Roberts walked over to a cabinet and brought back a colored liqueur which he offered to Martin, pouring it slowly and meticulously into Holland glass. He was once more the host, aloof, charming, courteous.
“How do you think you will like your job?” he asked. “I’m sending you to a friend of mine—a Mr. Jackson. He’ll see that you get along.”
“There’s no reason to lie,” Martin answered. “I won’t like it. It’ll be wretched—sitting there, pounding a machine that is more efficient than I am.”
“Then tell me—why do you want a job ashore? Why don’t you go back to sailoring? Or, do you really like that sort of thing after all?”
“It’s a free life,” Martin answered slowly.
“And this is not?”
“I don’t know. But your evaluations interest me.”
Roberts became genuinely curious. All of the coldness left his face and only the deeper lines of his integrity remained.
“What is it that disturbs you, Martin?” he asked gently. “The past or the future? Or the shadow behind the lamp?”
“I imagine the shadows are worst.”