That one clear need of theirs, so patent, exasperates him… . His need too, all right. But how are you ever going to put anything “psychical” on a scientific basis with your mortality always goading, just outside the chi-square calculations, in between the flips of the Zener cards and the silences among the medium’s thick, straining utterances? In his mellower moments he thinks that continuing to try makes him brave. But most of the time he’s cursing himself for not working in fire control, or graphing Standardized Kill Rates Per Ton for the bomber groups… anything but this thankless meddling into the affairs of invulnerable Death… .

They have drawn near a glow over the rooftops. Fire Service vehicles come roaring by them, heading the same direction. It is an oppressive region of brick streets and silent walls.

Roger brakes for a crowd of sappers, firefighters, neighbors in dark coats over white nightclothes, old ladies who have a special place in their night-thoughts for the Fire Service no please you’re not going to use that great Hose on me… oh no… aren’t you even going to take off those horrid rubber boots… yesyes that’s—

Soldiers stand every few yards, a loose cordon, unmoving, a bit supernatural. The Battle of Britain was hardly so formal. But these new robot bombs bring with them chances for public terror no one has sounded. Jessica notes a coal-black Packard up a side street, filled with dark-suited civilians. Their white collars rigid in the shadows.

“Who’re they?”

He shrugs: “they” is good enough. “Not a friendly lot.”

“Look who’s talking.” But their smile is old, habitual. There was a time when his job had her a bit mental: lovely little scrapbooks on the flying bombs, how sweet… . And his irritated sigh: Jess don’t make me out some cold fanatical man of science… .

Heat beats at their faces, eye-searing yellow when the streams shoot into the fire. A ladder hooked to the edge of the roof sways in the violent drafts. Up top, against the sky, figures in slickers brace, wave arms, move together to pass orders. Half a block down, flare lamps illuminate the rescue work in the charry wet wreckage. From trailer pumps and heavy units, canvas hoses run fat with pressure, hastily threaded unions sending out stars of cold spray, bitter cold, that flash yellow when the fire leaps. Somewhere over a radio comes a woman’s voice, a quiet Yorkshire girl, dispatching other units to other parts of the city.

Once Roger and Jessica might have stopped. But they’re both alumni of the Battle of Britain, both have been drafted into the early black mornings and the crying for mercy, the dumb inertia of cobbles and beams, the profound shortage of mercy in those days… . By the time one has pulled one’s nth victim or part of a victim free of one’s nth pile of rubble, he told her once, angry, weary, it has ceased to be that personal… the value of n may be different for each of us, but I’m sorry: sooner or later…