'If people in Trayne, or elsewhere, are inquisitive, or strangers come here asking questions, we must, for our babies' sakes, and our own, tell them nothing. But we must not simply be silent and secretive, as if we were concealing something. We must make it seem that there is nothing unusual in Midwich at all. If we all cooperate, and our men are made to understand that they must cooperate too, no interest will be aroused, and people will leave us alone – as they should do. It is not their business, it is ours . There is no one, no one at all who has a better right, or a higher duty, to protect our children from exploitation than we who are to be their mothers.'

She surveyed them steadily, almost individually once more, as she had at the start. Then she concluded:

'I shall now ask the Vicar and Dr Willers to come back. If you will excuse me for a few minutes I will join them here later. I know there must be a great many questions you are wanting to ask.'

She slipped off into the little room at the side.

'Excellent, Mrs Zellaby. Really excellent,' said Mr Leebody.

Dr Willers took her hand, and pressed it.

'I think you've done it, my dear,' he told her, as he followed the vicar on to the platform.

Zellaby guided her to a chair. She sat down, and leant back with her eyes closed. Her face was pale, and she looked exhausted.

'I think you'd better come home,' he told her.

She shook her head.

'No, I'll be all right in a few minutes. I must go back.'

'They can manage. You've done your part, and very well, too.'

She shook her head again.

'I know what those women must be feeling. This is absolutely crucial, Gordon. We've got to let them ask questions and talk – talk as long as they like. Then they'll have got over the first shock by the time they go. They've got to get used to the idea. A feeling of mutual support is what they need. I know – I want it, too.'

She put a hand to her head, and pushed back her hair.

'You know, it isn't true, Gordon, what I said just now.'

'Which part, my dear? You said a lot, you know.'

'About my being glad and happy. Two days ago it was quite, quite true. I wanted the baby, yours and mine, so very much. Now I'm frightened about it – I'm frightened, Gordon.'

He tightened his arm round her shoulders. She rested her head against his, with a sigh.

'My dear, my dear,' he said, stroking her hair gently. 'It's going to be all right. We'll look after you.'

'Not to know ,' she exclaimed. 'To know there's something growing there – and not to be sure how, or what... It's so – so abasing, Gordon. It makes me feel like an animal.'

He kissed her cheek softly, and went on stroking her hair.

'You're not to worry,' he told her. 'I'm prepared to bet that when he or she comes you'll take one look and say: "Oh dear, there's that Zellaby nose." But, if not, we face it together. You're not alone, my dear, you must never feel that you are alone. I'm here, and Willers is here. We're here to help you, always, all the time.'

She turned her head, and kissed him.

'Gordon, darling,' she said. Then she pulled away and sat up. 'I must get back,' she announced.

Zellaby gazed after her a moment. Then he moved a chair closer to the unclosed door, lit a cigarette, and settled himself to listen critically to the mood of the village as it showed in its questions.

The task for January was to cushion the shock and steer the reactions, and thus to establish an attitude. The initiation meeting could be considered a success. It let the air in, and a lot of anxiety out; and the audience, tackled while it was still in a semi-stunned condition, had for the most part accepted the suggestion of communal solidarity and responsibility.

It was only to be expected that a few individuals should hold aloof, but they were no more anxious than the rest to have their private lives invaded and exposed, and their roads jammed with motor-coaches while goggling loads of sightseers peered in at their windows. Moreover, it was not difficult for the two or three who hankered for limelight to perceive that the village was in a mood to subdue any active non-cooperator by boycott. And if Mr Wilfred Williams thought a little wistfully at times of the trade that might have come to The Scythe and Stone, he proved a staunch supporter – and sensitive to the requirements of longer-term goodwill.

Once the bewilderment of the first impact had been succeeded by the feeling that there were capable hands at the helm; when the pendulum-swing among the young unmarried women from frightened wretchedness to smug bumptiousness had settled down; and when an air of readiness to turn-to, not vastly dissimilar from that which preceded the annual f te and flower-show, began to be apparent, the self-appointed committee could feel that at least it had succeeded in getting things on to the right lines.

The original Committee of the Willers, the Leebodys, the Zellabys, and Nurse Daniels, had been augmented by ourselves, and also by Mr Arthur Crimm who had been co-opted to represent the interests of several indignant researchers at The Grange who now found themselves embroiled, willy-nilly, in the domestic life of Midwich.

But though the feeling at the committee meeting held some five days after the Village Hall meeting could be fairly summarized as 'so far, so good', members were well aware that the achievement could not be left to take care of itself. The attitude that had been successfully induced might, it was felt, slip back all too easily into normal conventional prejudices if it were not carefully tended. For some time, at least, it would have to be sustained and fortified.

'What we need to produce,' Angela summed up, 'is something like the companionship of adversity, but without suggesting that it is an adversity – which, indeed, as far as we know, it is not.'

The sentiment gained the approval of everyone but Mrs Leebody, who looked doubtful.

'But,' she said hesitantly, 'I think we ought to be honest , you know.'

The rest of us looked at her inquiringly. She went on:

'Well, I mean, it is an adversity, isn't it? After all, a thing like this wouldn't happen to us for no reason, would it? There must be a reason; so isn't it our duty to search for it?'

Angela regarded her with a small, puzzled frown.

'I don't think I quite understand...' she said.

'Well,' explained Mrs Leebody, 'when things – unusual things like this – suddenly happen to a community there is a reason. I mean, look at the plagues of Egypt, and Sodom and Gomorrah, and that kind of thing.'

There was a pause. Zellaby felt impelled to relieve the awkwardness.

'For my part,' he observed, 'I regard the plagues of Egypt as an unedifying example of celestial bullying; a technique now known as power-politics. As for Sodom -' He broke off and subsided as he caught his wife's eye.

'Er – ' said the vicar, since something seemed to be expected of him. 'Er -'

Angela came to his rescue.

'I really don't think you need worry about that, Mrs Leebody. Barrenness is, of course, a classical form of curse; but I really can't remember any instance where retribution took the form of fruitfulness. After all, it scarcely seems reasonable, does it?'

'That would depend on the fruit,' Mrs Leebody said, darkly.

Another uneasy silence followed. Everybody, except Mr Leebody, regarded Mrs Leebody. Dr Willers' eyes swivelled to catch those of Nurse Daniels, and then went back to Dora Leebody who showed no discomfort at being the centre of attention. She glanced round at all of us in an apologetic manner.

'I am sorry, but I am afraid I am the cause of it all,' she confided.

'Mrs Leebody -' the doctor began.