He hesitated, trying to remember what happened next. A block was forming in his mind. “PA—don’t you know what PA stands for?” He set the meter switch to three to read the Power Amplifier grid current. . . TSR switch to T for tuning. It was coming back to him. Meter switch to six to ascertain total current … anode tuning for minimum reading.
Now he turned the TSR switch to S for send, pressed the key briefly, took a reading, manipulated the aerial matching control so that the meter reading rose slightly; hastily readjusted the anode tuning. He repeated the procedure until to his profound relief he saw the finger dip against the white background of the kidney-shaped dial and knew that the transmitter and aerial were correctly tuned, and that he could talk to John and Jack.
He sat back with a grunt of satisfaction, lit a cigarette, wished it were an English one because if they came in now they wouldn’t have to bother about the brand of cigarette he was smoking. He looked at his watch, turning the winder until it was stiff, terrified lest it run down; it was matched with Avery’s and in a simple way this gave him comfort. Like divided lovers, they were looking at the same star.
He had killed that boy.
Three minutes to schedule. He had unscrewed the Morse key from the spares box because he couldn’t manage it properly while it was on that lid. Jack had said it was all right; he said it didn’t matter. He had to hold the key base with his left hand so that it didn’t slide about, but Jack said every operator had his quirks. He was sure it was smaller than the one they gave him in the war; he was sure of it. Traces of French chalk clung to the lever. He drew in his elbows and straightened his back. The third finger of his right hand crooked over the key. JAJ’s my first call sign, he thought, Johnson’s my name, they call me Jack, that’s easy enough to remember. JA, John Avery; JJ, Jack Johnson. Then he was tapping it out. A dot and three dashes, dot dash, a dot and three dashes, and he kept thinking: It’s like the house in Holland, but there’s no one with me.
Say it twice, Fred, then get off the air. He switched over to receive, pushed the sheet of paper further toward the middle of the table and suddenly realized he had nothing to write with when Jack came through.
He stood up and looked around for his notebook and pencil, the sweat breaking out on his back. They were nowhere to be seen. Dropping hastily to his hands and knees he felt in the thick dust under the bed, found the pencil, groped vainly for his notebook. As he was getting up he heard a crackle from the earphones. He ran to the table, pressed one phone to his ear, at the same time trying to hold still the sheet of paper so that he could write in a corner of it beside his own message.
“QSA3: hearing you well enough,” that’s all they were saying. “Steady, boy, steady,” he muttered. He settled into the chair, switched to transmit, looked at his own encoded message and tapped out four-two because there were forty-two groups. His hand was coated with dust and sweat, his right arm ached, perhaps from carrying the suitcase. Or struggling with the boy.
You’ve got all the time in the world, Johnson had said. We’ll be listening: you’re not passing an exam. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the grime from his hands. He was terribly tired; the tiredness was like a physical despair, like the moment of guilt before making love. Groups of four letters, Johnson had said, think of four-letter words, eh Fred? You don’t need to do it all at once, Fred, have a little stop in the middle if you like; two and a half minutes on the first frequency, two and a half on the second, that’s the way we go; Mrs. Hartbeck will wait, I’m sure. With his pencil he drew a heavy line under the ninth letter because that was where the safety device came. That was something he dared think of only in passing.