The Pan Book of Horror Stories

THE PHYSIOLOGY OF FEAR C. S. Forester

Dr Georg Schmidt was not a young man, and perhaps because of that he sometimes found it hard to believe that this was a real, permanent world in which he was moving and living. He had qualified as a doctor in the days of the Kaiser, before 1914. A man who had vivid recollections of the Hohenzollern empire, with all its tradition and appearance of permanence, and who had then seen the Weimar Republic come and go, and who had lived through the inflation and through several revolutions, abortive and otherwise, found it a little difficult to believe in the prospective existence of the Third Reich for a thousand years, which its supporters predicted for it. This was especially the case because Schmidt was of a cynical turn of mind, with his cynicism accentuated by a scientific education. But his cynicism was not of the right type to be of use to him under Hitler and the Nazis, considering the sort of work he was called upon by them to do. For he was appointed a surgeon in the SS, and posted as medical officer to the Rosenberg concentration camp. There he could inspect water supply and sanitary arrangements, he could combat epidemics, and do all the things he had learned to do thoroughly well between 1914 and 1918, but a medical officer in a concentration camp had other duties as well, which were hard to perform; there is no need to enlarge upon them, except to comment that perhaps the easiest duty was to advise upon the issue of rations so that the prisoners had the minimum diet on which life could be sustained.

All the hideous things that Schmidt had to do, he had to do. That was simple. The Party cast a cold eye upon any man who flinched from obeying orders; those orders came down from the Fuehrer himself, and they were not rendered any less sacred by the fact that they were transmitted, interpreted, and expanded by a number of officials before they reached Schmidt. Those officials held their authority from the Fuehrer, and a man who cavilled at doing what he was told by them to do was guilty of treason against the Fuehrer, against the Reich, and no fate could be too bad for him—even though anyone who knew the sort of fate that was meted out (and Schmidt saw it meted out) might have thought it was too bad for anyone. Schmidt knew all about the gallows and the block, the torture cells and the gas chambers, so he did what he was told, moving in a world that was like a bad dream, hoping that what he saw and did was not really happening, hoping that some time soon he would wake up and find it was only a dream after all.

So, when his leave came round in the summer of 1940, he welcomed it with as much gladness as he had done in the old days of 1917. He handed over to the doctor who came to relieve him; he packed his fibre suitcase, saw that his papers were in order, and started off for the railway station and for the city that he called ‘home’. He had few relations—his wife was dead—but his brilliant nephew Heinrich had invited him to spend his leave at his house there, and Schmidt was looking forward to that. Young Heinz was a product of the new generation, he knew—because of the exigencies of the service he had seen little of him lately—but Schmidt was quite certain that he was a nephew to be proud of. He had not only qualified in medicine, but he had attained a Doctorate of Science, and even now, with Germany mobilized, he was still a civilian, holding a research fellowship at the university—a sure proof of the esteem in which he was held. Schmidt had read the early papers he had contributed to the university ‘Transactions’ and had glowed with pride. His nephew was clearly destined to be one of the great physiologists of the world, a man whose name would always be remembered. Schmidt would have liked to have been a famous research worker himself, and he found a vicarious, almost a parental, pleasure in his nephew’s achievements.

Heinz himself opened the door to him when he rang the door bell after a tedious night journey across wartime Germany.

“Welcome, uncle,” he said, relieving him of his suitcase.

Heinz was everything an uncle might wish for, tall and blond and handsome, smartly dressed, vigorous—he had all those advantages as well as being a man of brilliant mind. And his wife, Caecilie, was a desirable niece, too, a very pretty girl in a uniform not too obtrusive. She made Schmidt welcome with the utmost kindness and hospitality.

“You look tired, uncle,” said Caecilie, “we must try to remedy that while you are with us.”

Schmidt glowed with something like happiness as they showed him his room and saw to his comfort. More than ever at that moment did his duties at the Rosenberg concentration camp appear like a bad dream.

“You and I have an appointment for luncheon, uncle,” said Heinz.

“Indeed?”

“With Standartenfuehrer Kroide. The president himself.”

There was a humorous twinkle in Heinz’ eye as he spoke. He could see the incongruity of having a Nazi official as president of a university which dated back to the Middle Ages.

“How is it that I am invited?” asked Schmidt.

