The players swept up to their major climax, Adam came on and five minutes later the curtain fell on the first act. The hands of the audience filled the house with a storm of rain. The storm swelled prodigiously and persisted even after the lights had come up.

‘Ah, good girl,’ Bob Grantley stammered, filled with the sudden and excessive emotion of the theatre. ‘Good old Adam. Jolly good show!’

Greatly daring, he clapped the doctor on the shoulders. The doctor remained immovable.

Grantley edged away to the back of the box. ‘I must get back,’ he said. ‘Look, John, there are one or two people coming to the office for a drink who would be—’

The doctor turned massively in his seat and faced him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘thank you.’

‘Well, but look, dear boy, it’s just one of those things. You know how it is, John, you know how—’

‘Shut up,’ said the doctor, without any particular malice. ‘I’m going back-stage,’ he added. He rose and turned away from the audience. ‘I have no desire to swill tepid spirits with minor celebrities among the backsides of sandblasted gods. Thank you, however. See you later.’

He opened the pass-door at the back of the box.

‘You’re pleased, aren’t you?’ Grantley said. ‘You must be pleased.’

‘Must I? Must I indeed?’

‘With the girl, at least? So far?’

‘The wench is a good wench. So far. I go to tell her so. By your leave, Robert.’

He lumbered through the pass-door and Grantley heard him plunge dangerously down the narrow stairway to the stage.

Dr Rutherford emerged in a kaleidoscopic world: a world where walls fell softly apart, landscapes ascended into darkness and stairways turned and moved aside. A blue haze rose from the stage which was itself in motion. Jacko’s first set revolved bodily, giving way to a new and more distorted version of itself which came to rest, facing the curtain. Masking pieces were run forward to frame it in. The doctor started off for the dressing-room passage and was at once involved with moving flats. ‘If you please, sir.’ ‘Stand aside, there, please.’ ‘Clear stage, by your leave.’ His bulky shape was screened and exposed again and again plunged forward confusedly. Warning bells rang, the call-boy began to chant: ‘Second Act beginners, please. Second Act.’

‘Lights,’ Clem Smith said.

The shifting world stood still. Circuit by circuit the lights came on and bore down on the acting area. The last toggle-line slapped home and was made fast and the sweating stage-hands walked disinterestedly off the set. Clem Smith, with his back to the curtain, made a final check. ‘Clear stage,’ he said and looked at his watch. The curtain-hand climbed an iron ladder.

‘Six minutes,’ said the ASM. He wrote it on his chart. Clem moved into the prompt corner. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Actors, please.’