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days that followed the class watched him. It was impossible not to, Neil found—impossible not to speculate that he was marked for death, and wonder how soon the end would come. The faces looked at Mr. Dunhill and Mr. Dunhill looked back at the faces, and talked about Biology. One morning he set an examination, and was scathing about the results. They would need to do a lot better, he said, in the end-of-term examination. But would he be there to set it—did he himself believe he would?
    On Monday morning his appearance was shocking. He looked ten years older at least, and they saw his hands tremble when he went to write on the blackboard. The writing was scrawled and wavering.
    During class the Headmaster came in and spoke to him. Their voices were low, but it was obvious that the Headmaster was urging something, Mr. Dunhill refusing. It was easy to guess what: that he should do as another master had already done—go home and die in peace, free from watching eyes. But in the end the Headmaster retired, defeated, and Mr. Dunhill turned back to face the class.
    â€œRadcliffe, I trust you have used that unexpected break to some advantage.” His voice was thinner, but steady. “Perhaps you would be good enough to try again, on that question concerning the structure of the rabbit’s eye.”
    It lasted another two days, during which he continually deteriorated. His skin wrinkled, his voice became more reed-like, his movements tottery and uncertain. In the final lesson the effort to write on the blackboard was too much for him. It was then, sinking into his chair, that he spoke about himself.
    â€œYou will, I am sure, have been noting the changes in my appearance—more closely and more accurately, most likely, than I have done by studying my reflection in the looking glass. I wonder if you have pondered an interesting anomaly—that whilemy skin is wrinkled my hair has not noticeably changed in colour. The emphasis, of course, is on ‘noticeably.’ The hair roots are quite white. The reason the hair proper, while thinner, is still no more than tinged with grey, is simply that human hair grows at a slower rate than that of the cellular ­deterioration caused by the Calcutta virus.”
    He paused, as though speech were becoming weari­some. He made his old gesture of rubbing his palms together, but feebly. He went on:
    â€œIt seems that you may shortly be living in a world in which the old have ceased to exist. The middle-­aged, too, perhaps, because the number of cases in the thirty plus group seems to be increasing.”
    He paused again. “This may appear, minor personal considerations on one side, to offer the prospect of a glorious freedom from the tyranny of the older generations. Perhaps it will. On the other hand, it may prove less glorious than you imagine. At any rate, I hope you put your freedom to good use.”
    Mr. Dunhill stood up. “And now, being rather tired, I propose bringing this lesson to a premature end. I shall not be with you tomorrow, but I imaginethe loss of tuition in Biology may be one of the smallest of the problems ahead of you. I bid you all goodbye.”
    Someone mumbled something in reply. The rest of the class watched in silence as he shuffled to the door and, without a backward look, closed it behind him.

3
    S CHOOL CLOSED AT THE END of that week; temporarily, it was said, but there was no suggestion as to when it might be reopened. Things in general were becoming chaotic. There were unexpected power cuts, some lasting for hours, shortages of certain foods and other goods, a growing emptiness of the streets as fewer people ventured out on any but essential business. The green expanse of the Salts, below the town, gradually turned brown as the bulldozers—one of the few remaining indications of activity—scored trenches for the mass graves.
    The bus failed to appear on the final day ofschool, and Neil had to walk the two and