“It’s international now,” put in Fulke Arnott. “I would like to point out to you the interesting features of this situation. We’re a quarry. The arch-capitalist escapes from Europe with his accomplices in search of a year’s quiet to mature his plans, and labour brings him to book in the middle of the China Seas. It’s good. It’s pretty. It’s encouraging.” “It’s all that,” observed Lord Sombrewater. “It’s also pure nonsense. In any case I do not consider myself a fugitive.” “I don’t want to imply that you ran away,” Fulke replied. “The fact is that your position is one in which you can afford to take a year off, so long as you watch the intrigues of the henchmen you’ve elevated and see that they don’t manœuvre you out of the position of control.” “You begin to see the point. The central fact is my position. It is true that I own the mines, the railways, the crops, the whole activity of large pieces of several continents. If I cannot escape them, neither can they escape me. I am their light and air. Without my activity, races perish. Unless I continue to produce business enterprises, as Terence produces pictures and Richard Frew-Gaff his hypotheses, nations will starve.” “My answer,” said Fulke, “is: Let them.” His green-brown eyes glowed. He had a vision, as Ambrose presently ascertained, of a few young men and women, few and free, living on nuts in a wood. “We wander from the point,” said the chairman. “I do not believe for a moment that there are any orders from any union. The trouble is something quite different. But we have to consider what action we shall take. Let us have views round the table. What is your view of our action, Fulke?” “In theory——” “Never mind that. Let’s hear what another business man has to say. George Sprot, your views, please.” Sprot, who had been agitatedly twisting his fingers, was flattered. “Defy them! If they won’t work, let them starve. If they mutiny, shoot them.” “So useful, George,” said Quentin. “So practical.” Lord Sombrewater tapped with his hammer. “Terence.” “I saw a cloud of beings, the colour of peach-blossom, drifting over the sea. They swayed and bent like one branch blown by the same wind. They were going towards China.” “Attach them, Terence,” exclaimed the irrepressible Quentin. “They’ll do instead of steam when the boilers go out.” Once more the hammer. “Richard.” “I suggest that we run the ship ourselves. Fulke and Lychnis and I can easily work out a theory of navigation. We can complete it in a few days. Some of us must be crew. Quentin’s a whole crew of stokers in himself.” Quentin passed a remark which Ambrose faithfully records, but we need not trouble ourselves with it. “That’s all very well, Richard,” said the chairman; “but in a tempest I should hesitate to trust entirely in your very harmonious calculations. And in any case, the officers have not deserted.” “Well, let us be the crew.”