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of the bombing had been to alter England's climate (and possibly the climate of other countries, too) to that of a perpetual March. An east wind blew, and gray clouds, which the sun never quite got through, though its position was visible behind them, scudded across the sky. The divisions of day and night followed the old seasons, otherwise there was little to distinguish them, since the temperature did not vary and there was no vegetation to speak of to mark the time of year. But gradually the creative forces of life asserted themselves, houses were built, trade established itself, the rhythm of work and leisure became more even. Among the casualties of the exodus was the child who led it, the mouthpiece of the Pretty Gentleman. While food and shelter were being improvised the weakest went--not to the wall, for there were no walls--but out of the struggle for survival. At any rate he disappeared. Some said he was still alive and a few claimed to have identified him. In the New State, Truth held no privileged position (privilege of any sort was frowned upon); as sources of information, hearsay and legend were much preferred and carried far more weight. The fluting, piping voice that had rallied the freedom lovers in the Underworld was silent, and a great, golden voice, a voice by far more sonorous and plausible than the dry voice of Truth, was heard instead. Heard everywhere, indoors and out; for no room, however private, no country spot, however remote, was soundproof to it. It could not be switched off. In the confusion that reigned for a short time the boy might easily have been absorbed into the children's quarter, for among the many institutions that the New State took on from the Old was the segregation of children. At first the Dictator's golden voice proclaimed that children should be brought up by their parents: every child should be a Family Child. But this didn't work. For one thing the children were too delicate to be brought up by medically inexperienced persons. In the New State they were exposed to lingering influences of radioactivity that the Underworld had escaped--just as their parents were: the percentage of sterility was much higher above ground than below. The survival of the race was the Dictator's prime concern. So once more the children had to be segregated and were seldom seen about the streets; someone coming new to the place might have thought it was an exclusively adult community. There was another argument for segregation. Most of the children were so inured to communal life and being in an age group that they did not take kindly to solitary confinement with their parents. Except through mass suggestion they could hardly think or act at all; personal approach, individual attention, left them resentful and bewildered; their parents seemed to them another species and a hostile one. So both sides gained, in peace of mind at any rate, by being kept apart. The Dictator, however, declared he wanted to keep the idea of family life alive, and among the many ballets prescribed for Patients and Delinquents of all ages was the Family Dance. The grownups did it and the children did it; in each age section the parents were chosen by lot, the others played the parts of children. Among the grownups it was a favorite ballet: love, care, tenderness, all the most ideal feelings of parenthood inspired it, and so responsive were the adult children that the performance often ended in tears of ecstasy. Among the children it was a favorite, too, but given much more sparingly, for the child-parents treated their child-families with the utmost severity and harshness: smacks, blows, scuffles were the order of the dance; and though it, too, often ended in tears, they were tears of pain and rage. If the Dictator's theory was that vicarious and counterfeit emotions were safer than real ones, then both ballets were successful, for the children's was always called off before they had time to hurt each other. He called his