Trembling as he is from the struggle he is aware of this temptation: Why don’t you lie down too? No worrying cracking sound reaches this place; no hand from the centre bothers to touch anything here. Here there is only rest and waiting, and then going out to start all over again when the storm and the anxiety are over.

Stig listens to it. It is a voice inside himself. For the people here are making no effort to keep him. They would like him to leave their room and stop shouting and carrying on – but after all he can stay or do whatever he likes as far as they’re concerned. It’s none of their business. They leave other people alone.

No! he thinks, taking a grip of himself just as he was about to give in.

‘Stand up!’ he shouts commandingly, spurred by the temptation that has seized him. It is like a sudden giddiness in his brain, and a fatigue as heavy as lead through his whole body. His body is surrendering to its tiredness now that rest is so temptingly close and attractive.

‘Stand up!’ he repeats in terror. He does not know what has possessed him.

They blink at him sluggishly from their couches, utterly incurious. ‘Why?’ they ask, placidly stretching themselves. They have everything they need here. And not a sound from the terrible outside world can penetrate and rouse them.

Their laconic questions lack any curiosity. They may well wish him out of the room but they make no fuss about that either.

His giddiness increases. It aims to overpower him, get him down on to the comfortable couch standing empty and ready just in front of him. He, who broke in here like a harsh, chastising moralist, is now trembling to such an extent that his shout is no longer a command but a desperate wish, almost a prayer. He does not understand that he has fallen into a trap.

‘Get up and come with me!’ he shouts.

Something is holding him here, something that is forcing its way inside him with incredible speed. The stale air perhaps?

None of them move.

‘Why?’ they ask, without raising their voices. Some of them have not even glanced at him yet. They have no need to. Here they have all they want.

Stig is already more unsteady. Why don’t you lie down? Why should you wish upon yourself all the wretchedness in the world? All you have to do is lie down and rest. Then you can go out again when it’s all over. For it will pass whether you take part in it or not. The sensible ones are lying here waiting patiently for it to be over so that they can go out and start working usefully.

He listens: it really is true that no sound penetrates here. If you lie here you are out of reach of everything.

Sweat is breaking out on his forehead, the sweat of wretchedness that warns of surrender and finality.