“Have you noticed, Mr. Budd, the strange situation in which we find ourselves? We spend our lives manufacturing articles of commerce, and every now and then we are seized by the painful thought that these articles may be used.”
Robbie smiled. If a civilized man has to face the secrets of his soul, let him by all means do it with humor. “It appears,” he suggested, “the ideal society would be one in which men devoted their energies to producing things which they never intended to use.”
“But unfortunately, Mr. Budd, when one has perfected some' thing, the impulse to try it out is strong. I have here a torpedo” — the munitions salesman held it up before the mind's eye — “to the devising of which my great establishment has devoted twenty years. Some say that it will put the battleship out of business. Others say no. Am I to go to my grave not knowing the answer?”
Robbie felt called upon to smile again, but not to answer.
“And this new project upon which we are all working, Mr. Budd — that of dropping bombs from the air! Will that be tried? Shall we have to take our armies and navies into the skies? And ask yourself this: Suppose some nation should decide that its real enemies are the makers of munitions? Suppose that instead of dropping bombs upon battleships and fortresses, they should take to dropping them upon de luxe hotels?”
The mask was up, and Lanny knew what his father meant when he said that Zaharoff was a coward. The magnate who was supposed to hold the fate of Europe in his hands had shrunk, and had become a tormented old man whose hands trembled and who wanted to break down and beg people not to go to war — or perhaps beg God to forgive him if they did.
But when Lanny made this remark to his father afterward, the father laughed. He said: “Don't fool yourself, kid! The old hellion will fight us twice as hard for the next contract.”