Coker reappeared again at the midday meal. He had found most of the men to be plunged in gloom by a well-meant assurance from the vicar that there would be plenty of useful things for them to do, such as—er—basketmaking, and—er— weaving, and he had done his best to dispel it with more hopeful prospects. Encountering Miss Durrant, he had told her that unless it could somehow be contrived that the blind women should take some of the work off the shoulders of the sighted the whole thing would break dawn within ten days, and, also, that if the vicar’s prayer for more blind people to join them should happen to be granted, the whole place would became entirely unworkable. He was embarking upon further observations, including the necessity for starting immediately to build up food reserves and to start the construction of devices which would enable blind men to do useful work, when she cut him short. He could see that she was a great deal more worried than she would admit, but the determination which had led her to sever relations with the other party caused her to blaze back at him unthankfully. She ended by letting him know that on her information neither he nor his views were likely to harmonize with the community.

“The trouble about that woman is that she means to be boss,” he said.

“It’s constitutional—quite apart from the lofty principles.”

“Slanderous,” I said. “What you mean is that her principles are so impeccable that everything is her responsibility—and so it becomes her duty to guide others.”

“Much the same thing,” he said.

“But it sounds a lot better,” I pointed out.

He was thoughtful for a moment.

“She’s going to run this place into one hell of a mess unless she gets right down to the job of organizing it pretty quickly. Have you looked the outfit over?”

I shook my head. I told him how my morning had been spent.

“You don’t seem to have got much change for it. So what?” he said.

“I’m going on after the Michael Beadley crowd,” I told him.

“And if she’s not with them?”

“At present I’m just hoping she is. She must be. Where else would she be?”

He started to say something and stopped. Then he went on:

“I reckon I’ll come along with you. It’s likely that crowd won’t be any more glad to see me than this one, considering everything—but I can live that down. I’ve watched one lot fall to bits, and I can see this one’s going to do the same— more slowly and, maybe, more nastily. It’s queer, isn’t it? Decent intentions seem to be the most dangerous things around just now. It’s a damned shame, because this place could be managed, in spite of the proportion of blind. Everything it needs is lying about for the taking, and will be for a while yet. It’s only organizing that’s wanted.”

“And willingness to be organized,” I suggested.

“That too,” he agreed. “You know, the trouble is that in spite of all that’s happened this thing hasn’t got home to these people yet. They don’t want to turn to—that’d be making it too final. At the back of their minds they’re all hanging on, waiting for something or other.”

“True—but scarcely surprising,” I admitted. “It took plenty to convince us, and they’ve not seen what we have. And, some way, it does seem less final and less—less immediate out here in the country.”

“Well, they’ve got to start realizing it soon if they’re going to get through,” Coker said, looking round the hail again. “There’s no miracle corning to save them.”

“Give ‘em time. They’ll come to it, as we did. You’re always in such a hurry. Time’s no longer money, you know.”

“Money isn’t important any longer, but time is. They ought to be thinking about the harvest, rigging a mill to grind flour, seeing about winter feed for the stock.”

I shook my head.

“It’s not as urgent as all that, Coker. There must be huge stocks of flour in the towns, and, by the look of things, mighty few of us to use it. We can live on capital for a long while yet. Surely the immediate job is to teach the blind how to work before they really have to get down to it.”

“All the same, unless something is done, the sighted ones here are going to crack up. It only needs that to happen to one or two of them and the place’ll be a proper mess.”

I had to concede that.

Later in the afternoon I managed to find Miss Durrant. No one else seemed to know or care where Michael Beadley and his lot had gone, but I could not believe that they had not left behind some indications for those who might follow. Miss Durrant was not pleased. At first I thought she was going to refuse to tell me. It was not due solely to my implied preference for other company. The loss of even an uncongenial able-bodied man was serious in the circumstances. Nevertheless, she preferred not to show the weakness of asking me to stay.

In the end she said curtly:

“They were intending to make for somewhere near Beaminster in Dorset. I can tell you no more than that.”

I went back and told Coker. He looked around him. Then he shook his head, though with a touch of regret.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll check out of this dump tomorrow.”

“Spoken like a pioneer,” I told him. “At least, more like a pioneer than an Englishman.”

Nine o’clock the next morning saw us already twelve miles or so on our road, and traveling as before in our two trucks.

There had been a question whether we should not take a handier vehicle and leave the trucks for the benefit of the Tynsham people, but I was reluctant to abandon mine. I had personally collected the contents, and knew what was in it. Apart from the cases of anti-triffid gear which Michael Beadley had so disapproved, I had given myself slightly wider scope on the last load, and there was a selection of things made with consideration of what might be difficult to find outside a large town: such things as a small lighting set, some pumps, cases of good tools. All these things would be available later for the taking, but there was going to be an interlude when it would be advisable to keep away from towns of any size. The Tynsham people had the means to fetch supplies was in London. A couple of loads would not make a great deal from towns where there was no sign yet of the disease that of difference to them either way, so in the end we Went as we had come.

The weather still held good. On the higher ground there was still little taint in the fresh air, though most villages bad become unpleasant. Rarely we saw a still figure lying in a field or by the roadside, but, just as in London, the main instinct seemed to have been to hide away in shelter of some kind. Most of the villages showed empty streets, and the countryside around them was as deserted as if the whole human race and most of its animals had been spirited away. Until we came to Steeple Honey.

From our road we had a view of the whole of Steeple Honey as we descended the hill. It clustered at the farther end of a stone bridge which arched across a small, sparkling river. It was a quiet little place centered round a sleepy-looking church, and stippled off at its edges with whitewashed cottages. It did not look as if anything had occurred in a century or more to disturb the quiet life under its thatched roofs. But, like other villages, it was now without stir or smoke. And then, as we were halfway down the hill, a movement caught my eye.

On the left, at the far end of the bridge, one house stood slightly aslant from the road so that it faced obliquely toward us. An inn sign hung from a bracket on its wall, and from the window immediately above that something white was being waved. As we came closer I could see the man who was leaning out and frantically flagging us with a towel. I judged that he must be blind, otherwise he would have come out into the road to intercept us. He was waving too vigorously for a sick man.