The Complete Works: Fantasy & Sci-Fi Novels, Religious Studies, Poetry & Autobiography. C. S. Lewis
afraid of Hingest.
“Huh?” grunted Bill. “Eh? Oh, it’s you, Studdock? Didn’t know they’d secured your services here.”
“I was sorry not to see you at the College meeting yesterday,” said Mark.
This was a lie. The Progressive Element always found Hingest’s presence an embarrassment. As a scientist—and the only really eminent scientist they had—he was their rightful property; but he was that hateful anomaly, the wrong sort of scientist. Glossop, who was a classic, was his chief friend in College. He had the air (the “affectation” Curry called it) of not attaching much importance to his own revolutionary discoveries in chemistry and of valuing himself much more on being a Hingest: the family was of almost mythical antiquity, “never contaminated” as its nineteenth century historian had said, “by traitor, placeman, or baronetcy.” He had given particular offence on the occasion of de Broglie’s visit to Edgestow. The Frenchman had spent his spare time exclusively in Bill the Blizzard’s society, but when an enthusiastic junior Fellow had thrown out a feeler about the rich feast of science which the two savants must have shared, Bill the Blizzard had appeared to search his memory for a moment and then replied that he didn’t think they had got on to that subject. “Gassing Almanac de Gotha nonsense, I suppose,” was Curry’s comment, though not in Hingest’s presence.
“Eh? What’s that? College meeting?” said the Blizzard. “What were they talking about?”
“About the sale of Bragdon Wood.”
“All nonsense,” muttered the Blizzard.
“I hope you would have agreed with the decision we came to.”
“It made no difference what decision they came to.”
“Oh!” said Mark with some surprise.
“It was all nonsense. The N.I.C.E. would have had the Wood in any case. They had powers to compel a sale.”
“What an extraordinary thing! I was given to understand they were going to Cambridge if we didn’t sell.”
“Not a word of truth in it. As to its being an extraordinary thing, that depends on what you mean. There’s nothing extraordinary in the Fellows of Bracton talking all afternoon about an unreal issue. And there’s nothing extraordinary in the fact that the N.I.C.E. should wish, if possible, to hand over to Bracton the odium of turning the heart of England into a cross between an abortive American hotel and a glorified gas-works. The only real puzzle is why the N.I.C.E. should want that bit of land.”
“I suppose we shall find out as things go on.”
“You may. I shan’t.”
“Oh?” said Mark interrogatively.
“I’ve had enough of it,” said Hingest, lowering his voice, “I’m leaving to-night. I don’t know what you were doing at Bracton, but if it was any good I’d advise you to go back and stick to it.”
“Really!” said Mark. “Why do you say that?”
“Doesn’t matter for an old fellow like me,” said Hingest, “but they could play the devil with you. Of course it all depends on what a man likes.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Mark, “I haven’t fully made up my mind.” He had been taught to regard Hingest as a warped reactionary. “I don’t even know yet what my job would be if I stayed.”
“What’s your subject?”
“Sociology.”
“Huh!” said Hingest. “In that case I can soon point you out the man you’d be under. A fellow called Steele. Over there by the window, do you see?”
“Perhaps you could introduce me.”
“You’re determined to stay then?”
“Well, I suppose I ought at least to see him.”
“All right,” said Hingest. “No business of mine.” Then he added in a louder voice, “Steele!”
Steele turned round. He was a tall, unsmiling man with that kind of face which, though long and horse-like, has nevertheless rather thick and pouting lips.
“This is Studdock,” said Hingest. “The new man for your department.” Then he turned away.
“Oh,” said Steele. Then after a pause, “Did he say my department?”
“That’s what he said,” replied Mark with an attempt at a smile. “But perhaps he’s got it wrong. I’m supposed to be a sociologist—if that throws any light on it.”
“I’m H.D. for sociology all right,” said Steele. “But this is the first I’ve heard about you. Who told you you were to be there?”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Mark, “the whole thing is rather vague. I’ve just had a talk with the Deputy Director but we didn’t actually go into any details.”
“How did you manage to see him?”
“Lord Feverstone introduced me.”
Steele whistled. “I say, Cosser,” he called out to a freckle-faced man who was passing by, “listen to this. Feverstone has just unloaded this chap on our department. Taken him straight to the D.D. without saying a word to me about it. What do you think of that?”
“Well I’m damned!” said Cosser, hardly glancing at Mark but looking very hard at Steele.
“I’m sorry,” said Mark, a little more loudly and a little more stiffly than he had yet spoken. “Don’t be alarmed. I seem to have been put in rather a false position. There must have been some misunderstanding. As a matter of fact I am, at the moment, merely having a look round. I’m not at all certain that I intend to stay in any case.”
Neither of the other two took any notice of this last suggestion.
“That’s Feverstone all over,” said Cosser to Steele.
Steele turned to Mark. “I shouldn’t advise you to take much notice of what Lord Feverstone says here,” he remarked. “This isn’t his business at all.”
“All I object to,” said Mark, wishing that he could prevent his face from turning so red, “is being put in a false position. I only came over as an experiment. It is a matter of indifference to me whether I take a job in the N.I.C.E. or not.”
“You see,” said Steele to Cosser, “there isn’t really any room for a man in our show—specially for someone who doesn’t know the work. Unless they put him on the U.L.”
“That’s right,” said Cosser.
“Mr. Studdock, I think,” said a new voice at Mark’s elbow, a treble voice which seemed disproportionate to the huge hill of a man whom he saw when he turned his head. He recognised the speaker at once. His dark, smooth face and black hair were unmistakable, and so was the foreign accent. This was Professor Filostrato, the great physiologist, whom Mark had sat next to at a dinner about two years before. He was fat to that degree which is comic on the stage, but the effect was not funny in real life. Mark was charmed that such a man should have remembered him.
“I am very glad you have come to join us,” said Filostrato, taking hold of Mark’s arm and gently piloting him away from Steele and Cosser.
“To tell you the truth,” said Mark, “I’m not sure that I have. I was brought over by Feverstone but he has disappeared, and Steele—I’d have been in his department I suppose—doesn’t seem to know anything about me.”
“Bah! Steele!” said the Professor. “That is all a bagatelle. He get too big for his boots. He will be put in his place one of these days. It may be you who will put him. I have read all your work, si si. Do not consider him.”
“I