To Theodore the action brought with it a conviction that his sentence was death and his manner of receiving it a diversion for the eyes of the beholders.... The old man was waiting, intent, with his chin on his hand, that he might lengthen the diversion by lengthening the suspense of the prisoner.... When he spoke at last his words were a surprise—instead of a judgment, came a query. “What were you?” he asked suddenly; and, at the unexpected, irrelevant question, Theodore, still numb, hesitated—then repeated mechanically, “What was I?” “In the days before the Ruin—what were you? What sort of work did you do? How did you earn your living?” He knew that, pointless as the question seemed, there was something that mattered behind it; his face was being searched for the truth and the ring of listeners had ceased to jostle and were waiting in silence for the answer. “I—I was a clerk,” he stammered, bewildered. “A clerk,” the other repeated—as it seemed to Theodore suspiciously. “There were a great many different kinds of clerks—they did all sorts of things. What did you do?” “I was a civil servant,” Theodore explained. “A clerk in the Distribution Office—in Whitehall.” “That means you wrote letters—did accounts?” “Yes. Wrote letters, principally ... and filed them. And drew up reports....” The question sent him back through the ages. In the eye of his mind he saw his daily office—the shelves, the rows of files, interminable files—and himself, neat-suited, clean-fingered, at his desk. Neat-suited, clean-fingered and idling through a short day’s work; with Cassidy’s head at the desk by the window—and Birnbaum, the Jew boy, who always wore a buttonhole.... He brought himself back with an effort, from then to now—from the seemly remembrance of the life bureaucratic to a crowd of evil-smelling savages.... “You were always that—just a clerk? You have never had any other way of earning a living?”... And again he knew that the answer mattered, that his “No!” was listened for intently. “You weren’t ever an engineer?” the old man persisted. “Or a scientific man of any kind?” “No,” Theodore repeated, “I have never had anything to do with either engineering or science. When I left the University I went straight into the Distribution Office and I stayed there till the war.” “University!” The word (so it seemed to him) was snatched at. “You’re a college man?” “I was at Oxford,” Theodore told him. “A college man—then they must have taught you science. They always taught it at colleges. Chemistry and that sort of thing—you know chemistry?”