Mr Weener, spiritually--than myself.

"But now His Voice has sought me out again and I must once more take up
the cross. I feel a call to go on a mission to the poor heathens and
urge on them submission to their Father's rod."

"Among those savages across the Channel! They will tear you limb from
limb."

"Christ will make me whole again."

"Tony, you are not yourself. Youre upset."

"I am not myself, Mr Weener, I have become as a little child again and
do my Father's bidding. I am upset, yes, turned upsidedown and insideout
by a Force not content to leave men in wrong attitudes or sinful
states. But upset, I stand upright and go about my Father's business.
God bless you, Mr Weener."

Miss Francis and Preblesham, at opposite ends of the intellectual scale,
both maundering on about doing the Will of God and General Thario
talking about marks on foreheads--what sort of feebleminded,
retrogressive world was I living in? All the outworn superstitions of
religion taking hold of people and intruding themselves into otherwise
normal conversation. A wave of madness, akin to the plague of the Grass,
must be sweeping over the earth, was my conclusion.

If General Thario's desertion had thrown an extra weight on my
shoulders, Preblesham's burdened me with all the petty details of
routine. It was now I who had to inspect our depots periodically and
make constant trips into the dangerous regions across the Channel to see
that the shutdown plants were being properly cared for. I resented
bitterly the trick of fate preventing me from finding for any length of
time subordinates to whom I could delegate authority.

Nor even on whom I could rely. What were Miss Francis and her wellpaid
staff doing all this time? Why had they produced nothing in return for
the fat living they got from me? The Grass was halfway across Asia,
lapping the High Pamirs from the south and from the north, digesting
Korea, Manchuria, Mongolia, thrusting runners into Turkestan--and still
no progress made against it. It would be a matter of mere months now
until our Arabian depots would be in the danger zone. I could only
conclude these socalled scientists were little better than fakers,
completely incompetent when confronted by emergency.

They were ready enough to announce useless and inapplicable discoveries
and conclusions; byproducts of their research, they called them, with an
obviously selfconscious attempt to speak the language of industry. The
in