Martin reflected on his “history.” The walls of this dirty place fell apart and memories came up in a flood.... His father—a story of the one professor, deathless in his circumference of knowledge; a man affectionate, yet untenable within the world, struck close in the mystery of his students; humble with his virtues, out of cognizance, and strong in the strength of those he guided, he lived apart and yet among the compasses of his direction.... His mother, carrying an exotic, foreign beauty into time as though indignant with maturities.... His white child-wife, her white child-fingers screaming on the piano against his inevitable demands.... Her death.... Then ships and oceans and the lust of palms....
“Your history!” Stein’s sharp voice, bringing back the sharper walls and the honesty of where he was, demanded laughter. And Martin laughed until each memory was dead.
“My history?” he asked, wiping his eyes. “You wouldn’t like my history. It isn’t interesting enough. Case-historians would starve to death with me.”
Mr. Stein sat up straight. He frowned and looked at his hands.
“Very amusing.” He filled two forms rapidly. “This,” he said, handing Martin one of them, “provides you with a hotel room for the duration of two weeks. And this,” he continued, “allows you meal tickets at any of our restaurants to the value of forty cents per day for the same length of time.”
Outside, Martin shook his head to free it from the mustiness of dismissed progressions and the impurity of this newer living. He glanced at one of the tickets. “HOTEL PINE LEAF, RESERVED ESPECIALLY FOR SEAMEN,” he read. As he walked on toward the hotel he was stopped twice for a cigarette. One heavy-jawed fellow tried to strike up a conversation and offered to help him with his bag, all the time walking uncomfortably close to him. Martin shook his head and the man dropped behind, muttering.
The lobby of the Pine Leaf was one floor up. A man seated in one of the chairs which lined the walls, was snoring loudly. “He must be sick,” thought Martin, for no one disturbed him. Martin leaned his bag near the desk and as he did so, a bull-necked sailor, his collar open, ran at him.
“Good God!” said the man. “We’ve grounded. Damn you, Captain! Keep her in the channel.” He held his fist menacingly.
“All right,” said Martin, stopping stock-still. “And now, look to your engines.”
The clerk behind the wire netting regarded them worriedly.