be a spy hole as well as a microphone.)
Coolly and calmly she appraised what she saw. A nervous good-looking man of thirty-odd who was badly frightened – a man nearly at the end of his tether – a man who had, presumably, come here full of high hopes and had been reduced – to this.
Now that she had surmounted her first hurdle, Hilary felt a curious exhilaration in the playing of her part. She must be Olive Betterton. Act as Olive would have acted, feel as Olive would have felt. And life was so unreal that that seemed quite natural. Somebody called Hilary Craven had died in an aeroplane accident. From now on she wouldn't even remember her.
Instead, she rallied her memories of the lessons she had studied so assiduously.
'It seems such ages since Firbank,' she said. 'Whiskers – you remember Whiskers? She had kittens – just after you went away. There are so many things, silly everyday little things, you don't even know about. That's what seems so odd.'
'I know. It's breaking with an old life and beginning a new one.'
'And – it's all right here? You're happy?'
A necessary wifely question that any wife would ask.
'It's wonderful.' Tom Betterton squared his shoulders, threw his head back. Unhappy, frightened eyes looked out of a smiling confident face. 'Every facility. No expense spared. Perfect conditions to get on with the job. And the organisation! It's unbelievable.'
'Oh, I'm sure it is. My journey – did you come the same way?'
'One doesn't talk about that. Oh, I'm not snubbing you, darling. But – you see, you've got to learn about everything.'
'But the lepers? Is it really a Leper Colony?'
'Oh yes. Perfectly genuine. There's a team of medicos doing very fine work in research on the subject. But it's quite self-contained. It needn't worry you. It's just – clever camouflage.'
'I see.' Hilary looked round her. 'Are these our quarters?'
'Yes. Sitting room, bathroom there, bedroom beyond. Come, I'll show you.'
She got up and followed him through a well-appointed bathroom into a good-sized bedroom with twin beds, big built-in cupboards, a dressing table, and a bookshelf near the beds. Hilary looked into the cupboard space with some amusement.
'I hardly know what I'm going to put in here,' she remarked. 'All I've got is what I stand up in.'
'Oh that. You can fit yourself out with all you want. There's a fashion model department and all accessories, cosmetics, everything. All first class. The Unit is quite self-contained – all you want on the premises. No need to go outside ever again.'
He said the words lightly, but it seemed to Hilary's sensitive ear that there was despair concealed behind the words.
No need to go outside ever again. No chance of ever going outside again. Abandon hope all ye who enter here… The well-appointed cage! Was it for this, she thought, that all these varying personalities had abandoned their countries, their loyalties, their everyday lives? Dr. Barron, Andy Peters, young Ericsson with his dreaming face, the overbearing Helga Needheim? Did they know what they were coming to find? Would they be content? Was this what they had wanted?
She thought: 'I'd better not ask too many questions… If someone is listening.'
Was someone listening? Were they being spied upon? Tom Betterton evidently thought it might be so. But was he right? Or was it nerves – hysteria? Tom Betterton, she thought, was very near to a breakdown.
'Yes,' she thought grimly, 'and so may you be, my girl, in six months' time…'
What did it do to people, she wondered, living like this?
Tom Betterton said to her:
'Would you like to lie down – to rest?'
'No -' she hesitated. 'No, I don't think so.'
'Then perhaps you'd better come with me to the Registry.'
'What's the Registry?'
'Everyone who clocks in goes through the Registry. They record everything about you. Health, teeth, blood pressure, blood group, psychological reactions, tastes, dislikes, allergies, aptitudes, preferences.'
'It sounds very military – or do I mean medical?'
'Both,' said Tom Betterton. 'Both. This organisation – it's really formidable.'
'One's always heard so,' said Hilary. 'I mean that everything behind the Iron Curtain is really properly planned.'
She tried to put a proper enthusiasm into her voice. After all, Olive Betterton had presumably been a sympathiser with the Party, although, perhaps by order, she had not been known to be a Party member.
Betterton said evasively,
'There's a lot for you to – understand.' He added quickly: 'Better not try to take in too much at once.'
He kissed her again, a curious, apparently tender and even passionate kiss, that was actually cold as ice, murmured very low in her ear, 'Keep it up,' and said aloud, 'And now, come down to the Registry.'
Chapter 12
The registry was presided over by a woman who looked like a strict nursery governess. Her hair was rolled into a rather hideous bun and she wore some very efficient-looking pince-nez. She nodded approval as the Bettertons entered the severe office-like room.
'Ah,' she said, 'you've brought Mrs. Betterton. That's right.'
Her English was perfectly idiomatic but it was spoken with a stilted precision which made Hilary believe that she was probably a foreigner. Actually, her nationality was Swiss. She motioned Hilary to a chair, opened a drawer beside her and took out a sheaf of forms upon which she commenced to write rapidly. Tom Betterton said rather awkwardly:
'Well then, Olive, I'll leave you.'
'Yes, please, Dr. Betterton. It's much better to get through all the formalities straight away.'
Betterton went out, shutting the door behind him. The Robot, for as such Hilary thought of her, continued to write.
'Now then,' she said, in a businesslike way. 'Full name, please. Age. Where born. Father's and mother's names. Any serious illnesses. Tastes. Hobbies. List of any jobs held. Degrees at any university. Preferences in food and drink.'
It went on, a seemingly endless catalogue. Hilary responded vaguely, almost mechanically. She was glad now of the careful priming she had received from Jessop. She had mastered it all so well that the responses came automatically, without having to pause or think. The Robot said finally, as she made the last entry,
'Well, that seems to be all for this department. Now we'll hand you over to Doctor Schwartz for medical examination.'
'Really!' said Hilary. 'Is all this necessary? It seems most absurd.'
'Oh, we believe in being thorough, Mrs. Betterton. We like to have everything down in the records. You'll like Dr. Schwartz very much. Then from her you go on to Doctor Rubec.'
Dr. Schwartz was fair and amiable and female. She gave Hilary a meticulous physical examination and then said,
'So! That is finished. Now you go to Dr. Rubec.'
'Who is Dr. Rubec?' Hilary asked. 'Another doctor?'
'Dr. Rubec is a psychologist.'
'I don't want a psychologist. I don't like psychologists.'
'Now please don't get upset, Mrs. Betterton. You're not going to have treatment of any kind. It's simply a question of an intelligence test and of your type-group personality.'
Dr. Rubec was a tall, melancholy Swiss of about forty years of age. He greeted Hilary, glanced at the card
