mythical figure, the Director. Questioned by her, Tom Betterton had given unsatisfactory, almost vague answers, about the personality of the man who controlled the Unit.

'He's nothing much to look at,' he said. 'But he has tremendous impact. Actually I've only seen him twice. He doesn't show up often. He's remarkable, of course, one feels that, but honestly I don't know why.'

From the reverent way Miss Jennsen and some of the other women spoke about him, Hilary had formed a vague mental figure of a tall man with a golden beard wearing a white robe – a kind of godlike abstraction.

She was almost startled when, as the audience rose to their feet, a dark rather heavily built man of middle age came quietly onto the platform. In appearance he was quite undistinguished, he might have been a business man from the Midlands. His nationality was not apparent. He spoke to them in three languages, alternating one with the other, and never exactly repeating himself. He used French, German and English, and each was spoken with equal fluency.

'Let me first,' he began, 'welcome our new colleagues who have come to join us here.'

He then paid a few words of tribute to each of the new arrivals.

After that he went on to speak of the aims and beliefs of the Unit.

Trying to remember his words later, Hilary found herself unable to do so with any accuracy. Or perhaps it was that the words, as remembered, seemed trite and ordinary. But listening to them was a very different thing.

Hilary remembered once being told by a friend who had lived in Germany in the days before the war, how she had gone to a meeting in mere curiosity to listen 'to that absurd Hitler' – and how she had found herself crying hysterically, swept away by intense emotion. She had described how wise and inspiring every word had seemed, and how, afterwards, the remembered words in their actuality had seemed commonplace enough.

Something of the same kind was happening now. In spite of herself, Hilary was stirred and uplifted. The Director spoke very simply. He spoke primarily of Youth. With Youth lay the future of mankind.

'Accumulated Wealth, Prestige, influential Families – those have been the forces of the past. But today, power lies in the hands of the young. Power is in Brains. The brains of the chemist, the physicist, the doctor… From the laboratories comes the power to destroy on a vast scale. With that power you can say 'Yield – or perish!' That power should not be given to this or that nation. Power should be in the hands of those who create it. This Unit is a gathering place for the Power of all the world. You come here from all parts of the globe, bringing with you your creative scientific knowledge. And with you, you bring Youth! No one here is over forty-five. When the day comes, we shall create a Trust. The Brains Trust of Science. And we shall administer world affairs. We shall issue our orders to Capitalist and Kings and Armies and Industries. We shall give the World the Pax Scientifica.'

There was more of it – all the same heady intoxicating stuff – but it was not the words themselves – it was the power of the orator that carried away an assembly that could have been cold and critical had it not been swayed by that nameless emotion about which so little is known.

When the Director had ended abruptly:

'Courage and Victory! Goodnight!' Hilary left the Hall, half stumbling in a kind of exalted dream, and recognised the same feeling in the faces around her. She saw Ericsson in particular, his pale eyes gleaming, his head tossed back in exultation.

Then she felt Andy Peters' hand on her arm and his voice said in her ear:

'Come up on the roof. We need some air.'

They went up in the lift without speaking and stepped out among the palm trees under the stars. Peters drew a deep breath.

'Yes,' he said. 'This is what we need. Air to blow away the clouds of glory.'

Hilary gave a deep sigh. She still felt unreal.

He gave her arm a friendly shake.

'Snap out of it, Olive.'

'Clouds of glory,' said Hilary. 'You know – it was like that!'

'Snap out of it, I tell you. Be a woman! Down to earth and basic realities! When the effects of the Glory Gas poisoning pass off you'll realise that you've been listening to the same old mixture as before.'

'But it was fine – I mean a fine ideal.'

'Nuts to ideals. Take the facts. Youth and Brains – glory glory Alleluia! And what are the youth and brains? Helga Needheim, a ruthless egoist. Torquil Ericsson, an impractical dreamer. Dr. Barron who'd sell his grandmother to the knacker's yard to get equipment for his work. Take me, an ordinary guy, as you've said yourself, good with the test-tube and the microscope but with no talent whatever for efficient administration of an office, let alone a World! Take your own husband – yes, I'm going to say it – a man whose nerves are frayed to nothing and who can think of nothing but the fear that retribution will catch up with him. I've given you those people we know best – but they're all the same here – or all that I've come across. Geniuses, some of them, damned good at their chosen jobs – but as Administrators of the Universe – hell, don't make me laugh! Pernicious nonsense, that's what we've been listening to.'

Hilary sat down on the concrete parapet. She passed a hand across her forehead.

'You know,' she said. 'I believe you're right… But the clouds of glory are still trailing. How does he do it? Does he believe it himself? He must.'

Peters said gloomily,

'I suppose it always comes to the same thing in the end. A madman who believes he's God.'

Hilary said slowly,

'I suppose so. And yet – that seems curiously unsatisfactory.'

'But it happens, my dear. Again and again throughout history it happens. And it gets one. It nearly got me, tonight. It did get you. If I hadn't whisked you up here -' his manner changed suddenly. 'I suppose I shouldn't have done that. What will Betterton say? He'll think it odd.'

'I don't think so. I doubt if he'll notice.'

He looked at her questioningly.

'I'm sorry, Olive. It must be all pretty fair hell for you. Seeing him go down the hill.'

Hilary said passionately,

'We must get out of here. We must. We must.'

'We shall.'

'You said that before – but we've made no progress.'

'Oh yes we have. I've not been idle.'

She looked at him in surprise.

'No precise plan, but I've initiated subversive activities. There's a lot of dissatisfaction here, far more than our god-like Herr Director knows. Amongst the humbler members of the Unit, I mean. Food and money and luxury and women aren't everything, you know. I'll get you out of here yet, Olive.'

'And Tom, too.'

Peters' face darkened.

'Listen, Olive, and believe what I say. Tom will do best to stay on here. He's -' he hesitated, '- safer here than he would be in the outside world.'

'Safer? What a curious word.'

'Safer,' said Peters. 'I use the word deliberately.'

Hilary frowned.

'I don't really see what you mean. Tom's not – you don't think he's becoming mentally unhinged?'

'Not in the least. He's het up, but I'd say Tom Betterton's as sane as you or I.'

'Then why are you saying he'd be safer here?'

Peters said slowly,

'A cage, you know, is a very safe place to be.'

'Oh no,' cried Hilary. 'Don't tell me you're going to believe that too. Don't tell me that mass hypnotism, or suggestion, or whatever it is, is working on you. Safe, tame, content! We must rebel still! We must want to be free!'

Peters said slowly,

'Yes, I know. But -'

'Tom, at any rate, wants desperately to get away from here.'

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