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    Men Like Gods
    Men Like Gods
    Men Like Gods
    Ebook377 pages125 hours

    Men Like Gods

    By H.G. Wells

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    HarperCollins is proud to present its incredible range of best-loved, essential classics.

    Welcome to Utopia.

    When Mr. Barnstaple, an Earthling, is accidentally transported to Utopia with a group of others, he begins an adventure that will change how he views the world forever.

    Utopia has no government. Utopia has no religion. People are governed only by their own conscience and desires, and Barnstaple is drawn into what he sees as a perfect society. But when a disease brought by the Earthlings threatens the existence of the Utopians, Barnstaple must make a choice: take over Utopia, or betray his own people to save a world he has grown to admire…

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateSep 17, 2020
    ISBN9780008403430
    Author

    H.G. Wells

    H.G. Wells is considered by many to be the father of science fiction. He was the author of numerous classics such as The Invisible Man, The Time Machine, The Island of Dr. Moreau, The War of the Worlds, and many more. 

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    Reviews for Men Like Gods

    3.5/5

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    • 4/5
      A great classic!
    • 3/5
      I would have rated this higher if the narrator, Harry, had not been so annoying. The adventure is still exciting and not too implausible.
    • 5/5
      I have enjoyed novels by Jules Verne and movies that are based on his books. I first read Journey to the Center of the Earth in the 1950s when I was in Jr. High School.
      This time, I listened to the book on You Tube.
      Jules Verne had a knowledge of paleontology, botany, anthropology and geology and all of these are in the book.
      This book takes the reader on a journey with three men.: the German professor, Otto Lidenbrock, his nephew Axel, and their guide from Iceland, Hans.
      The book is in first person by Axel.
      Professor Lidenbrock believes there are volcanic tubes that reach the interior of the earth. Their journey begins in Iceland.
      Journey to the Center was first published in France in 1864 and is a science fiction book.
      I found it very interesting and I gave it a 5 star rating.

    Book preview

    Men Like Gods - H.G. Wells

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    MEN LIKE GODS

    H. G. Wells

    Image Missing

    Copyright

    William Collins

    An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

    1 London Bridge Street

    London SE1 9GF

    WilliamCollinsBooks.com

    This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2020

    Cover photograph © Shutterstock

    A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

    All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins

    Source ISBN: 9780008403485

    Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008403430

    Version: 2020-08-27

    CONTENTS

    Cover

    Title Page

    Copyright

    History of William Collins

    Life and Times

    BOOK THE FIRST: THE IRRUPTION OF THE EARTHLINGS

    CHAPTER THE FIRST. MR. BARNSTAPLE TAKES A HOLIDAY

    CHAPTER THE SECOND. THE WONDERFUL ROAD

    CHAPTER THE THIRD. THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

    CHAPTER THE FOURTH. THE SHADOW OF EINSTEIN FALLS ACROSS THE STORY BUT PASSES LIGHTLY BY

    CHAPTER THE FIFTH. THE GOVERNANCE AND HISTORY OF UTOPIA

    CHAPTER THE SIXTH. SOME EARTHLY CRITICISMS

    CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. THE BRINGING IN OF LORD BARRALONGA’S PARTY

    CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. EARLY MORNING IN UTOPIA

    BOOK THE SECOND: QUARANTINE CRAG

    CHAPTER THE FIRST. THE EPIDEMIC

    CHAPTER THE SECOND. THE CASTLE ON THE CRAG

    CHAPTER THE THIRD. MR. BARNSTAPLE AS A TRAITOR TO MANKIND

    CHAPTER THE FOURTH. THE END OF QUARANTINE CRAG

    BOOK THE THIRD: A NEOPHYTE IN UTOPIA

    CHAPTER THE FIRST. THE PEACEFUL HILLS BESIDE THE RIVER

    CHAPTER THE SECOND. A LOITERER IN A LIVING WORLD

    CHAPTER THE THIRD. THE SERVICE OF THE EARTHLING

    CHAPTER THE FOURTH. THE RETURN OF THE EARTHLING

    Classic Literature: Words and Phrases

    About the Publisher

    History of William Collins

    In 1819, millworker William Collins from Glasgow, Scotland, set up a company for printing and publishing pamphlets, sermons, hymn books, and prayer books. That company was Collins and was to mark the birth of HarperCollins Publishers as we know it today. The long tradition of Collins dictionary publishing can be traced back to the first dictionary William co-published in 1825, Greek and English Lexicon. Indeed, from 1840 onwards, he began to produce illustrated dictionaries and even obtained a licence to print and publish the Bible.

