'It seems to me that the best we can do is to refer you to Colonel Westcott,' suggested Zellaby, indicating Bernard. With a slightly malicious touch, he added: 'His Department, for a reason which has continued to elude me for nine years, preserves a continuing interest in Midwich, so that he probably knows more about us than we do ourselves.'

Sir John turned his attention to Bernard.

'And what is your Department, sir?' he inquired.

At Bernard's reply his eyes bulged slightly. He looked like a man wishing to be given strength.

'Did you say Military Intelligence?' he inquired flatly.

'Yes, sir,' said Bernard.

The Chief Constable shook his head. 'I give up.' He looked back at Zellaby, with the expression of one only two or three straws from the end. 'And now Military Intelligence,' he muttered.

About the same time that the Chief Constable had arrived at Kyle Manor, one of the Children – a boy – came walking unhurriedly down the drive of The Grange. The two policemen who were chatting at the gate broke off their conversation. One of them turned and strolled to meet the boy.

'And where'll you be off to, son?' he inquired amiably enough.

The boy looked at the policeman without expression, though the curious golden eyes were alert.

'Into the village,' he said.

'Better if you didn't,' advised the policeman. 'They're not feeling too friendly there about your lot – not after last night, they're not.'

But the boy neither answered, nor checked his walk. He simply kept on. The policeman turned and walked back towards the gate. His colleague looked at him curiously.

'Lumme,' he said. 'Didn't make much of a job of that, did you? Thought the idea was to persuade 'em to keep out of harm's way.'

The first policeman looked after the boy, going on down the lane, with a puzzled expression. He shook his head.

'Funny, that,' he said uneasily. 'I don't get it. If there's another, you have a try, Bert.'

A minute or two later one of the girls appeared. She, too, was walking in a casually confident way.

'Right,' said the second policeman. 'Just a bit of advice – fatherly-like, see?'

He began to stroll towards the girl.

After perhaps four steps he turned round, and came back again. The two policemen standing side by side watched her walk past them, and into the lane. She never even glanced at them.

'What the hell -?' asked the second policeman, in a baffled voice.

'Bit off, isn't it?' said the other. 'You go to do something, and then you do something else instead. I don't reckon I like it much. Hey!' he called after the girl. 'Hey! you, missie!'

The girl did not look back. He started in pursuit, covered half a dozen yards, and then stopped dead. The girl passed out of sight, round the corner of the lane. The policeman relaxed, turned round, and came back. He was breathing rather fast, and had an uneasy look on his face.

'I definitely don't like it,' he said unhappily. 'There's something kind of funny about this place...'

The bus from Oppley, on its way to Trayne via Stouch, stopped in Midwich, opposite Mrs Welt's shop. The ten or a dozen women waiting for it allowed the two off-loading passengers to descend, and then moved forward in a ragged queue. Miss Latterly, at its head, took hold of the rail, and made to step aboard. Nothing further happened. Both her feet appeared to be glued to the ground.

'Hurry along there, please!' said the conductor.

Miss Latterly tried again; with no better success. She looked up helplessly at the conductor.

'Just you stand aside, and let 'em get on, mum. I'll give you a hand in a minute,' he advised her.

Miss Latterly, looking bewildered, took his advice. Mrs Dorry moved up to take her place, and grasped the rail. She, too, failed to get any further. The conductor reached down to take her arm and pull her up, but her foot would not lift to the step. She moved beside Miss Latterly, and they both watched the next in turn make an equally fruitless attempt to get aboard.

'What's this? Some kind of joke?' inquired the conductor. Then he saw the expression on the faces of the three. 'Sorry, ladies. No offence. But what's the trouble?'

It was Miss Latterly who, turning her attention from the fourth woman's ineffective approach to the bus, noticed one of the Children. He was sitting casually on the mounting-block opposite The Scythe and Stone, with his face turned towards them, and one leg idly swinging. She detached herself from the group by the bus, and walked towards him. She studied him carefully as she approached. Even so, it was with a touch of uncertainty she said:

'You're not Joseph, are you?'

The boy shook his head. She went on:

'I want to go to Trayne to see Miss Foresham, Joseph's mother. She was hurt last night. She's in the hospital there.'

The boy kept on looking at her. He shook his head very slightly. Tears of anger came into Miss Latterly's eyes.

'Haven't you done enough harm? You're monsters. All we want to do is to go and see our friends who've been hurt – hurt because of what you did.'

The boy said nothing. Miss Latterly took an impulsive half-step towards him, and then checked herself.

'Don't you understand? Haven't you any human feelings?' she said, in a shaking voice.

Behind her, the conductor, half-puzzled, half-jocular was saying:

'Come along now, ladies. Make up your minds. The old bus don't bite, you know. Can't wait 'ere all day.'

The group of women stood irresolute, some of them looking frightened. Mrs Dorry made one more attempt to board the bus. It was no use. Two of the women turned to glare angrily at the boy who looked back at them unmoved.

Miss Latterly turned helplessly, and began to walk away. The conductor's temper shortened.

'Well, if you're not coming, we're off. Got our times to keep, you know.'

None of the group made any move. He hit the bell decisively, and the bus moved on. The conductor gazed at them as they dwindled forlornly behind, and shook his head. As he ambled forward to exchange comments with the driver he muttered to himself the local adage:

'In Oppley they're smart, and in Stouch they're smarmy, but Midwich folk are just plain barmy.'

Polly Rushton, her uncle's invaluable right hand in the parish ever since she had fled across the unmended breach between the two families, was driving Mrs Leebody into Trayne to see the vicar. His injuries in the fracas, the hospital had telephoned reassuringly, were uncomfortable, but not serious, only a fracture of the left radius, a broken right clavicle, and a number of contusions, but he was in need of rest and quiet. He would be glad of a visit in order to make some arrangements to cover his absence.

Two hundred yards out of Midwich, however, Polly braked abruptly, and started to turn the car about.

'What have we forgotten?' inquired Mrs Leebody, in surprise.

'Nothing,' Polly told her. 'I just can't go on, that's all.'

'Can't?' repeated Mrs Leebody.

'Can't,' said Polly.

'Well, really,' said Mrs Leebody. 'I should have thought that at a time like this...'

'Aunt Dora, I said "can't", not "won't".'

'I don't understand what you're talking about,' said Mrs Leebody.

'All right,' said Polly. She drove on a few yards, and turned the car again so that it faced away from the village once more. 'Now change places, and you try,' she told her.

Unwillingly Mrs Leebody took the driving seat. She didn't care for driving, but accepted the challenge. They moved forward again, and at precisely the spot where Polly had braked, Mrs Leebody braked. There came the sound of a horn behind them, and a tradesman's van with a Trayne address on it squeezed by. They watched it vanish round the comer ahead. Mrs Leebody attempted to reach the accelerator-pedal, but her foot stopped short of it. She tried again. Her foot still could not get to it.