Nunn had a deep respect for Chiddingfold. When he was talking to the Heads of Departments he referred to him as Herr Direktor, or the Big White Chief, rather as some very religious people speak patronisingly of God and his friends, to show that they are so well in with that set that they no longer have to bother about sounding respectful. For the same reason Nunn spoke to Chiddingfold more or less as an equal. His merry chatter about broken collarbones, cracked knee-caps, and cut eyes was always listened to by Chiddingfold with a polite, uneasy smile. So was the cheerful office gossip with which Nunn also entertained the Director – speculations about whether Riddle was really a man, or whether Goldwasser was really a woman, or whether Haugh was really both at once. Nunn chuckled as he told it. But Chiddingfold just smiled uneasily, and his pale blue eyes stared mildly at the middle of Nunn’s chest.

Nunn did not make the heretical mistake of expecting Chiddingfold to manifest his power. He regarded himself as the man who really ran the Institute, who really took the decisions. But the power he wielded was only valid, he felt in the depths of his heart, because it descended through him from the taciturn godhead in the next office. Without the godhead there would have been no power to transmit, nor any authority to side with his subordinates against. It did not matter that Chiddingfold never said anything except ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good afternoon.’ It would not have mattered if he had been totally dumb or insane. It would not have mattered much if he had become invisible. The only thing that really mattered was that he was.

Nevertheless, Nunn would have liked to know more about what was going on inside Chiddingfold’s huge head while the features on the front of it registered their minimal, obliging smile. It was a smile which was designed to fit on a man much smaller than Chiddingfold, and it left a great deal of room for manoeuvre­. Any thoughts thought by Chiddingfold would of course be immense, godly; but perhaps there was space among them for considerations inimical to cheery, simple, sporting Nunn. Nunn sometimes felt it would have been a relief if one afternoon those pale eyes had looked straight at him and Chiddingfold had said, ‘Get stuffed, Nunn.’ At least he would have known where he stood. As it was he had to keep breaking off his schedule of games to do what he was doing now – to look through the keyhole of the communicating door to the Director’s office, hoping to catch Chiddingfold in some act which betrayed his attitude towards him. But always Chiddingfold was doing the same thing. Always he was sitting at his desk, bulky and awkward, with his elbows resting on the polished, vacant desk-top, and his great head buttressed by his interlocked hands; motionless, cerebral, altogether too great for the limitations of human circumstance.

Nunn sighed noiselessly, afflicted with a certain respectful exasperation, and straightened up. He knocked on the door and went in.