An odd incident had occurred at Frankfurt where the plane from London grounded for an hour. Martins was eating a hamburger in the American canteen (a kindly air line supplied the passengers with a voucher for 65 cents of food) when a man he could recognise from twenty feet away as a journalist approached his table.
"You Mr. Dexter?" he asked.
"Yes," Martins said, taken off his guard.
"You look younger than your photographs," the man said. "Like to make a statement? I represent the local forces paper here. We'd like to know what you think of Frankfurt."
"I only touched down ten minutes ago."
"Fair enough," the man said. "What about views on the American novel?"
"I don't read them," Martins said.
"The well known acid humour," the journalist said. He pointed at a small grey-haired man with two protruding teeth, nibbling a bit of bread. "Happen to know if that's Carey?"
"No. What Carey?"
"J. G. Carey of course."
"I've never heard of him."
"You novelists live out of the world. He's my real assignment," and Martins watched him make across the room for the great Carey, who greeted him with a false headline smile, laying down his crust. Dexter wasn't the man's assignment, but Martins couldn't help feeling a certain pride—nobody had ever before referred to him as a novelist; and that sense of pride and importance carried him over the disappointment when Lime was not there to meet him at the airport. We never get accustomed to being less important to other people than they are to us—Martins felt the little jab of dispensability standing by the bus door, watching the snow come sifting down, so thinly and softly that the great drifts among the ruined buildings had an air of permanence, as though they were not the result of this meagre fall, but lay, forever, above the line of perpetual snow.
There was no Lime to meet him at the Hotel Astoria (не было никакого Лайма, чтобы встретить его в гостинице Астория) where the bus landed him (где автобус высадил его), and no message (и никакой записки; message — сообщение; извещение, письмо)—only a cryptic one for Mr. Dexter (только одна таинственная для мистера Декстера) from someone he had never heard of (от кого-то, о котором он никогда не слышал) called Crabbin (по имени Крэббин). "We expected you on tomorrow's plane (мы ожидали вас на завтрашнем самолете = полагали, что вы прилетите завтра). Please stay where you are (пожалуйста, остановитесь, где вы есть = где вы сейчас находитесь). On the way round (здесь в окрестности; way — путь; нправление; /разг./ район, местность, сторона