He turned his head on the pillow, but Mack took his face in his hands and brought it back before him.

‘Andrew, this is important-’

‘I gotta sleep it off-’

‘No, listen-now, listen good, man-we’ve just got a flash! You’ve won the Nobel Prize-the real McCoy, I’m not kidding! They cited The Perfect State and Armageddon and your writings in support of “humanitarian ideals”. Andrew, it’s true, and there’s fifty thousand bucks that goes with it!’

Andrew Craig lay unmoved as a cadaver, eyes open, staring past Mack, letting the communication find transmission through his fogged brain.

Mack took his friend by the shoulders again. ‘Did you hear what I said, Andrew?’

‘I heard.’ He did not budge. ‘It’s a gag, isn’t it?’

‘Every word true. Jake Binninger’s on the way from the office with the telegram and AP lead. In a couple of hours, half the press of the country’ll be here!’

‘Why me?’ Craig asked suddenly. ‘I haven’t had anything out in four years-’

‘I don’t know why-I don’t know how-I only know it’s happened. Old Zeus has come down from Olympus and crowned his man. Andrew, do you know what this means-what day this is? This is the day you’ve become a Nobel Prize winner-joined the rest of the big ones-made the majors!’

‘I can’t think of what to say.’

‘You’d better, and fast. You’re going to be doing a lot of talking-to the whole world-tonight.’

‘Lucius, I’m drunk.’

‘We’re going to make you sober. Leah’s in the kitchen now.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She lost her faculty of speech.’

‘I’m glad for her.’ He tried to prop himself on an elbow, groaned, bringing his hand to head, and dropped back on the pillow. ‘Wow. I really hung one on. Lucius, I can’t get up. Lemme sleep a little.’

‘No. Definitely not. You’re no more Miller’s Dam. Now you belong to the ages. Up.’

Mack took Craig’s arm and pulled, and Craig pushed, and was abruptly upright, but in agony. He swung his legs off the bed. Mack knelt and slipped the moccasins on to Craig’s feet. ‘There.’

‘Do I have to dress?’

‘I don’t think so. You’re a famous author now. Nobody gives a damn how you dress. Only I want you to look sober. Better throw some water on your face and comb your hair.’

Grumbling, Craig managed to stand up, holding his head between his hands as if to keep it screwed on his neck. Setting one foot hesitantly before the other, he tottered forward and disappeared into the bathroom. After a brief sound of running water, he emerged, better groomed, but still in agony.

‘I dunno, Lucius. I see three of you, and all look like Simon Legree. The bed is now twin beds, and I want to sleep in both of them.’ Shakily, he took his briar pipe from the table, and then the worn, half-filled pouch. He considered Mack a moment. ‘The Nobel Prize, you said. What does that mean?’

‘I told you. Over fifty thousand dollars.’

‘No-that’s good, but-what do I have to do?’

‘Well, there’s the press tonight. And in three weeks, you go to Stockholm -’

‘ Stockholm? I could never make it.’

‘Sure you can.’

‘No. I did it once-but that was with Harriet,’ he said almost inaudibly. ‘Now, I’m alone.’ He made a move to leave the room, but his knees buckled, and he snatched at Mack and held. His grin was sickly. ‘Guess I need a collaborator, Lucius. Help me down.’

They descended the staircase and progressed through the living-room slowly, and, finally, they reached the kitchen. Jake Binninger had just arrived, his sheepskin coat wildly misbuttoned. He was wiping the thick lenses of his spectacles, as he watched Leah read the telegram and teletype dispatch he had just delivered to her.

Andrew Craig’s entry into the kitchen brought Jake Binninger across the room in two leaps. He grasped Craig’s limp hand and pumped it. ‘Mr. Craig, this is wonderful! I’m proud to know you! A million congratulations!’

‘Thank you, Jake.’

Leah had held back. As the reporter stepped aside, she came forward. She went up on her toes and brush-kissed Craig on the cheek.

‘I’m happy for you,’ she said.

‘Thanks, Lee.’

‘Here’s confirmation.’ She handed him the telegram and teletype message.

