It came too suddenly to be anything but a scene from a night­mare. Bunder jerked forward and threw open one of the doors. A short, squat man in a black leather cap reached across and grasped Dogson, pinioning his arms behind him. The mouth in the foolish round face opened, but no sound came out. Bunder used his free arm to seize Dogson’s shoulder as the man in the leather cap dragged him in through the door. It slammed. The three of them must have had barely room to stand inside.

‘Break! Clear out!’ came a voice. Charles could not tell who spoke. But the group broke suddenly into motion. In panic, a panic he knew was shared, he butted his way out of the door into the rain. Outside, some stood indecisively for a second before forcing themselves to walk, not run, in a parody of normal gait, in different directions; others ran madly for a few yards before getting a grip on themselves and slowing to a walk. The horrible silence of the scene emphasized its dream-like flavour.

In an agony, he shambled towards the gate, mechanically fumbling for his pass. On the level of conscious, intentional action, he had no wish at all to go back and help Dogson, though he knew that by acquiescing he was leaving a man to his death. But something caught at his knees and weakened them as he stumbled away. His body, or some mysterious part of the complex of his being, cried out to be back in there, holding Bunder by the throat, shielding Dogson from the silent, vicious onslaught from which, now, it was already too late to save him. Over and above it was a surge, recognizable and clear, of anger. Damn the fool! Damn the blundering fool!

Two of the others who had started out in a different direction and already reached the gate, suddenly appeared running, their faces creased with fear. They rushed heavily past him, and he sprang, with a pure reflex action, behind the same pile of crates that had sheltered him earlier. Peering through a narrow gap he saw a group of purposeful figures in dark uniforms walking past; not running, but walking, like men whose task is not to pursue but merely to move in and clear up an ugly mess.

He shrank back. In a moment they would begin a systematic search, and he would inevitably be taken.