    Soon after, William published the first Collins novel; however, it was the time of the Long Depression, where harvests were poor, prices were high, potato crops had failed, and violence was erupting in Europe. As a result, many factories across the country were forced to close down and William chose to retire in 1846, partly due to the hardships he was facing.

    Aged 30, William’s son, William II, took over the business. A keen humanitarian with a warm heart and a generous spirit, William II was truly Victorian in his outlook. He introduced new, up-to-date steam presses and published affordable editions of Shakespeare’s works and The Pilgrim’s Progress, making them available to the masses for the first time.

    A new demand for educational books meant that success came with the publication of travel books, scientific books, encyclopedias, and dictionaries. This demand to be educated led to the later publication of atlases, and Collins also held the monopoly on scripture writing at the time.

    In the 1860s Collins began to expand and diversify and the idea of books for the millions was developed, although the phrase wasn’t coined until 1907. Affordable editions of classical literature were published, and in 1903 Collins introduced 10 titles in their Collins Handy Illustrated Pocket Novels. These proved so popular that a few years later this had increased to an output of 50 volumes, selling nearly half a million in their year of publication. In the same year, The Everyman’s Library was also instituted, with the idea of publishing an affordable library of the most important classical works, biographies, religious and philosophical treatments, plays, poems, travel, and adventure. This series eclipsed all competition at the time, and the introduction of paperback books in the 1950s helped to open that market and marked a high point in the industry.

    HarperCollins is and has always been a champion of the classics, and the current Collins Classics series follows in this tradition—publishing classical literature that is affordable and available to all. Beautifully packaged, highly collectible, and intended to be reread and enjoyed at every opportunity.

    Life & Times

    About the author

    When we think of H. G. Wells, we think of ground-breaking science fiction, alien life forms, prophetic man-made contraptions and intergalactic warfare. His was a mind capable not only of imagining things that were literally out of this world, but also of prophesising how mankind’s flaws might turn these apocalyptic visions into everyday reality. Most remarkable of all, it was a mind that had grown from notably ordinary beginnings. Herbert George Wells was born in 1866 in the London suburb of Bromley, where his father, a part-time professional cricketer, owned an unsuccessful sporting-goods shop. The family struggled financially, particularly after a leg injury terminated Wells’ father’s cricketing career, and at the age of fourteen Herbert had to leave school in order to earn his keep. For four years, Wells moved from one fruitless apprenticeship to the next, before being offered the lifeline of a return to education. He had developed a love of literature during his youth, but now, thanks to a scholarship to the Royal College of Science in London, he was able to indulge his other passion: biology. One of his teachers there was the eminent anatomist T. H. Huxley, nicknamed ‘Darwin’s Bulldog’ for his outspoken support for Charles Darwin’s controversial theory of evolution.

    Interesting times

    Guided by Huxley’s influence, Wells developed an interest in divisive topics as a member of the student debating society. And, without doubt, he was living in interesting times. By the 1880s, the notorious rigidity of Victorian society was giving way to contentious questions about evolution, religion and equality, and Wells soon became an outspoken critic of the social status quo. He felt society could be better and stronger – essentially, more evolved. He took an early interest in the newly established Fabian Society, a socialist organisation that was subsequently instrumental in founding the British Labour Party, and which included among its members satirical dramatist G. B. Shaw and suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst. In the early years of the twentieth century, Wells fell out very publicly with the Fabians, accusing them of being an ineffectual ‘drawing-room society’ with ‘scattered members’. He wanted them to take a more gung-ho attitude to social reform, and thereby to rally new members to the cause. They in turn were embarrassed by his unconventional private life: he was twice-married and promiscuous, and had both legitimate and illegitimate children. Wells ultimately left the group in frustration, but in the meantime his mind had been awoken to the possibility that life on earth could quite easily become either immeasurably better or immeasurably worse, visions he elaborated upon in his fictional output during these early years of his political engagement.

