“It does look like it.” We had returned to Dick’s office, and he lay back in his chair, sneakers on the desk, letting Sally admire his long legs and actor’s profile. “It’s obviously true in politics. We’ve studied the TV commercials put out by Governor Reagan of California. You can see that all this fierce right-wing stuff is the complete opposite of his reassuring body language. But people believe the body language—generally we’ve summed a person up long before he opens his mouth. We think Reagan knows this, thanks to his Hollywood experience. His whole political career is one long reaction shot with an irrelevant voice-over, as you can prove by deleting the sound track and asking people to guess what he’s saying. They trust the friendly sportscaster manner. On the other hand, once he’s sitting in the governor’s mansion in Sacramento he has his mandate…”

“You’re saying that the Führer shouldn’t have ranted and raved but come on like … the Cowardly Lion?”

“Exactly. The totalitarian systems of the future will be docile and subservient, and all the more threatening for that. Though there’ll always be a place for out-and-out madness. In some way, people need the notion. The agnostic world keeps its religious festivals alive to meet the vacation demands of its work force. By the same token, when medical science has conquered disease certain mental afflictions will be mimicked for social reasons—I’d put my bets on schizophrenia. It seems to represent the insane’s idea of the normal.”

“And not the other way around?”

“Probably not—a disease that flatters our vanity has a huge advantage, like most venereal complaints.” Dick turned to the film projector behind his desk. “Speaking of schizophrenia, we’ve been going through some wartime German film stored in the basement. One of the cans is a Waffen SS instructional film on how to build a pontoon bridge.”

Sally almost swooned at this. “God, that’s so weird—it just says everything…”

“Doesn’t it?” Pleased by her attention, Dick reluctantly lowered the blind, uneager to put himself in the shade. “Perhaps we could show it at the Arts Lab? I’d be happy to introduce it.”

We sat sipping wine in Dick’s darkened office, surrounded by American licence plates and photographs of him at the controls of his Cessna, while the SS film fluttered through his projector. Was the film yet another fake? It looked convincingly real, and Sally held tight to my arm, mesmerised by the strong, white-skinned young men good-naturedly singing their work songs. Dick smiled to himself through the flickering light, murmured into the telephone when a BBC producer called, and watched Sally approvingly. He seemed glad that I had become the lover of this rapt and aroused young woman, and well aware of the rich and fierce sex we would have that evening as Sally replayed the film in her mind.