Craig’s hand shook as he accepted the sheets, and groped for and found the nearest kitchen chair. He lowered himself carefully into it.

‘You smell like a brewery,’ she said to Craig. ‘That’s not right-in your position. I want you to drink black coffee, lots of it-’

He was reading the telegram. ‘Not now,’ he said absently.

‘And that getup,’ she went on. ‘A Nobel Prize winner in a T-shirt, cords, and dirty moccasins-they’ll be taking your picture-’

Lucius Mack, still in the kitchen entrance, interrupted. ‘I told him it was all right, Leah. It’s what they expect of an author.’

‘They expect dignity.’ She turned to Craig and her tone softened. ‘Please, Andrew-’

‘Lee, I couldn’t climb those stairs again. And if I could, I’d never come down.’ He dropped the telegram and teletype message on the table. ‘I guess it’s official. But I don’t know about Stockholm.’ He looked up at his sister-in-law pleadingly. ‘Lee, I can’t get through this evening without some kind of pick-me-up. There’s a bottle in the cupboard.’

Leah refused to move. ‘Black coffee,’ she said.

‘Awright, dammit, make it coffee then-anything.’

As Leah went to the stove, the wall telephone rang. She had the percolator in her hand, and nodded to Jake Binninger, who jumped to answer the telephone.

It was a long-distance call from Craig’s publisher in New York, and this was their first contact in a year. The publisher’s congratulations were hearty. He had good news for Craig. Tomorrow, work would begin on a de-luxe omnibus containing three of Craig’s four novels-‘we’ll use the old plates, thinner paper, and this time, illustrations’-and it would be called ‘the Nobel edition’ and be expedited to catch the spring list.

The publisher, who had long before written off Craig, the advance on the next novel, and the next novel itself, was now eager to know if Craig had resumed writing. ‘If you mean, have I stopped drinking, the answer is no,’ Craig said harshly. The publisher treated his reply as a joke. He reiterated his faith in Craig. Tangible proof of this would be a cheque going into the post within a week, an advance against the omnibus and an additional advance on the new novel. He was proud that his house was associated with a Nobel Prize winner. He hoped to see Craig before the Stockholm trip. Craig remained noncommittal and, as soon as possible, hung up. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered. Leah admonished Craig. The publisher had every reason to have behaved as he had, before and now. How would Craig have felt, in the publisher’s shoes, towards a writer who took money and did not write? Craig’s good humour returned briefly. ‘I revise my comment,’ he said. ‘Poor bastard.’

Before he could leave the telephone, it rang again. This long-distance call was from Connecticut, and it was Craig’s literary agent, with whom he had been out of personal touch for months, but to whom Leah constantly wrote. Morosely, Craig listened to the faraway effusions and good wishes. The agent also had news. There had been three calls from motion picture story departments in New York, tentative feelers on Hollywood jobs after Craig came back from Sweden. Apparently, all of them wanted Craig, but also, they all wanted to know about his health. Craig was more amused than irritated. ‘Tell them,’ he said, ‘I’ll work for them for five thousand dollars and five cases of Ballantine’s a week.’ The laughter in Connecticut was uncertain.

Ten minutes later, just as Craig had finished his cup of coffee and Leah was pouring him more, there was a third long-distance call, this one from Boston. Craig took the receiver from Jake Binninger, and found himself connected with the most renowned lecture manager in the business. Unlike the others, he was a brusque and forthright man. ‘This Nobel Prize,’ he told Craig, ‘makes you a saleable commodity, now. We can book you for a year solid-women’s clubs-the chicken-à-la-king circuit-at a gross of a hundred thousand dollars. Our commission is half of that. The rest is yours, clear. We pay all expenses, routing you, travel, hotels, food, publicity. It’s yours, if you want it, on one condition.’ Craig’s voice was edgy, as he asked the condition. ‘Women’s clubs are touchy,’ the lecture manager said. ‘Our deal is we deliver our literary people sober. I heard you’re on the booze. Is that true?’ Craig decided that he liked this man. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ he said frankly. The manager was matter-of-fact. ‘Well, if you stop, let me know. Anyway, congratulations. You’re way up there now.’