    Scientific romance

    H. G. Wells’ first book was his 1893 Textbook of Biology, which drew on his time as a science teacher, but just two years later he produced a debut novel that made him a household name and popularised a whole new genre of fiction. The Time Machine (1895) is the story of a scientist who travels to the very distant future, where he discovers that the division between rich and poor that was entrenched in nineteenth-century society has led to mankind splitting into two distinct species. The novel was a thinly-veiled warning based on Wells’ political views, but its remarkable claim to fame is that it popularised the concept of ‘time travel’ by ‘time machine’: both terms coined by Wells, and now considered staples of science fiction. Nineteenth-century literature, propelled in part by the swift technological advances of the Industrial Revolution, had seen a gradual shift from gothic horror – with its ghost stories and vampires – to novels that dealt with man-made futuristic inventions. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) is now considered an early work of science fiction, but the genre came into its own in 1864 with the publication of Jules Verne’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Verne dominated the genre for the next two decades, but the 1890s belong firmly to H. G. Wells. Following his success with The Time Machine, Wells published, in quick succession, bestsellers including The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), The Invisible Man (1897) and The War of the Worlds (1898). Both he and Jules Verne have subsequently been declared ‘The Fathers of Science Fiction’, even if, in their day, the genre was more commonly known as scientific romance. Wells’ novels of the 1890s pushed the boundaries of scientific imagination, making fantastical notions such as genetic engineering, invisibility and extra-terrestrial life forms seem alarmingly real. The War of the Worlds boasts some of the earliest fictional ‘Martians’ and describes the as-yet-uninvented laser, cornerstones, too, of modern science fiction. But beneath the surface, these novels continued to present nightmarish visions of a future defined by selfishness, inequality and conflict: qualities Wells hoped humankind might yet do away with.

    Paradise lost

    For all the dystopian horror of his most famous novels, Wells was, in his predictions for mankind’s future, an optimist – initially, at least. He felt at heart that humanity was on the brink of something wonderful. His 1901 work Anticipations of the Reaction of Mechanical and Scientific Progress upon Human Life and Thought set out a vision of the future in which warfare was obsolete, nations having synthesised into large peaceful blocs that treated one another with ‘intelligent sympathy’. He predicted that, by the end of the twentieth century, this social revolution would have forever assured ‘the final peace of the world’. The First World War shook his belief, although Wells remained convinced that the reality of all-out warfare might yet sober mankind into long-term peace. In his Outline of History (1920), he defined human history as ‘more and more a race between education and catastrophe’, but predicted that progress would prevail, be it ‘clumsily or smoothly’.

    Men Like Gods

    Wells had an enduring fascination with utopian novels, penning A Modern Utopia as early as 1905. Men Like Gods was published in 1923, by which time he had written over thirty novels, including those that would cement him in the pantheon of great science fiction writers. Set in 1921, the novel imagines ordinary people being accidentally transported into another universe, where society is run in more coherent ways. The name of the foreign planet that serves as a setting for the majority of the book, Utopia, harkens back to the very first utopist author, Sir Thomas More, whose book Utopia, established an entire genre. As in his seminal work The War of the Worlds, where aliens land in the middle of suburban England, Wells uses the ordinary, mundane life of an ‘Earthling’ in order to better contrast the amazing example of alien life possible elsewhere. We are invited to view this new world through Barnstaple’s viewpoint and marvel at what could be. The anarchic society run by the Utopians was an opportunity for Wells to once again showcase his political and sociological views, which at this point in his career had superseded his interest in the plot-driven early ‘scientific romances’. Although the book was well-received, not everyone was convinced by Wells’ utopist vision: Aldous Huxley was inspired to write his famous dystopia Brave New World in opposition to Wells’ idealised worlds.

    Disillusionment and the Second World War

    By the outbreak of the Second World War – which he had predicted with eerie accuracy in his 1933 novel The Shape of Things to Come – Wells was less optimistic. It is apt that his final work, composed in 1945 and foreseeing the collapse and destruction of humanity, was entitled Mind at the End of Its Tether. He felt he had given ample warnings that had gone unheeded. Indeed, reflecting in 1941 on predictions he had made that had come horribly true, Wells suggested that his epitaph should simply read: ‘I told you so. You damned fools.’ When the end came in 1946, his ashes were scattered at sea.

    BOOK I.

    THE IRRUPTION OF THE EARTHLINGS

    I.

    MR. BARNSTAPLE TAKES A HOLIDAY

    1

    Mr. Barnstaple found himself in urgent need of a holiday, and he had no one to go with and nowhere to go. He was overworked. And he was tired of home.

