“Get out, quick!” I said. “I think they’re after us.”
“But——” Josella began.
“Hurry!” I said shortly.
I blew a final blast on the horn and slipped out after her, leaving the engine running. We were not many seconds too soon. A man found the handle of the rear door. He pulled it open and pawed inside. We were all but pushed over by the pressure of others making for the car. There was a shout of anger when somebody opened the front door and found the seats there empty too. By that time we ourselves had safely become members of the crowd. Somebody grabbed the man who had opened the rear door, under the impression that it was he who had just got out. Around that the confusion began to thrive. I took a firm grip of Josella’s hand, and we started to worm our way along as unobviously as possible.
Clear of the crowd at last, we kept on foot for a while, looking out for a suitable car. After a mile or so we found it—a station wagon, likely to be more useful than an ordinary body for the plan that was beginning to form vaguely in my mind.
In Clerkenwell they had been accustomed for two or three centuries to make fine, precise instruments. The small factory I had dealt with professionally at times had adapted the old skill to new needs. I found it with little difficulty, nor was it hard to break in. When we set off again, there was a comforting sense of support to be derived from several excellent triffid guns, some thousands of little steel boomerangs for them, and some wire-mesh helmets that we had loaded into the back.
“And now—clothes?” suggested Josella as we started.
“Provisional plan, open to criticism and correction,” I told her. “First, what you might call a pied-à-terre: i.e., somewhere to pull ourselves together and discuss things.”
“Not another bar,” she protested. “I’ve had quite enough of bars for one day.”
“Improbably though my friends might think it—with everything free—so have I,” I agreed. “What I was thinking of was an empty apartment. That shouldn’t be difficult to find. We could ease up there awhile, and settle the rough plan of campaign. Also, it would be convenient for spending the night—or, if you find that the trammels of convention still defy the peculiar circumstances, well, maybe we could make it two apartments.”
“I think I’d be happier to know there was someone close at hand.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Then Operation Number Two will be ladies’ and gents’ outfitting. For that perhaps we had better go our separate ways—both taking exceedingly good care not to forget which apartment it was that we decided on.”
“Y-es,” she said, but a little doubtfully.
“It’ll be all right,” I assured her. “Make a rule for yourself not to speak to anyone, and nobody’s going to guess you can see. It was only being quite unprepared that landed you in that mess before. ‘In the country of the blind the one-eyed man is king.’？”
“Oh yes—Wells said that, didn’t he? Only in the story it turned out not to be true.”
“The crux of the difference lies in what you mean by the word ‘country’—patria in the original,” I said. “Caecorum in patria luscus rex imperat omnis—a classical gentleman called Fullonius said that: it’s all anyone seems to remember about him. But there’s no organized patria, no state, here—only chaos. Wells imagined a people who had adapted themselves to blindness. I don’t think that is going to happen here—I don’t see how it can.”
“What do you think is going to happen?”
“My guess would be no better than yours. And soon we shall begin to know, anyway. Better get back to matters in hand. Where were we?”
“Choosing clothes.”
“Oh yes. Well, it’s simply a matter of slipping into a shop, adopting a few trifles, and slipping out again. You’ll not meet any triffids in central London—at least, not yet.”