Gerson was talking to him. They were in a different place. It might be they were already in the great Barnet dugout which was to be the new seat of government; a huge and monstrous cavern it was, at any rate; and they were discussing the next step that must be taken if the Empire, now so sorely stressed, so desperately threatened, was still to hack its way through to Victory. Overhead there rumbled and drummed an anti-aircraft barrage.

“If we listen to this propaganda of the American President’s,” said Gerson, “we are lost. People must not listen to it. It’s infectious — hallucination. Get on with the war before the rot comes. Get on with the war! It is now or never,” said Gerson.

His grim and desperate energy dominated the Lord Paramount. “Gas L,” he repeated, “Gas L. All Berlin in agony and then no more Berlin. Would they go on fighting after that? For all their new explosives.”

“I call God to witness,” said the Lord Paramount “that I have no mind for gas war.”

“War is war,” said Gerson.

“This is not the sort of war I want.”

Gerson’s never very respectful manner gave place to a snarl of irritation. “D’you think this sort of war is the sort of war I want?” he demanded. “Not a bit of it! It’s the sort of war these damned chemists and men of science have forced upon us. It’s a war made into a monster. Because someone f............