    He was a man of strong natural affections; he loved his family extremely so that he knew it by heart, and when he was in these jaded moods it bored him acutely. His three sons, who were all growing up, seemed to get leggier and larger every day; they sat down in the chairs he was just going to sit down in; they played him off his own pianola; they filled the house with hoarse, vast laughter at jokes that one couldn’t demand to be told; they cut in on the elderly harmless flirtations that had hitherto been one of his chief consolations in this vale; they beat him at tennis; they fought playfully on the landings, and fell downstairs by twos and threes with an enormous racket. Their hats were everywhere. They were late for breakfast. They went to bed every night in a storm of uproar: Haw, Haw, Haw—bump! and their mother seemed to like it. They all cost money, with a cheerful disregard of the fact that everything had gone up except Mr. Barnstaple’s earning power. And when he said a few plain truths about Mr. Lloyd George at meal-times, or made the slightest attempt to raise the tone of the table-talk above the level of the silliest persiflage, their attention wandered ostentatiously …

    At any rate it seemed ostentatiously.

    He wanted badly to get away from his family to some place where he could think of its various members with quiet pride and affection, and otherwise not be disturbed by them …

    And also he wanted to get away for a time from Mr. Peeve. The very streets were becoming a torment to him, he wanted never to see a newspaper or a newspaper placard again. He was obsessed by apprehensions of some sort of financial and economic smash that would make the Great War seem a mere incidental catastrophe. This was because he was sub-editor and general factotum of the Liberal, that well-known organ of the more depressing aspects of advanced thought, and the unvarying pessimism of Mr. Peeve, his chief, was infecting him more and more. Formerly it had been possible to put up a sort of resistance to Mr. Peeve by joking furtively about his gloom with the other members of the staff, but now there were no other members of the staff: they had all been retrenched by Mr. Peeve in a mood of financial despondency. Practically, now, nobody wrote regularly for the Liberal except Mr. Barnstaple and Mr. Peeve. So Mr. Peeve had it all his own way with Mr. Barnstaple. He would sit hunched up in the editorial chair, with his hands deep in his trouser pockets, taking a gloomy view of everything, sometimes for two hours together. Mr. Barnstaple’s natural tendency was towards a modest hopefulness and a belief in progress, but Mr. Peeve held very strongly that a belief in progress was at least six years out of date, and that the brightest hope that remained to Liberalism was for a good Day of Judgment soon. And having finished the copy of what the staff, when there was a staff, used to call his weekly indigest, Mr. Peeve would depart and leave Mr. Barnstaple to get the rest of the paper together for the next week.

    Even in ordinary times Mr. Peeve would have been hard enough to live with; but the times were not ordinary, they were full of disagreeable occurrences that made his melancholy anticipations all too plausible. The great coal lock-out had been going on for a month and seemed to foreshadow the commercial ruin of England; every morning brought intelligence of fresh outrages from Ireland, unforgivable and unforgettable outrages; a prolonged drought threatened the harvests of the world; the League of Nations, of which Mr. Barnstaple had hoped enormous things in the great days of President Wilson, was a melancholy and self-satisfied futility; everywhere there was conflict, everywhere unreason; seven-eighths of the world seemed to be sinking down towards chronic disorder and social dissolution. Even without Mr. Peeve it would have been difficult enough to have made headway against the facts.

    Mr. Barnstaple was, indeed, ceasing to secrete hope, and for such types as he, hope is the essential solvent without which there is no digesting life. His hope had always been in liberalism and generous liberal effort, but he was beginning to think that liberalism would never do anything more for ever than sit hunched up with its hands in its pockets grumbling and peeving at the activities of baser but more energetic men. Whose scrambling activities would inevitably wreck the world.

    Night and day now, Mr. Barnstaple was worrying about the world at large. By night even more than by day, for sleep was leaving him. And he was haunted by a dreadful craving to bring out a number of the Liberal of his very own—to alter it all after Mr. Peeve had gone away, to cut out all the dyspeptic stuff, the miserable, empty girding at this wrong and that, the gloating on cruel and unhappy things, the exaggeration of the simple, natural, human misdeeds of Mr. Lloyd George, the appeals to Lord Grey, Lord Robert Cecil, Lord Lansdowne, the Pope, Queen Anne, or the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa (it varied from week to week), to arise and give voice and form to the young aspirations of a world reborn, and, instead, to fill the number with—Utopia! to say to the amazed readers of the Liberal: Here are things that have to be done! Here are the things we are going to do! What a blow it would be for Mr. Peeve at his Sunday breakfast! For once, too astonished to secrete abnormally, he might even digest that meal!

