they had now arrived at the Academy, where the assembled pedagogues were waiting to sharpen their wits on a real, live Overlord.
“As our distinguished colleague will have told you,” said Professor Chance, Dean of the University of New Athens, “our main purpose is to keep the minds of our people alert, and to enable them to realize all their potentialities. Beyond this island' — his gesture indicated, and rejected, the rest of the globe—”I fear that the human race has lost its initiative. It has peace, it has plenty—but it has no horizons.”
“Yet here, of course.. ?” interjected the Overlord blandly.
Professor Chance, who lacked a sense of humour and was vaguely aware of the fact, glanced suspiciously at his visitor.
“Here,” he continued, “we do not suffer from the ancient obsession that leisure is wicked. But we do not consider that it is enough to be passive receptors of entertainment. Everybody on this island has one ambition, which may be summed up very simply. It is to do something, however small it may be, better than anyone else. Of course, it's an ideal we don't all achieve. But in this modern world the great thing is to have an ideal. Achieving it is considerably less important.”
The Inspector did not seem inclined to comment. He had discarded his protective clothing, but still wore dark glasses even in the subdued light of the Common Room. The Dean wondered if they were physiologically necessary, or whether they were merely camouflage. Certainly they made quite impossible the already difficult task of reading the Overlord's thoughts. He did not, however, seem to object to the some- what challenging statements that had been thrown at him, or the criticisms of his race's policy with regard to Earth which they implied.
The Dean was about to press the attack when Professor Sperling, Head of the Science Department, decided to make it a three-cornered fight.
“As you doubtless know, sir, one of the great problems of our culture has been the dichotomy between art and science. I'd very much like to know your views on the matter. Do you subscribe to the view that all artists are abnormal? That their work—or at any rate the impulse behind it—is the result of some deep-seated psychological dissatisfaction?”
Professor Chance cleared his throat purposefully, but the Inspector forestalled him.
“I've been told that all men are artists to a certain extent, so that everyone is capable of creating something, if only on a rudimentary level. At your schools yesterday, for example, I noticed the emphasis placed on self-expression in drawing, painting and modelling. The impulse seemed quite universal, even among those clearly destined to be specialists in science. So if all artists are abnormal, and all men are artists, we have an interesting syllogism…”
Everyone waited for him to complete it. But when it suited their purpose the Overlords could be impeccably tactful.
The Inspector came through the symphony concert with flying colours, which was a good deal more than could be said for many human members of the audience. The only concession to popular taste had been Stravinsky's “Symphony of Psalms': the rest of the programme was aggressively modernistic. Whatever one's views on its merits, the performance was superb, for the Colony's boast that it possessed some of the finest musicians in the world was no idle one. There had been much wrangling among the various rival composers for the honour of being included in the programme, though a few cynics wondered if it would be an honour at all. For all that anyone knew to the contrary, the Overlords might be tone deaf. It was observed, however, that after the concert Thanthalteresco sought out the three composers who had been present, and complimented them all on what he called their “great ingenuity”. This caused them to retire with pleased but vaguely baffled expressions.
It was not until the third day that George Greggson had a chance of meeting the Inspector. The theatre had arranged a kind of mixed grill rather than a single dish—two one-act plays, a sketch by a world-famous impersonator, and a ballet sequence. Once again all these items were superbly executed and one critic's prediction—”Now at least we'll discover if the Overlords can yawn”—was falsified. Indeed, the Inspector laughed several times, and in the correct places.
And yet—no one could be sure. He might himself be putting on a superb act, following the performance by logic alone and with his own strange emotions completely untouched, as an anthropologist might take part in some primitive rite. The fact that he uttered the appropriate sounds, and made the expected responses, really proved nothing at all.
Though George had been determined to have a talk with the Inspector, he failed utterly. After the performance they exchanged a few words of introduction, then the visitor was swept away. It was completely impossible to isolate him from his entourage, and George went home in a state of extreme frustration. He was by no means certain what he wished to say even if he had had the chance, but somehow, he felt sure, he could have turned the conversation round to Jeff. And now the opportunity had gone.
His bad temper lasted two days. The Inspector's flyer had departed, amid many protestations of mutual regard, before the sequel emerged. No one had thought of questioning Jeff, and the boy must have been thinking it over for a long time before he approached George.
“Daddy,” he said, just prior to bedtime. “You know the Overlord who came to see us?”
“Yes,” replied George grimly.
“Well, he came to our school, and I heard him talk to some of the teachers. I didn't really understand what he said—but I think I recognized his voice. That's who told me to run when the big wave came.”
“You are quite sure?”
Jeff hesitated for a moment.
“Not quite—but if it wasn't him, it was another Overlord. I wondered if I ought to thank him. But he's gone now, hasn't he?”
“Yes,” said George. “I'm afraid he has. Still, perhaps we'll have another chance. Now go to bed like a good boy and don't worry about it any more.” When Jeff was safely out of the way, and Jenny had been attended to, Jean came back and sat on the rug beside George's chair, leaning against his legs. It was a habit that struck him as annoyingly sentimental, but not worth creating a fuss about. He merely made his knees as knobbly as possible.
“What do you think about it now?” asked Jean in a tired, flat voice. “Do you believe it really happened?”
“It happened,” George replied, “but perhaps we're foolish to worry. After all, most parents would be grateful—and of course, I am grateful. The explanation may be perfectly simple. We know that the Overlords have got interested in the Colony, so they've undoubtedly been observing it with their instruments—despite that promise they made. Suppose one was just prowling round with that viewing gadget of theirs, and saw the wave coming. It would be natural enough to warn anyone who was in danger.”
“But he knew Jeff's name, don't forget that. No, we're being watched. There's something peculiar about us, something that attracts their attention. I've felt it ever since Rupert's party. It's funny how that changed both our lives.”
George looked down at her with sympathy, but nothing more. It was strange how much one could alter in so short a time. He was fond of her: she had borne his children and was part of his life. But of the love which a not-clearly-remembered person named George Greggson had once known towards a fading dream called Jean Morrel, how much remained?
His love was divided now between Jeff and Jennifer on the one hand—and Carolle on the other. He did not believe that Jean knew about Carolle, and he intended to tell her before anyone else did. But somehow he had never got round to it.
“Very well—Jeff is being watched—protected, in fact. Don't you think that should make us proud? Perhaps the Overlords have planned a great future for him. I wonder what it can be?”
He was talking to reassure Jean, he knew. He was not greatly disturbed himself, only intrigued and baffled. And quite suddenly another thought struck him, something that should have occurred to him before. His eyes turned automatically towards the nursery.
“I wonder if it's only Jeff they're after,” he said.
In due course the Inspector presented his report. The Islanders would have given much to see it. All the statistics and records went into the insatiable memories of the great computers which were some, but not all, of
