No. Not liquor and not the accident, no matter what they said. It was Hawtree, and a personal grudge because he, Durham, had had Hawtree's daughter out with him in the 'copter that night. And so what? He was only engaged to Willa Paulsen, not married to her, and anyway Susan Hawtree knew what she was doing. She knew darn well.
Hawtree, a grudge, and a little bad luck. That's what happened. And that's all.
The 'copter swerved and dropped onto a private landing stage attached to a penthouse. Durham knew it well, though he hadn't seen it for over a year. He got out, aware of palpitations and a gone feeling in the knees. He needed a drink, but he knew that he would have to go inside first and he forced himself to stand up and walk beside Paulsen as though nothing had ever happened. The head high, the face proud and calm, just a touch of bitterness but not too much.
Hawtree was alone in the living room. He glanced at Durham as he came in through the long glass doors. There was a servall standing in the corner, and Hawtree said to it, "A drink for the gentleman, straight and stiff."
A small anger stirred in Durham. Hawtree might at least have given him the choice. He said sharply, "No thanks."
Hawtree said, "Don't be a fool." He looked tired, but then he always had. Tired and keyed up, full of the drive and the brittle excitement of one who has juggled peoples and nations, expressed as black marks on sheets of varicolored paper, for so long that it has become a habit as necessary and destructive as hashish. To Paulsen he said, "I'll ring when I need you."
Paulsen went out. The servall placed the drink in Durham's hand. He did not refuse it.
"Sit down," said Hawtree, and Durham sat. Hawtree dismissed the servall. Durham drank part of his drink and felt better.
"Well," he said. "I'm listening."
"You were a great disappointment to me, Durham."