    But this was the most foolish of dreaming. There were the three young Barnstaples at home and their need for a decent start in life to consider. And beautiful as the thing was as a dream, Mr. Barnstaple had a very unpleasant conviction that he was not really clever enough to pull such a thing off. He would make a mess of it somehow …

    One might jump from the frying-pan into the fire. The Liberal was a dreary, discouraging, ungenerous paper, but anyhow it was not a base and wicked paper.

    Still, if there was to be no such disastrous outbreak it was imperative that Mr. Barnstaple should rest from Mr. Peeve for a time. Once or twice already he had contradicted him. A row might occur anywhen. And the first step towards resting from Mr. Peeve was evidently to see a doctor. So Mr. Barnstaple went to a doctor.

    My nerves are getting out of control, said Mr. Barnstaple. I feel horribly neurasthenic.

    You are suffering from neurasthenia, said the doctor. I dread my daily work.

    You want a holiday.

    You think I need a change?

    As complete a change as you can manage.

    Can you recommend any place where I could go?

    Where do you want to go?

    Nowhere definite. I thought you could recommend—

    Let some place attract you—and go there. Do nothing to force your inclinations at the present time.

    Mr. Barnstaple paid the doctor the sum of one guinea, and armed with these instructions prepared to break the news of his illness and his necessary absence to Mr. Peeve whenever the occasion seemed ripe for doing so.

    2

    For a time this prospective holiday was merely a fresh addition to Mr. Barnstaple’s already excessive burthen of worries. To decide to get away was to find oneself face to face at once with three apparently insurmountable problems: How to get away? Whither? And since Mr. Barnstaple was one of those people who tire very quickly of their own company: With whom? A sharp gleam of furtive scheming crept into the candid misery that had recently become Mr. Barnstaple’s habitual expression. But then, no one took much notice of Mr. Barnstaple’s expressions.

    One thing was very clear in his mind. Not a word of this holiday must be breathed at home. If once Mrs. Barnstaple got wind of it, he knew exactly what would happen. She would, with an air of competent devotion, take charge of the entire business. You must have a good holiday, she would say. She would select some rather distant and expensive resort in Cornwall or Scotland or Brittany, she would buy a lot of outfit, she would have afterthoughts to swell the luggage with inconvenient parcels at the last moment, and she would bring the boys. Probably she would arrange for one or two groups of acquaintances to come to the same place to liven things up. If they did they were certain to bring the worst sides of their natures with them and to develop into the most indefatigable of bores. There would be no conversation. There would be much unreal laughter, There would be endless games … No!

    But how is a man to go away for a holiday without his wife getting wind of it? Somehow a bag must be packed and smuggled out of the house …

    The most hopeful thing about Mr. Barnstaple’s position from Mr. Barnstaple’s point of view was that he owned a small automobile of his very own. It was natural that this car should play a large part in his secret plannings. It seemed to offer the easiest means of getting away; it converted the possible answer to Whither? from a fixed and definite place into what mathematicians call, I believe, a locus; and there was something so companionable about the little beast that it did to a slight but quite perceptible extent answer the question, With whom? It was a two-seater. It was known in the family as the Foot Bath, Colman’s Mustard, and the Yellow Peril. As these names suggest, it was a low, open car of a clear yellow colour. Mr. Barnstaple used it to come up to the office from Sydenham because it did thirty-three miles to the gallon and was ever so much cheaper than a season ticket. It stood up in the court under the office window during the day. At Sydenham it lived in a shed of which Mr. Barnstaple carried the only key. So far he had managed to prevent the boys from either driving it or taking it to pieces. At times Mrs. Barnstaple made him drive her about Sydenham for her shopping, but she did not really like the little car because it exposed her to the elements too much and made her dusty and dishevelled. Both by reason of all that it made possible and by reason of all that it debarred, the little car was clearly indicated as the medium for the needed holiday. And Mr. Barnstaple really liked driving it. He drove very badly, but he drove very carefully; and though it sometimes stopped and refused to proceed, it did not do, or at any rate it had not so far done as most other things did in Mr. Barnstaple’s life, which was to go due east when he turned the steering wheel west. So that it gave him an agreeable sense of mastery.

