3

After all Rud ate an egg that morning. That beautiful house of his was a reassuring setting. The mountains were benevolent. And it was, he suddenly remembered, his birthday.

The mists of his nightmare evaporated in the warm sunshine of the great terrace. He forgot that sense of a vindictive pursuit that marred so much of his nocturnal existence. The sense of being the overworked servant of mankind passed into a glow of righteous self–applause. "I am forty–four," he thought, standing at the parapet and surveying his particular lovely piece of world. And when I was twenty I was messing about Camford in a dog's–eared mortar–board and a patched gown and I hadn't the dimmest idea of what was to become of me! At least—yes; I had even then, a dim idea…

"There was all the world to take and I took it. Luck? I suppose so. Vision? Inspiration? My twenty–first birthday: where was I? I remember. Took Chiffan on the river. Twenty–second? Poor old Steenhold made what he called a 'porty' for it. Still at Camford that was. Twenty–two years ago…

"I took some risks. Nobody knows how I funked Bohun. Lord! How I dreaded him! It was a close thing, too, with Reedly. I timed that well. I knew my man. I chose my moment. H'm. And now I have to put this silly little old world in order for good and all—and make sure the old rottenness doesn't creep back—before I go. Giant's Task. Who would have thought it—twenty years ago? Great Accomplishment. And still gigantic things to do. Four and forty—I wonder how long I shall last.

"It's all thrust into my hands now, almost in spite of myself. I'm still not sure. Never sure. Unless I see to things myself. If I could only trust these others to carry out their jobs without me. Bodisham—Bodisham is good—no doubt he is good—but he has to be urged. Circumspection. He sees difficulties. Over–elaborates. He is an old spider with those round shoulders of his and those glasses,—How round his shoulders are getting! but all his plans and diagrams would change back to spiders' webs again if I did not insist upon their being translated into steel and living substance. I am his life giver—his reality giver. Says I am rough–handed—impatient. But things have to be done. He's practically a man of science—and God knows that men of science are Devils for not hurrying. I found him dreaming. I made him what he is, my constructive truffle–hound. Bellacourt, too, is good—in his way. Most people would have been afraid of him—that fool Reedly was—but I knew better. I wish they were all like Bellacourt. Sticks to his job. I've done some good picking in my time. Roots was my find, and I certainly saw the quality of Holbank as soon as anyone. Irwell—in a sense he has always been in the movement, but—anyhow—I never got rid of him. Norvel?—just a little loose–minded, loose but abundant. And conceited. Sometimes irritatingly conceited. No good telling him things. At the most he pretends to listen. He's got the same queer idea as Bodisham, that things should never be speeded up too much. Never relax, but never hurry. One could imagine he expected to live five hundred years. Do we want all these schools of his? Don't people for all practical purposes know enough already? And he goes behind me and doesn't do the things I say—unless I say them very definitely. He's all for letting—what is it?—individual initiative run loose. But I suppose he has all this academic, scholastic business at his fingers' ends. There is nobody else like him. It would be amusing to go back to Camford one day and see what he has done down there. He does a lot, but he hasn't Thirp's flair for what is happening. Things grow up behind his back.

"If I'd had the educational machine in my own hands I'd have nipped this New Catholic movement in the bud…I may have to see to that yet…

"Olders? Olders is coming on. The typical Civil Servant, able to carry out anything and start nothing. A sense of duty to anyone who will give him orders. The world would fall to pieces if there weren't such men.

"Dreed, of course, might easily be brighter than he is…

"And Chiffan is Chiffan—good old Happy Thoughts. With a trick of saying things just before I do, or anyone else, damn him…

"I couldn't do without Thirp. At first I didn't like him because of his queer voice and his flat hair and his face like an earnest spinster—and those hands. Like a praying Mantis. But how penetratingly he works! He looks under things and through things—that cynical touch—a cruel sense of reality. And he tells me things. He finds out things I don't know. The others are beginning to keep things from me. Fear my critical glance. After all, where would the world be now, where should we all be now, if Thirp hadn't known about those post cards of Reedly's? He's as sharp as a terrier in spite of that drawling eunuch's voice…

"Thirp is my extra eye…

"I suppose altogether it's as good a team as I could have assembled. That's where my own Revolution beats its precursors. I am building up a World Civil Service. I am making my Code. My Revolution has come to stay. My Revolution!

"All the same, essentially, the world's still on my shoulders. On my shoulders. Prometheus–Atlas. I didn't ask for it…"

So, if not quite so definitely as we have worded it here, thought Rud on his four–and–fortieth birthday.

He thrust the little breakfast table away from him. He touched a button and a young man appeared.

He and Rud were living now in an equalitarian world. Nevertheless there was a certain deference in his manner, for as yet equalisation was incomplete.

"I'll go into conference," said Rud. "Will you tell the Group I am coming to join them? I have to keep in touch."