填空题

The Interview
At the Demobilization Centre, after the usual round of medical inspection, return of service equipment, and issue of allowances and civilian clothing, I had been interviewed by an officer whose job was to advise on careers. On learning that I had a science degree and varied experience in engineering technology, he expressed the opinion that I would have no difficulty in finding a good civilian job. Industry was reorganizing itself for post - war production and there was already an urgent demand for qualified technologists, especially in the field of electronics, which was my special interest. I had been very much encouraged by this, as I had made a point of keeping up with new trends and developments by borrowing books through the Central Library System, and by subscribing to various technical journals and magazines, so I felt quite confident of my ability to hold down a good job. He had given me a letter of introduction to the Higher Appointments Office in Tavistock Square, London, and suggested that I call on them as soon as I had settled myself in "digs" and had enjoyed a short holiday...
Shortly after my return, I visited the Appointments Office, where I was interviewed by two courteous, impersonal men who questioned me closely on my academic background, service career and experience in industry. I explained that after graduating I had worked for two years as a Communication Engineer for the Standard Oil Company at their Aruba Refinery, earning enough to pay for postgraduate study in England. At the end of the interview they told me that I would be notified of any vacancies suitable to my experience and qualifications. Two weeks later I received a letter from the Appointments Office, together with a list of three firms, each of which had vacancies for qualified Communication Engineers. I promptly wrote to each one, stating my qualifications and experience, and soon received very encouraging replies, each with an invitation to an interview. Everything was working very smoothly and I felt on top of the world.
I was nervous as I stood in front of the Head Office in Mayfair; this firm had a high international reputation and the thought of being associated with it added to my excitement. Anyway, I reasoned, this was the first of the interviews, and if I failed here there were still two chances remaining. The uniformed attendant politely opened the large doors for me, and as I approached the receptionist’s desk she smiled quite pleasantly.
"Good morning." Her brows were raised in polite enquiry.
"Good morning," I replied, "My name is Braithwaite. I am here for an interview with Mr. Symonds."
I had taken a great deal of care with my appearance that morning. I was wearing my best suit with the fight shirt and tie and pocket handkerchief; my shoes were smartly polished, my teeth were well brushed and I was wearing my best smile--all this had passed the very critical inspection of Mr. and Mrs. Belmont with whom I lived. I might even say that I was quite proud of my appearance. Yet the receptionist’s smile suddenly disappeared. She reached for a large diary and consulted it as if to verify my statement, then she picked up the telephone and, cupping her hand around the mouthpiece as if for greater privacy, spoke rapidly into it, watching me stealthily the while.
"Will you come this way" She set off down a wide corridor, her back straight and stiff with a disapproval which was echoed in the tap-tap of her high heels.
At the end of the corridor we entered an automatic lift; the girl maintained a silent hostility and avoided looking at me. At the second floor we stepped out into a passage on to which several rooms opened; pausing briefly outside one of them she said "In there," and quickly retreated to the lift. I knocked on the door and entered a spacious room where four men were seated at a large table.
One of them rose, walked around to shake hands with me and introduced his colleagues, and then indicated a chair in which I seated myself. After a brief enquiry into my place of birth and R. A.F. service experience, they began to question me closely on telecommunications and the development of electronics in that field. The questions were studied, deliberate, and suddenly the nervousness which had troubled me all the morning disappeared; now I was confident, at ease with a familiar subject. They questioned me on theory, equipment, circuits, operation; on my training in the U. S. A. , and on my experience there and in South America. They were thorough, but I was relaxed now; the years of study, field work and postgraduate research were about to pay off, and I knew that I was holding my own, and even enjoying it.
And then it was all over. Mr. Symonds, the gentleman who had welcomed me, leaned back in his chair and looked from one to another of his associates. They nodded to him, and he said:
"Mr. Braithwaite, my associates and I are completely satisfied with your replies and feel sure that in terms of qualification, ability and experience, you are abundantly suited to the post we have in mind. But we are faced with a certain difficulty. Employing you would mean placing you in a position of authority over a number of our English employees, many of whom have been with us a very long time, and we feel that such an appointment would unfavorably affect the balance of good relationship which has always obtained in this firm. We could not offer you that post without the responsibility, neither would we ask you to accept the one or two other vacancies of a different type which do exist, for .they are unsuitable for someone with your high standard of education and ability. So, I’m afraid, we will not be able to use you." At this he rose, extended his hand in the courtesy of dismissal.
I felt drained of strength and thought; yet somehow I managed to leave that office, navigate the passage, lift and corridor, and walk out of the building into the busy sunlit street. I had just been brought face to face with something I had either forgotten or completely ignored for more than six exciting years my black skin. It had not mattered when I volunteered for aircrew service in 1940; it had not mattered during the period of flying training or when I received my wings and was posted to a squadron; it had not mattered in the exciting uncertainties of operational flying, of living and loving from day to day, brothered to men who like myself had no tomorrow and could not afford to waste today on the absurdities of prejudice; it had not mattered when, uniformed and winged, I visited theatres and dance halls, pubs and private houses.
I had forgotten about my black face during those years. I saw it daily yet never noticed its colour. I was an airman in flying kit while on His Majesty’s business, smiled at, encouraged, welcomed by grateful civilians in bars or on the street, who saw not me, but the uniform and its relationship to the glorious, undying Few. Yes, I had forgotten about my skin when I had so eagerly discussed my post-war prospects with the Careers Officer and the Appointments people; I had quite forgotten about it as I cheerfully entered that grand, imposing building...
Now, as I walked sadly away, I consciously turned my eyes away from the sight of my face reflected in the large plate-glass shopwindows. Disappointment and anger were a solid bitter lump rising inside me; I hurried into the nearest public lavatory and was violently sick. The author was good at computer.