    In the end Mr. Barnstaple made his decisions with great rapidity. Opportunity suddenly opened in front of him. Thursday was his day at the printer’s, and he came home on Thursday evening feeling horribly jaded. The weather kept obstinately hot and dry. It made it none the less distressing that this drought presaged famine and misery for half the world. And London was in full season, smart and grinning: if anything it was a sillier year than 1913, the great tango year, which, in the light of subsequent events, Mr. Barnstaple had hitherto regarded as the silliest year in the world’s history. The Star had the usual batch of bad news along the margin of the sporting and fashionable intelligence that got the displayed space. Fighting was going on between the Russians and Poles, and also in Ireland, Asia Minor, the India frontier, and Eastern Siberia. There had been three new horrible murders. The miners were still out, and a big engineering strike was threatened. There had been only standing room in the down train and it had started twenty minutes late.

    He found a note from his wife explaining that her cousins at Wimbledon had telegraphed that there was an unexpected chance of seeing the tennis there with Mademoiselle Lenglen and all the rest of the champions, and that she had gone over with the boys and would not be back until late. It would do their game no end of good, she said, to see some really first-class tennis. Also it was the servants’ social that night. Would he mind being left alone in the house for once? The servants would put him out some cold supper before they went.

    Mr. Barnstaple read this note with resignation. While he ate his supper he ran his eye over a pamphlet a Chinese friend had sent him to show how the Japanese were deliberately breaking up what was left of the civilization and education of China.

    It was only as he was sitting and smoking a pipe in his little back garden after supper that he realized all that being left alone in the house meant for him.

    Then suddenly he became very active. He rang up Mr. Peeve, told him of the doctor’s verdict, explained that the affairs of the Liberal were just then in a particularly leavable state, and got his holiday. Then he went to his bedroom and packed up a hasty selection of things to take with him in an old Gladstone bag that was not likely to be immediately missed, and put this in the dickey of his car. After which he spent some time upon a letter which he addressed to his wife and put away very carefully in his breast pocket.

    Then he locked up the car-shed and composed himself in a deck-chair in the garden with his pipe and a nice thoughtful book on the Bankruptcy of Europe, so as to look and feel as innocent as possible before his family came home.

    When his wife returned he told her casually that he believed he was suffering from neurasthenia, and that he had arranged to run up to London on the morrow and consult a doctor in the matter.

    Mrs. Barnstaple wanted to choose him a doctor, but he got out of that by saying that he had to consider Peeve in the matter and that Peeve was very strongly set on the man he had already in fact consulted. And when Mrs. Barnstaple said that she believed they all wanted a good holiday, he just grunted in a non-committal manner.

    In this way Mr. Barnstaple was able to get right away from his house with all the necessary luggage for some weeks’ holiday, without arousing any insurmountable opposition. He started next morning Londonward. The traffic on the way was gay and plentiful, but by no means troublesome, and the Yellow Peril was running so sweetly that she might almost have been named the Golden Hope. In Camberwell he turned into the Camberwell New Road and made his way to the post-office at the top of Vauxhall Bridge Road. There he drew up. He was scared but elated by what he was doing. He went into the post-office and sent his wife a telegram. Dr. Pagan, he wrote, says solitude and rest urgently needed so am going off Lake District recuperate have got bag and things expecting this letter follows.

    Then he came outside and fumbled in his pocket and produced and posted the letter he had written so carefully overnight. It was deliberately scrawled to suggest neurasthenia at an acute phase. Dr. Pagan, it explained, had ordered an immediate holiday and suggested that Mr. Barnstaple should wander north. It would be better to cut off all letters for a few days, or even a week or so. He would not trouble to write unless something went wrong. No news would be good news. Rest assured all would be well. As soon as he had a certain address for letters he would wire it, but only very urgent things were to be sent on.

    After this he resumed his seat in his car with such a sense of freedom as he had never felt since his first holidays from his first school. He made for the Great North Road, but at the traffic jam at Hyde Park Corner he allowed the policeman to turn him down towards Knightsbridge, and afterwards at the corner where the Bath Road forks away from the Oxford Road an obstructive van put him into the former. But it did not matter very much. Any way led to Elsewhere and he could work northward later.

    3

    The day was one

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