“But this civilisation of ours has come to the edge of its grave. It is going to die. There is no help for it. What I fear is that in its death-throe it may destroy even the hope of a newer and perhaps better civilisation in the future. It is going to starve to death; and a starving organism is desperate. So long as it retains its present organised and coherent life, it will be a danger to us; and for our own safety—I mean the safety of the future generations—we must disorganise it as soon as possible. We must throw it back at a step, if we can, to the old unspecialised conditions; for then it will lose its most formidable powers and break up of itself. Did you ever read Hobbes? He thought of the State as a great Leviathan, an artificial man of greater strength and stature than the natural man, for whose protection and defence it was contrived; and the soul of this artificial creature he found in sovereignty. How can we bring about the debacle of this huge organism? That is the problem I have been facing this afternoon.
“The Leviathan’s lifeblood is the system of communications throughout the country; and I doubt if we can cripple that sufficiently rapidly and effectively to bring about the downfall. It would take too long and excite too much opposition if we did it thoroughly. We must have something subtler, Flint, something which will strike at each individual intelligence and isolate it from its fellows as far as possible. It’s my old problem of the breaking-strain again on the very widest scale. We must find some psychological weapon to help us. Nothing else will do.”
It seemed as though he were appealing to me for suggestions; but I had nothing to offer. I had never considered such a problem; and at first sight it certainly seemed insoluble. Given that men already had the certainty of death before them, what stronger motive could one bring to bear?
“I must think over it further,” he said at last, “I think I see a glimmering of some possibilities. After all, it’s my own line.”
He dropped the subject and seemed to sink into his own thoughts for a time. When he broke the silence once more, it was on an entirely different subject.
“I wonder if you ever read the Norse mythology, Flint? No? Well, you’ve missed something. The gods of Greece were a poor lot, a kind of divine collection of Fermiers Généreaux with much the same tastes; but the Scandinavian divinities were in a different class. They were human in a way; but their humanity wasn’t of the baser sort. And over them all hung that doom of Ragnarök, their Twilight, when the forces of Evil would be loosed for the final struggle to bring darkness upon the earth. It’s the strangest forecast of our present crisis. As Ragnarök drew near, brother was to turn against brother; bloodshed was to sweep the land. Then was to come the Winter, three years long, when all trees were to fail and all fruits to perish, while the race of men died by hunger and cold and violence. And with Ragnarök the very Gods themselves were to pass away in their struggle with all the Forces of Evil and Darkness.
“But they were only half-gods, deified men. Behind them, the All-Father stood; and beyond that time of terror there lay the hope of Gimle, the new age when all would again be young and fair.
“I look beyond these coming horrors to a new Gimle, Flint; a time when Earth will renew her youth and we shall shake free from all the trammels which this dying civilisation has twined about our feet. It will come, I feel sure. But only a few of us leaders will see it. The strain will be too much for us; only the very toughest will survive. But each of us must work to the very last breath to save something upon which we can build anew. There must be no shrinking in either will or emotion. I warn you that it will be terrible. To save mankind from the terror of the giants, Odin gave his eye to Mimir in return for a draught of the Well of Knowledge. Some of us will have to give our lives. … A few of us will lose our very souls. … It will be worth it!”
I was amazed to find this train of mysticism in that cold mind. Yet, after all, is it surprising? Almost all the great men of history have been mystics of one kind or another. Nordenholt rose; and something which had burned in his eyes died out suddenly. He went to the roll-top desk and took from it a bundle of papers.
“Here are your instructions, Flint. Everything has been foreseen, I think, for the start. Follow them implicitly as far as they go; and after that I trust you to carry out the further steps which you will see are required.”
As he was shaking hands with me, another thought seemed to strike him.
“By the way, of course you understand that the whole of this scheme depends for success on our being able to exterminate these bacilli? If we cannot do that, they will simply attack any nitrogenous manure which we use. I am putting my bacteriologists on to the problem at once; but in any case the nitrogen scheme must go ahead. Without it, no success is possible, even if we destroyed B. diazotans. So go ahead.”
His car awaited me at the door. On the drive home, I saw in the streets crowds gathered around hoarding after hoarding
