A few weeks ago, if asked to make a short list of the lowest human vermin, he would have put drug pedlars fairly near the head of the list—assuming it to be in descending order of loath­someness—somewhere in the same region as white-slave traders. Now here he was, helping to smuggle heroin, or marijuana, or whatever the vile stuff was, out of the docks and put it in circula­tion. He had become a member, however insignificant, of the organization that spread these drugs throughout the country; the organization that saw to it that the drugs were brought over in the ships, taken into the pre-arranged lavatories on the docks, concealed inside the cistern or in some other manner, and picked up within a few hours by Bunder and his friends. The whole thing was one vast network; each man was given his particular task and told as little as possible about the rest of the business. For instance, he, Charles, did not even know what steps were to be taken to get these envelopes out of his trade plates. That was someone else’s job; all he had to do was to leave them in the usual place when arriving at the Export Express headquarters; they would be got at somehow—perhaps by Bunder, perhaps by someone whom Bunder did not even suspect of being in the organization—and the envelopes removed. Then the filthy stuff would be hawked about and sold, finding its way into the systems of miserable creatures who were half-crazy, lonely, ill, neurotic, or just very young. And he had helped. He stared out of the train window with vacant, heavy eyes, hating himself, hating his failure. And what was he doing it for?

At the thought the vision of Veronica Roderick flashed with blinding intensity upon the screen of his mind, and at once his whole being, down to the smallest reflex and gesture, was drawn into the violent whirlpool of his longing for her. He knew that he would commit any crime, that he would steal, kill, maim, or ruin the lives of people who had never done him harm, for the sake, not of possessing her, but of giving himself even a remote chance of possessing her. He knew that neither his mind nor his body could recognize anything as evil, nor as good, except in direct relation to that desire. And he was helpless, and aghast.

VI

VI

Sunflower Court proved to be a grandiose, ugly block of ‘luxury’ flats. As Charles walked up the steps he was aware of an unfamiliar sensation, as of something pressing against his right flank. It was his wallet. The reason why it was an unfamiliar sensation was that, for the first time, the wallet was crammed full of notes. For, besides the twenty-five pounds Bunder had handed him for his part in the smuggling trip, he had received his wages that Friday.