had a certain amount of view over the surrounding country. A little distance away was a village, but here where they were, the house was isolated in a large palm garden. On awakening, Mrs. Baker had indicated three heaps of clothing which had been brought and laid down just inside the door.
'We're going native for the next lap,' she explained, 'we leave our other clothes here.'
So the smart little American woman's neat suiting and Hilary's tweed coat and skirt and the nun's habit were all laid aside and three native Moroccan women sat on the roof of the house and chatted together. The whole thing had a curiously unreal feeling.
Hilary studied Miss Needheim more closely now that she had left the anonymity of her nun's habit. She was a younger woman than Hilary had thought her, not more, perhaps, than thirty-three or thirty-four. There was a neat spruceness in her appearance. The pale skin, the short stubby fingers, and the cold eyes in which burned from time to time the gleam of the fanatic, repelled rather than attracted. Her speech was brusque and uncompromising. Towards both Mrs. Baker and Hilary she displayed a certain amount of contempt as towards people unworthy to associate with her. This arrogance Hilary found very irritating. Mrs. Baker, on the other hand, seemed hardly to notice it. In a queer way Hilary felt far nearer and more in sympathy with the two giggling Berber women who brought them food, than with her two companions of the Western world. The young German woman was obviously indifferent to the impression she created. There was a certain concealed impatience in her manner, and it was obvious that she was longing to get on with her journey and that she had no interest in her two companions.
Appraising Mrs. Baker's attitude, Hilary found more difficult. At first Mrs. Baker seemed a natural and normal person after the inhumanity of the German woman specialist. But as the sun sank lower in the sky she felt almost more intrigued and repelled by Mrs. Baker than by Helga Needheim. Mrs. Baker's social manner was almost robotlike in its perfection. All her comments and remarks were natural, normal, everyday currency, but one had a suspicion that the whole thing was like an actor playing a part for perhaps the seven hundredth time. It was an automatic performance, completely divorced from what Mrs. Baker might really have been thinking or feeling. Who was Mrs. Calvin Baker, Hilary wondered? Why had she come to play her part with such machinelike perfection? Was she, too, a fanatic? Had she dreams of a brave new world – was she in violent revolt against the capitalist system? Had she given up all normal life because of her political beliefs and aspirations? Impossible to tell.
They resumed their journey that evening. It was no longer the station wagon. This time it was an open touring car. Everyone was in native dress, the men with white djellabos round them, the women with their faces hidden. Packed tightly in, they started off once more, driving all through the night.
'How are you feeling, Mrs. Betterton?'
Hilary smiled up at Andy Peters. The sun had just risen and they had stopped for breakfast. Native bread, eggs, and tea made over a primus.
'I feel as though I were taking part in a dream,' said Hilary.
'Yes, it has rather that quality.'
'Where are we?'
He shrugged his shoulders.
'Who knows? Our Mrs. Calvin Baker, no doubt, but no other.'
'It's a very lonely country.'
'Yes, practically desert. But then it would have to be, wouldn't it.'
'You mean so as to leave no trace?'
'Yes. One realises, doesn't one, that the whole thing must be very carefully thought out. Each stage of our journey is, as it were, quite independent of the other. A plane goes up in flames. An old station wagon drives through the night. If anyone notices it, it has on it a plate stating that it belongs to a certain archaeological Expedition that is excavating in these parts. The following day there is a touring car full of Berbers, one of the commonest sights on the road to be seen. For the next stage -' he shrugged his shoulders '- who knows?'
'But where are we going?'
Andy Peters shook his head.
'No use to ask. We shall find out.'
The Frenchman, Dr. Barron, had joined them.
'Yes,' he said, 'we shall find out. But how true it is that we cannot but ask? That is our western blood. We can never say 'sufficient for the day.' It is always tomorrow, tomorrow with us. To leave yesterday behind, to proceed to tomorrow. That is what we demand.'
'You want to hurry the world on, Doctor, is that it?' asked Peters.
'There is so much to achieve,' said Dr. Barron, 'life is too short. One must have more time. More time, more time.' He flung out his hands in a passionate gesture.
Peters turned to Hilary.
'What are the four freedoms you talk about in your country? Freedom from want, freedom from fear…'
The Frenchman interrupted. 'Freedom from fools,' he said bitterly. 'That is what I want! That is what my work needs. Freedom from incessant, pettifogging economies! Freedom from all the nagging restrictions that hamper one's work!'
'You are a bacteriologist, are you not, Dr. Barron?'
'Yes, I am a bacteriologist. Ah, you have no idea, my friend, what a fascinating study that is! But it needs patience, infinite patience, repeated experiment – and money – much money! One must have equipment, assistants, raw materials! Given that you have all you ask for, what can one not achieve?'
'Happiness?' asked Hilary.
He flashed her a quick smile, suddenly human again.
'Ah, you are a woman, Madame. It is women who ask always for happiness.'
'And seldom get it?' asked Hilary.
He shrugged his shoulders.
'That may be.'
'Individual happiness does not matter,' said Peters seriously, 'there must be the happiness of all, the brotherhood of the spirit! The workers, free and united, owning the means of production, free of the warmongers, of the greedy, insatiable men who keep everything in their own hands. Science is for all, and must not be held jealously by one power or the other.'
'So!' said Ericsson appreciatively, 'you are right. The scientists must be masters. They must control and rule. They and they alone are the Supermen. It is only the Supermen who matter. The slaves must be well treated, but they are slaves.'
Hilary walked a little way away from the group. After a minute or two Peters followed her.
'You look just a little scared,' he said humourously.
'I think I am.' She gave a short, breathless laugh. 'Of course what Dr. Barron said was quite true. I'm only a woman. I'm not a scientist, I don't do research or surgery, or bacteriology. I haven't, I suppose, much mental ability. I'm looking, as Dr. Barron said, for happiness – just like any other fool of a woman.'
'And what's wrong with that?' said Peters.
'Well, maybe I feel a little out of my depth in this company. You see, I'm just a woman who's going to join her husband.'
'Good enough,' said Peters. 'You represent the fundamental.'
'It's nice of you to put it that way.'
'Well, it's true.' He added in a lower voice, 'You care for your husband very much?'
'Would I be here if I didn't?'
'I suppose not. You share his views? I take it that he's a Communist?'
Hilary avoided giving a direct answer.
'Talking of being a Communist,' she said, 'has something about our little group struck you as curious?'
'What's that?'
'Well, that although we're all bound for the same destination, the views of our fellow travellers don't seem really alike.'
Peters said thoughtfully,
'Why, no. You've got something there. I hadn't thought of it quite that way – but I believe you're right.'
'I don't think,' said Hilary, 'that Dr. Barron is politically minded at all! He wants money for his experiments. Helga Needheim talks like a Fascist, not a Communist. And Ericsson -'
