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which no other solutions were in sight. They were problems that otherwise, Isaac Newton
concluded, did not promise a favourable future for the world.
When the applause had died away, written questions were handed in. They were first read
out by the French Prime Minister and then answered as briefly and forcefully as Isaac
Newton could manage. To the inevitable question of what the cost of such a project would
be, he came out with a forthright answer. The cost would be closely comparable with the
present military budgets of the developed nations. At this reply a deep silence filled the
Theatre of the Palace, a silence made memorable in the minds of all present by the manner
in which it was broken. It was broken by a piercing yell from a journalist employed by the
New York Times. Almost immediately there were further yells and shrieks, yells and shrieks
rapidly translated into bedlam as they were picked up by microphones and amplified to
monstrous proportions through the many loudspeakers placed throughout the Theatre.
'Hornets,' said Frances Margaret with a wide smile of satisfaction. 'I knew they'd never track
them all down. Not without fumigating the whole Palace.'
Chapter 70
The morning session thus unceremoniously ended, the participants emerged from the
Theatre into the spacious grounds of the Palace, where - the day being warm and fine - an
outdoor buffet was served.
'I wonder where they get them at this time of the year,' observed Frances Margaret, taking a
bowl of strawberries and cream from a passing waiter.
'Scotland, I expect. You see now what I meant yesterday?' Isaac Newton replied, taking a
bowl of the strawberries himself.
'I thought it went as well as could be expected.'
'That's just the point, isn't it - as well as could be expected.'
'Then the time is ripe for an assessment,' Frances Margaret decided, broaching a
particularly large and very red strawberry.
'The assessment is clear. With a deal of argument we'll eventually get some sort of an
international project going, on about the same scale as we've got back at home already.
Only with much more bureaucracy and paperwork,' Isaac Newton argued grumpily.
'I couldn't avoid hearing you say that,' a familiar voice said. It was Alan Bristow, the editor of
Nature. 'At least an international project has more stability. Once it's started it can't be
stopped. By a change of any particular Government, I mean,' he went on.
'That's true, of course,' Isaac Newton acknowledged, but still much out of countenance.
'But why d'you want things to go at such a tearing pace? That's what I can never understand
about your point of view, Newton. You're fond of saying that a stalemate which has lasted for
billions of years has now been broken. Why, if you're dealing in billions, should a few years
more or a few years less matter at all? Why not let events follow their own course?'
'Because we're really deciding between alternatives.'
'Which are?'
'Military budgets for one; or a big programme of the kind I talked about this morning for the
other.'
'Why should they be exclusive?'
'Because if the military budgets go on we'll be annihilated, quite probably before the end of
the century. Frankly, I want the second alternative to present itself so forcefully and fast that
there's nothing left for people to blow themselves to pieces with. The choice is really very
clear, and there isn't any convenient middle way.'
'And you think everybody here, the Governments I mean, are looking for a convenient middle
way?'
'Of course. Don't you? Then back to business as usual.'
'Well, I wish you luck. You'll need it,' Bristow said, just as the Prime Minister came up with the
admonition:
'Come now, break it up. We're here to talk to people. Let me introduce you to the American
President.'
Frances Margaret moved away on her own, thinking her message about the hornets might
conceivably introduce a discordant note into a conversation with the American President. In
the instant she saw Isaac Newton disappear a shock hit her, a shock so obvious and
perceptible that she wondered for a while if it could be a heart attack. Then, after satisfying
herself that it wasn't, she wondered if the sudden shadow, a shadow like the Sun passing all
in a moment behind a cloud, could
be due to poison in the strawberries. Whatever it was, she had an intense conviction of
something exceedingly peculiar, a conviction that changed her previously exuberant state of
mind into a dreamy condition, as if the entire scene around her had become quite unreal.
There in front of her now was the American woman with the dark hair, the
dangerous-looking woman with the dimples, who said:
'I've been looking at the Russians. It's all very curious.'
'Because they're like the pack of cards in Alice in Wonderland?'' Frances Margaret
replied.
'Funny you should say that,' nodded the American Secretary of Commerce.
'Why is it funny?'
'Well, take a look at Russian footballers, ice-skaters and musicians. What d'you see? You
see normal people with normal faces and normal bodies. But these politicians and generals
are quite different. They're all chunky and square and heavy and beetle-browed. How come?
I ask myself.'
'It's because they are a pack of cards,' Frances Margaret replied, thinking this firming up of
her previous remark trivially obvious.
'I kept on wondering myself if they might be sort of cartoon characters. You know, characters
with three fingers instead of five.'
'Did you ask them?'
'Of course not,' the Secretary of Commerce laughed.
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