overtaken Berlin, Moscow, Tokio, the eastern half of London,

Toulon, Kiel, and two hundred and eighteen other centres of

population or armament. Each was a flaming centre of radiant

destruction that only time could quench, that indeed in many

instances time has still to quench. To this day, though indeed

with a constantly diminishing uproar and vigour, these explosions

continue. In the map of nearly every country of the world three

or four or more red circles, a score of miles in diameter, mark

the position of the dying atomic bombs and the death areas that

men have been forced to abandon around them. Within these areas

perished museums, cathedrals, palaces, libraries, galleries of

masterpieces, and a vast accumulation of human achievement, whose

charred remains lie buried, a legacy of curious material that

only future generations may hope to examine…

Section 4

The state of mind of the dispossessed urban population which

swarmed and perished so abundantly over the country-side during

the dark days of the autumnal months that followed the Last War,

was one of blank despair. Barnet gives sketch after sketch of

groups of these people, camped among the vineyards of Champagne,

as he saw them during his period of service with the army of

pacification.

There was, for example, that 'man-milliner' who came out from a

field beside the road that rises up eastward out of Epernay, and

asked how things were going in Paris. He was, says Barnet, a

round-faced man, dressed very neatly in black-so neatly that it

was amazing to discover he was living close at hand in a tent

made of carpets-and he had 'an urbane but insistent manner,' a

carefully trimmed moustache and beard, expressive eyebrows, and

hair very neatly brushed.

'No one goes into Paris,' said Barnet.

'But, Monsieur, that is very unenterprising,' the man by the

wayside submitted.

'The danger is too great. The radiations eat into people's

skins.'

The eyebrows protested. 'But is nothing to be done?'

'Nothing can be done.'

'But, Monsieur, it is extraordinarily inconvenient, this living

in exile and waiting. My wife and my little boy suffer

extremely. There is a lack of amenity. And the season advances.

I say nothing of the expense and difficulty in obtaining

provisions… When does Monsieur think that something will be

done to render Paris-possible?'

Barnet considered his interlocutor.

'I'm told,' said Barnet, 'that Paris is not likely to be possible

again for several generations.'

'Oh! but this is preposterous! Consider, Monsieur! What are

people like ourselves to do in the meanwhile? Iam a costumier.

All my connections and interests, above all my style, demand

Paris…'

Barnet considered the sky, from which a light rain was beginning

to fall, the wide fields about them from which the harvest had

been taken, the trimmed poplars by the wayside.

'Naturally,' he agreed, 'you want to go to Paris. But Paris is

over.'

'Over!'

'Finished.'

'But then, Monsieur-what is to become-of ME?'

Barnet turned his face westward, whither the white road led.

'Where else, for example, may I hope to find-opportunity?'

Barnet made no reply.

'Perhaps on the Riviera. Or at some such place as Homburg. Or

some plague perhaps.'

'All that,' said Barnet, accepting for the first time facts that

had lain evident in his mind for weeks; 'all that must be over,

too.'

There was a pause. Then the voice beside him broke out. 'But,

Monsieur, it is impossible! It leaves-nothing.'

'No. Not very much.'

'One cannot suddenly begin to grow potatoes!'

'It would be good if Monsieur could bring himself--'

'To the life of a peasant! And my wife--You do not know the

distinguished delicacy of my wife, a refined helplessness, a

peculiar dependent charm. Like some slender tropical

creeper-with great white flowers… But all this is foolish

talk. It is impossible that Paris, which has survived so many

misfortunes, should not presently revive.'

'I do not think it will ever revive. Paris is finished. London,

too, Iam told-Berlin. All the great capitals were

stricken…'

'But--! Monsieur must permit me to differ.'

'It is so.'

'It is impossible. Civilisations do not end in this manner.

Mankind will insist.'

'On Paris?'

'On Paris.'

'Monsieur, you might as well hope to go down the Maelstrom and

resume business there.'

'I am content, Monsieur, with my own faith.'

'The winter comes on. Would not Monsieur be wiser to seek a

house?'

'Farther from Paris? No, Monsieur. But it is not possible,

Monsieur, what you say, and you are under a tremendous

mistake… Indeed you are in error… I asked merely for

information…'

'When last I saw him,' said Barnet, 'he was standing under the

signpost at the crest of the hill, gazing wistfully, yet it

seemed to me a little doubtfully, now towards Paris, and

altogether heedless of a drizzling rain that was wetting him

through and through…'

Section 5

This effect of chill dismay, of a doom as yet imperfectly

apprehended deepens as Barnet's record passes on to tell of the

approach of winter. It was too much for the great mass of those

unwilling and incompetent nomads to realise that an age had

ended, that the old help and guidance existed no longer, that

times would not mend again, however patiently they held out. They

were still in many cases looking to Paris when the first

snowflakes of that pitiless January came swirling about them. The

story grows grimmer…