Goldwasser found himself alongside.

‘Hallo,’ said Chiddingfold.

‘Good evening, Director,’ said Goldwasser.

Chiddingfold smiled. Goldwasser smiled. There was nothing more to be said. But something more had to be said, felt Goldwasser. They were standing as if in conversation. Some sort of conversation, however minimal, had to occur. Chiddingfold’s eyes sank slowly until they rested on the undemanding mid-parts of people in the middle distance, the remains of his smile still lingering about his lips like crumbs left over from a cold snack. Goldwasser looked desperately about him, hunting for a usable topic. Art? Politics? Sociology? He couldn’t think of anything to say about any of them. He couldn’t remember the name of a single artist of any sort, or a single fashionable political or sociological question. His mental processes were paralysed, numbed by the waves of cold that emanated from Chiddingfold in spite of all Chiddingfold’s efforts. Goldwasser examined the contents of his glass at great length, and then drank from it slowly and thoughtfully. It had been empty for some time.

‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘at least we can all say we’ve been to church this week-end.’

Chiddingfold’s blue eyes rested on Goldwasser for a moment. Something registered in their depths, some small private agony. His smile deepened to its polite maximum, then slackened again to its minimum position. They had had a conversation, thought Goldwasser, so now at last the interview could be decently terminated.

‘I must be getting along,’ he said. Chiddingfold smiled again, absently, as if at a family joke which touched some remote nostalgia in him. Goldwasser waited for a few moments, and then moved away with great definiteness, as if he were answering an urgent call for his services.

Elsewhere the uproar continued. Some of the guests who were not from the Institute were audibly resentful of those who were.

‘Who are all these people?’ they shouted at one another.

‘All which people?’

‘All these tits in tweed sports jackets.’

‘I believe they’re from some sort of institution.’

‘What are they doing here, then?’

‘Friends of Haugh’s, I’m told.’

‘Peculiar friends he has.’

‘Tits, a lot of them.’

‘They’re just standing around talking to one another.’

‘I know. Spoil the party, rather.’

‘Yes.’

Rowe was shouting shop to Haugh in one of the spots where acoustics were bad.

‘My personal view . . .’ his words came through, ‘. . . wherever . . . decisions . . . finite range of possible alternatives . . . can be done by a computer . . .’

‘That’s right,’ shouted Haugh.

‘I personally . . . good idea . . . programme . . . write pornographic . . .’

‘I know. What did you say?’

‘Pornographic novels.’

‘I know.’

‘And . . .’

‘Exactly.’

‘And sex manuals.’

‘I know. I know.’

People kept going up to Mrs. Plushkov and asking if her husband was at the party.

‘. . . think . . . here somewhere,’ she replied.

‘. . . always died . . .’