After minutes, or hours, a hand was laid on his shoulder and shook it; he raised his eyes stupidly, saw his guards already on their feet and with them a third man—sent, doubtless, with orders to summon them. He rose, knowing that a decision had been made, one way or another, but still oddly numb and unmoved.... The two men with him thrust a way into the crowded little room, elbowing their fellows aside till they had pushed and dragged their charge to the neighbourhood of the fireplace and set him face to face with his judge. As they fell back a pace or two—as far as the crowding of the room allowed—someone again lit a branch at the fire and held it up that the light might fall upon the prisoner.
To Theodore the action brought with it a conviction that his sentence was death and his manner of receiving it a diversion for the eyes of the beholders.... The old man was waiting, intent, with his chin on his hand, that he might lengthen the diversion by lengthening the suspense of the prisoner....
When he spoke at last his words were a surprise—instead of a judgment, came a query.
“What were you?” he asked suddenly; and, at the unexpected, irrelevant question, Theodore, still numb, hesitated—then repeated mechanically, “What was I?”
“In the days before the Ruin—what were you? What sort of work did you do? How did you earn your living?”
He knew that, pointless as the question seemed, there was something that mattered behind it; his face was being searched for the truth and the ring of listeners had ceased to jostle and were waiting in silence for the answer.
“I—I was a clerk,” he stammered, bewildered.
“A clerk,” the other repeated—as it seemed to Theodore suspiciously. “There were a great many different kinds of clerks—they did all sorts of things. What did you do?”
“I was a civil servant,” Theodore explained. “A clerk in the Distribution Office—in Whitehall.”
“That means you wrote letters—did accounts?”
“Yes. Wrote letters, principally ... and filed them. And drew up reports....”
The question sent him back through the ages. In the eye of his mind he saw his daily office—the shelves, the rows of files, interminable files—and himself, neat-suited, clean-fingered, at his desk. Neat-suited, clean-fingered and idling through a short day’s work; with Cassidy’s head at the desk by the window—and Birnbaum, the Jew boy, who always wore a buttonhole.... He brought himself back with an effort, from then to now—from the seemly remembrance of the life bureaucratic to a crowd of evil-smelling savages....
“You were always that—just a clerk? You have never had any other way of earning a living?”... And again he knew that the answer mattered, that his “No!” was listened for intently.
“You weren’t ever an engineer?” the old man persisted. “Or a scientific man of any kind?”
“No,” Theodore repeated, “I have never had anything to do with either engineering or science. When I left the University I went straight into the Distribution Office and I stayed there till the war.”
“University!” The word (so it seemed to him) was snatched at. “You’re a college man?”
“I was at Oxford,” Theodore told him.
“A college man—then they must have taught you science. They always taught it at colleges. Chemistry and that sort of thing—you know chemistry?”
In the crowd was a sudden thrill that was almost murmur; and Theodore hesitated before he answered, his tongue grown dry in his mouth.... Were these people, these outcasts from civilization, hoping to find in him a guide and saviour who should lighten the burden of their barbarism by leading them back to the science which had once been a part of their daily life, but of which they had no practical knowledge?... If so, how far was it safe to lie to them? and how far, having lied, could he disguise his dire ignorance of processes mechanical and chemical? What would they hope from him, expect in the way of achievement and proof?... Miracles, perhaps—sheer blank impossibilities....
“Science—they taught it you,” the old man was reiterating, insisting.
“Yes, they taught it me,” he stammered, delaying his answer. “That is to say, I used to attend lectures....”
“Then you know chemistry? Gases and how to make them?... And machines—do you know about machines? You could help us with machines—tell us how to make one?”
The dirty old face peered up at him, waiting for his “Yes”; and he knew the other faces that he could not see were peering from the shadow with the same odd, sinister eagerness. All waiting, expectant.... The temptation to lie was overwhelming and what held him back was no scruple of conscience but the brute impossibility of making good his claim to a knowledge he did not possess. The utter ignorance betrayed by the form of the old man’s speech—“You know chemistry—do you know about machines?”—would make no allowance for the difficulty of applying knowledge and see no difference between theory and instant practice.... In his hopelessness he gave them the truth and the truth only.
“I have told you already I am not an engineer—I have never had any training in mechanics. As for chemistry—I had to attend lectures at school and college. But that was all—I never really studied it and I’m afraid I remember very little—almost nothing that would be of any practical use to you.... I don’t know what you want but, whatever it is, it would need some sort of apparatus—a chemist has to have his tools like other men. Even if I were a trained chemist I should need those—even if I were a trained chemist I couldn’t separate gases with my bare hands. For that sort of thing you need a laboratory—a workshop—the proper appliances.... I’ll work for you in any way that’s possible—any way—but you mustn’t expect impossibilities, chemistry and mechanics from a man who hasn’t been trained in them.... And why should you expect me to do what you can’t do yourselves—why should you? Is it fair?...”
There was no immediate answer, but suddenly he knew that the silence around him had ceased to be threatening and tense. The old man’s eyes had left his own; they were moving round the room and searching, as it seemed, for assent.... In the end they came back to Theodore—and judgment was given.
“If you are what you say you are, we will take you; but if you have lied to us and you know what is forbidden, we shall find you out sooner or later and, as sure as you stand there, we will kill you. If you are what you say you are—a plain man like us and without devil’s knowledge—you may come to us and bring your woman, if she also is without devil’s knowledge. That is, if you can feed her; we have only enough for ourselves. And from this day forward you will be our man; and to-morrow you will take the oath to be what we are and live as we do, and be our man against all our enemies and perils. Are you agreed to that?”
He was saved and Ada with him—so much he knew; but as yet it was not clear what had saved him. He was to be their man—take an oath and be one with them—and there was the phrase “devil’s knowledge,” twice repeated.... He stared stupidly at the man who had granted his life—realizing that his ordeal was over only when the packed room emptied itself and the old man turned back to his fire.