The windows were smeared with paint as in an unfinished building.
Over the table a naked electric bulb hung on a cord from the ceiling, and next to it a sticky paper fly-catcher.
Round the table sat hunchbacked Little Loewy, ex wrestler Paul, the writer Bill and three others.
Rubashov spoke for some time.
The surroundings were familiar to him; their traditional ugliness made him feel at home.
In these surroundings he was again fully convinced of the necessity and utility of his mission and could not understand why, in the noisy pub the night before, he had had that feeling of uneasiness.
He explained objectively and not without warmth the real state of things, without as yet mentioning the practical object for his coming.
The world boycott against the aggressor had failed because of the hypocrisy and greed of the European governments.
Some of them still kept up an appearance of sticking to the boycott, the others not even that.
The aggressor needed petrol.
In the past the Country of the Revolution had covered a considerable part of this need.
If now it stopped the supplies, other countries would greedily spring into the breach: indeed they asked nothing better than to push the Country of the Revolution from the world markets.
Romantic gestures of that sort would only hamper the development of industry Over There, and with it the revolutionary movement all over the world.
So the inference was clear.
Paul and the three dock-hands nodded. They were slow thinkers; everything the comrade from Over There was telling them sounded quite convincing; it was only a theoretical discourse, of no immediate consequence to them.
They did not see the actual point he was aiming at; none of them thought of the black flotilla which was approaching their harbour.
Only Little Loewy and the writer with the twisted face exchanged a quick glance.
Rubashov noticed it.
He finished a shade more drily, without warmth in his voice:
“That is really all I had to tell you as far as principle is concerned.
You are expected to carry out the decisions of the C.C. and to explain the ins and outs of the matter to the politically less developed comrades, if any of them should have any doubts.
For the moment I have no more to say.”
There was silence for a minute.
Rubashov took his pince-nez off and lit a cigarette.
Little Loewy said in a casual tone of voice:
We thank the speaker.
Does anybody wish to ask any questions?”
Nobody did.
After a while one of the three dock workers said awkwardly:
“There is not much to be said to it.
The comrades Over There must know what they are about.
We, of course, must continue to work for the boycott. You can trust us.
In our port nothing will get through for the swine.”
His two colleagues nodded.
Wrestler Paul confirmed:
“Not here,” made a bellicose grimace and waggled his ears for fun.
For a moment Rubashov believed he was faced by an oppositional faction; he only realized gradually that the others had really not grasped the point.
He looked at Little Loewy, in the hope that he would clear up the misunderstanding.
But Little Loewy held his eyes lowered and was silent.
Suddenly the writer said with a nervous twitch:
“Couldn’t you choose another harbour this time for your little transactions? Must it always be us?”
The dockers looked at him in surprise; they did not understand what he meant by “transaction”; the idea of the small black fleet which was approaching their coast through mist and smoke was further than ever from their minds.
But Rubashov had expected this question:
“It is both politically and geographically advisable,” he said.
“The goods will be conveyed from there by land.
We have, of course, no reason to keep anything secret: still, it is more prudent to avoid a sensation which the reactionary Press might exploit.”
The writer again exchanged a glance with Little Loewy.
The dock-hands looked at Rubashov uncomprehendingly; one could see them working it out slowly in their heads.
Suddenly Paul said in a changed, hoarse voice:
“What, actually, are you talking about?”