and unusual. Have a fag.”
I accepted the fag. I tried to think of Harrison, perishing horribly in his lonely shack, but instead I could only see Lathom with his hair rumpled and his teeth set, painting with his usual careless brilliance. I got the idea that God or Nature or Science or some other sinister and powerful thing had set a trap for him, and that I was pushing him into it. I thought it was ruthless of God or whoever it was. Pom, pomty; pom, pomty; pom, pomty; pom, pomty—I was nervously humming something and I couldn’t think what. Oh, yes—Haydn’s Creation —that bit, where the kettledrums thump so gently, so ruthlessly, on one note—“And-the-spi‑rit-of-God (pomty) moved-upon-the-face-of-the-waters-(pom)”—only apparently it wasn’t the Spirit of God, but an asymmetric molecule, which didn’t fit the rhythm. Somebody was walking down the corridor, with a soft, muffled beat, rather like kettledrums. “Let there be light (pomty-pom) and there was—”