity. “Look, my dear Sbrinzel, you may feel like joking . . . but as long as you continue to speak in riddles, how do you expect me to understand? Perhaps I am a little slow today . . . I woke up with a headache . . . I hope I . . .”
“Eh, not you, sir, not you! You couldn’t have influenza! You’re the very personification of discipline, eh!”
“How does discipline come into it?”
“Eh, I must admit that you’re not at your best this morning, sir . . .” He lowered his voice still further: “The fact is this, sir, to put it crudely: if you get influenza, it means you’re against the government!”
“Against the government?”
“Eh, I found it hard to believe too . . . but finally I was convinced. Believe me, not even we have any idea of the brilliance of the Chief who leads us. . . . A magnificent idea for taking the country’s pulse . . . State influenza! Don’t you think it’s wonderful? Influenza which attacks only pessimists, skeptics, opponents, enemies of the country lurking all over the place . . . while the devoted citizens, the patriots, the conscientious workers are untouched!”
Here the Colonel managed to voice his objection: “But my dear Sbrinzel, how could such a thing happen? You mean that all those absent today are against the government?”
“Eh, just think carefully if you don’t believe it, take the cases one by one . . . you’ll see how perfectly it all fits . . . whose desk is that one, for instance?”
“Lieutenant Recordini’s.”
“Eh, would you be prepared to swear to it that Recordini isn’t against the Regime? Think back a little . . . I’m certain he must have given himself away at some time or other, that he has confided in you, eh . . .”
“Oh, Lord, Recordini certainly isn’t a great enthusiast, but surely that doesn’t mean one should accuse him . . .”
“Eh, come now, State influenza never makes a mistake . . . whose is that other empty desk there?”
“That’s Professor Quirico’s desk, he’s the specialist in triple cipher . . . the most brilliant brain in the department.”
“Eh, there you are then! He’s already had a few brushes with authority, if I’m not mistaken . . . wasn’t he nearly dismissed last year?”
“You’re quite right,” agreed the Colonel, somewhat worried, “but . . . but couldn’t some of them be ill with other things? . . . This is a most dangerous system . . . one could so easily be mistaken.”
“Eh, no fear of that sir, the Information Service sees to that . . . look at your register . . . the names of the absentees are marked with a small red cross if it’s influenza . . . perfect, eh?”
The Colonel passed a hand over his forehead. And what if I get ill too? he thought. Unfortunately I’ve cursed the Chief at times, as well. How can one repress one’s thoughts?
“Eh, a headache, didn’t you say? You’re looking rather pale today, sir, eh!” Sbrinzel gave a vicious little laugh.
“No, no, I feel fine now,” said Molinas, controlling himself. “I feel simply fine, thank goodness.”
“Eh, just as well . . . see you later sir, eh?” He went off, cackling to himself.
Was it just a joke? Had Sbrinzel wanted to make fun of him? Or had the government really put into effect so infernal a means of trying consciences? Molinas considered his eight absent juniors. The more he thought about it, the more he had to agree that State influenza—if that was what it really was—had chosen its victims very aptly. For one reason or another, all eight were men of dubious patriotism, all eight very intelligent, and of course intelligence, as far as matters of political faith are concerned, is known to be a negative element. But here he asked himself, “Surely these wretched bacilli could sometimes make mistakes and affect innocent people as well? Possibly myself? Surely everyone must have had a hostile or irreverent thought about the Chief at some time or other? If I fell ill what would they do to me? Dismiss me? Court-martial? I mustn’t give in at any price, even if I do begin to feel ill.”
And he did feel ill. His headache had become worse. A buzzing in his ears. Overwhelming desire for warmth and rest. With an effort he opened the file that Sbrinzel had brought. He studied the messages and divided them up. But they swam before his eyes.
Under cover of pretending to examine a sheet covered with incomprehensible figures, he took his pulse, using his watch to time the beats: ninety-eight. Temperature? Or just fear?
As soon as he reached home he rushed for the thermometer. He kept it in his mouth for over a quarter of an hour. Finally he plucked up enough courage to look at it and was left breathless: 102.
Well dosed with quinine, ears booming, head aching at every move, he went back to the office that afternoon. Strange: Sbrinzel was waiting for him at his desk, and set malicious eyes upon him: “Eh, sir, excuse my saying so, but perhaps you drank a little too much at lunchtime . . . your eyes, they’re terribly bright, eh!”
“A couple of glasses, certainly no more,” said Molinas to parry the blow.
“Eh, by the way, how’s the headache?”
“Gone entirely,” said the Colonel, thoroughly nervous. He put on a show of having a great deal of work to do, scrabbling helplessly amid piles of papers.
Sbrinzel did go away, but came back a little while later. He enjoyed thinking up excuses for frequent visits. He would continue with his series of sibylline questions: Why did the Colonel have
