isn't it? Look! Look there now! Up she goes.'
They had been driving rapidly away across the desert, and now as Hilary craned forward to look through the little window, she saw a great glow behind them. A faint sound of an explosion came to her ears. Peters threw his head back and laughed. He said:
'Six people die when plane to Marrakesh crashes!'
Hilary said almost under her breath:
'It's – it's rather frightening.'
'Stepping off into the unknown?' It was Peters who spoke. He was serious enough now. 'Yes, but it's the only way. We're leaving the Past and stepping out towards the Future.' His face lit up with sudden enthusiasm. 'We've got to get quit of all the bad, mad old stuff. Corrupt governments and the warmongers. We've got to go into the new world – the world of science, clean away from the scum and the driftwood.'
Hilary drew a deep breath.
'That's like the things my husband used to say,' she said, deliberately.
'Your husband?' He shot her a quick glance. 'Why, was he Tom Betterton?'
Hilary nodded.
'Well that's great. I never knew him out in the States, though I nearly met him more than once. ZE Fission is one of the most brilliant discoveries of this age – yes, I certainly take my hat off to him. Worked with old Mannheim, didn't he?'
'Yes,' said Hilary.
'Didn't they tell me he'd married Mannheim 's daughter. But surely you're not -'
'I'm his second wife,' said Hilary, flushing a little. 'He – his – Elsa died in America.'
'I remember. Then he went to Britain to work there. Then he riled them by disappearing.' He laughed suddenly. 'Walked slap out of some Paris Conference into nowhere.' He added, as though in further appreciation, 'Lord, you can't say they don't organise well.'
Hilary agreed with him. The excellence of their organisation was sending a cold pang of apprehension through her. All the plans, codes, signs that had been so elaborately arranged were going to be useless now, for now there would be no trail to pick up. Things had been so arranged that everyone on the fatal plane had been fellow travellers bound for the Unknown Destination where Thomas Betterton had gone before them. There would be no trace left. Nothing. Nothing but a burnt-out plane. Could they – was it possible that Jessop and his organisation could guess that she, Hilary, was not one of those charred bodies? She doubted it. The accident had been so convincing, so clever – there would even be charred bodies in the plane.
Peters spoke again. His voice was boyish with enthusiasm. For him there were no qualms, no looking back, only eagerness to go forward.
'I wonder,' he said, 'where do we go from here?'
Hilary, too, wondered, because again much depended on that. Sooner or later there must be contacts with humanity. Sooner or later, if investigation was made, the fact that a station wagon with six people in it resembling the description of those who had left that morning by plane, might possibly be noted by someone. She turned to Mrs. Baker, and asked, trying to make her tone the counterpart of the childish eagerness of the young American beside her,
'Where are we going – what happens next?'
'You'll see,' said Mrs. Baker, and for all the pleasantness of her voice, there was something somehow ominous in those words.
They drove on. Behind them the flare of the plane still showed in the sky, showed all the more clearly because the sun was now dropping below the horizon. Night fell. Still they drove. The going was bad since they were obviously not on any main road. Sometimes they seemed to be on field tracks, at other times they drove over open country.
For a long time Hilary remained awake, thoughts and apprehensions turning round in her head excitedly. But at last, shaken and tossed from side to side, exhaustion had its way and she fell asleep. It was a broken sleep. Various ruts and jars in the road awoke her. For a moment or two she would wonder confusedly where she was, then reality would come back to her. She would remain awake for a few moments, her thoughts racing round in confused apprehension, then once more her head would drop forward and nod, and once again she would sleep.
She was awakened suddenly by the car coming to an abrupt stop. Very gently Peters shook her by the arm.
'Wake up,' he said, 'we seem to have arrived somewhere.'
Everyone got out of the station wagon. They were all cramped and weary. It was still dark and they seemed to have drawn up outside a house surrounded by palm trees. Some distance away they could see a few dim lights as though there were a village there. Guided by a lantern they were ushered into the house. It was a native house with a couple of giggling Berber women who stared curiously at Hilary and Mrs. Calvin Baker. They took no interest in the nun.
The three women were taken to a small upstairs room. There were three mattresses on the floor and some heaps of coverings, but no other furniture.
'I'll say I'm stiff,' said Mrs. Baker. 'Gets you kind of cramped, riding along the way we've been doing.'
'Discomfort does not matter,' said the nun.
She spoke with a harsh, guttural assurance. Her English, Hilary found, was good and fluent, though her accent was bad.
'You're living up to your part, Miss Needheim,' said the American woman. 'I can just see you in the convent, kneeling on the hard stones at four in the morning.'
Miss Needheim smiled contemptuously.
'Christianity has made fools of women,' she said. 'Such a worship of weakness, such snivelling humiliation! Pagan women had strength. They rejoiced and conquered! And in order to conquer, no discomfort is unbearable. Nothing is too much to suffer.'
'Right now,' said Mrs. Baker, yawning, 'I wish I was in my bed at the Palais Jamail at Fez. What about you, Mrs. Betterton? That shaking hasn't done your concussion any good, I'll bet.'
'No, it hasn't,' Hilary said.
'They'll bring us something to eat presently, and then I'll fix you up with some aspirin and you'd better get to sleep as fast as you can.'
Steps were heard coming up the stairs outside and giggling female voices. Presently the two Berber women came into the room. They carried a tray with a big dish of semolina and meat stew. They put it down on the floor, came back again with a metal basin 'with water in it and a towel. One of them felt Hilary's coat, passing the stuff between her fingers and speaking to the other woman who nodded her head in rapid agreement, and did the same to Mrs. Baker. Neither of them paid any attention to the nun.
'Shoo,' said Mrs. Baker, waving them away. 'Shoo, shoo.'
It was exactly like shooing chickens. The women retreated, still laughing, and left the room.
'Silly creatures,' said Mrs. Baker, 'it's hard to have patience with them. I suppose babies and clothes are their only interest in life.'
'It is all they are fit for,' said Fraulein Needheim, 'they belong to a slave race. They are useful to serve their betters, but no more.'
'Aren't you a little harsh?' said Hilary, irritated by the woman's attitude.
'I have no patience with sentimentality. There are those that rule, the few; and there are the many that serve.'
'But surely…'
Mrs. Baker broke in in an authoritative manner.
'We've all got our own ideas on these subjects, I guess,' she said, 'and very interesting they are. But this is hardly the time for them. We'll want to get what rest we can.'
Mint tea arrived. Hilary swallowed some aspirin willingly enough, since her headache was quite a genuine one. Then the three women lay down on the mattresses and fell asleep.
They slept late into the following day. They were not to go on again until the evening, so Mrs. Baker informed them. From the room in which they had slept, there was an outside staircase leading onto a flat roof where they