“I mentioned to him that I was expecting you,” explained Heinz, “and that you were my uncle.”

“And he wanted to meet the uncle of the great physiologist?” said Schmidt. “I have attained fame at last.”

“Turn round, uncle,” said Caecilie, clothes brush in hand. “I want to brush your shoulders.”

On the way to the university, walking through the streets multi-coloured with uniforms, Schmidt asked his nephew about his work.

“Is it still intercellular osmosis?” he asked.

“No,” said Heinz. “It’s a larger project altogether. Immensely larger, and it may prove to be of great importance to the Reich.”

“Is it a war secret?”

“The results may be, when we see what they are. But there is no need for secrecy at present. I’m working on the physiology of fear.”

“Very interesting.”

“Very interesting indeed. The government is of course assisting the university. I understand that the Fuehrer himself knows about my research. At any rate, it is the government, of course, that is providing me with suitable subjects.”

“That must be a great help,” said Schmidt.

“Oh yes, of course. It would be hard to conduct such a research without a plentiful supply. And the university has been most co-operative. I have a thousand cubic metres of laboratory space for my use. Actually I am using the laboratories once used by Liebig and Hertz-remodelled, of course.”

“That’s a compliment in itself,” said Schmidt.

The university had a long and honourable record for scientific research. The world was at least a healthier place, if not a happier, as a result of the labours of the university’s scientists.

“I’ll take you round and show you after lunch,” said Heinz.

“Thank you. That will be very interesting.”

Schmidt was not quite sure that he wanted to be shown. The physiology of fear could hardly be investigated without causing fear, and he did not specially want to be shown terrified animals; many animals, obviously, with the government undertaking to supply them.

“I suppose rats and guinea pigs are unsuitable for your investigation?” asked Schmidt.

“Of course,” said Heinz, and then the glow of enthusiasm in his face died away as he changed the subject and pointed across the road. “Here’s the president’s house.”

Standartenfuehrer Kroide was no scientist, not even a scientist in uniform. As head of the university he represented the Ministry of Enlightenment and Propaganda, naturally. It was his business to see that German youth not only was educated along the lines most useful to the Reich, but also that it was not educated along the lines that were improper.

“We are proud of our young man here,” said Kroide, indicating Heinz. “A splendid example of the new growth of scientists of the Third Reich. One of our earliest, but with the example he has set he will not be our last.”

Kroide was a man with the same personal charm as the head of his ministry. He could talk charmingly and interestingly, and at luncheon he entertained Schmidt, who sat at his right, with a vivid account of the success of the new system of education, a success demonstrated by the correct thinking of all the new generation, and resulting from consistent methods employed from earliest childhood.

“Your nephew himself was distinguished as a boy in the Hitler Youth,” said Kroide.

“I remember,” answered Schmidt, and that was only true as he said it. He had forgotten about Heinz’ early activities, and he thought Heinz probably had forgotten them too. The notion crept into his mind that it might be difficult to retain the ideas of Nazism when one was a true scientist, but he put it hastily aside. Some people would have thought it blasphemous; Schmidt knew it was dangerous.

When lunch was over, Kroide shook Schmidt’s hand.

“I have no doubt your nephew is impatient to carry you off,” he said. “He wants to get back to his experiments as well as to show you his work. I hope when your leave comes round again, you will let me know so that I can again have the pleasure of entertaining you.”

“Thank you, Standartenfuehrer,” said Schmidt.

Walking from the president’s house over to the laboratories Heinz began to go into further detail regarding his work.

“Thanks to the Reich and the Fuehrer,” he said, “I am able to investigate the subject in a way that has not been possible before. There could never be exact measurements of any sort, and I expect that is why fear has never been analysed physiologically until now. All that is known is contained in two paragraphs in any standard textbook of physiology, as I expect you remember, uncle.”

“A line or two about the suprarenals,” agreed Schmidt. “A little about blood pressure.”

“Exactly. All vague and unscientific. But now we can tackle the subject quantitatively and scientifically. Some of the results I have already obtained are most significant and illuminating.”

Schmidt wondered vaguely how fear could be measured with any exactness, even if intelligent animals, even if monkeys were employed. But now conversation was interrupted, as they were passing through doors guarded by SS sentries, and crossing courtyards similarly patrolled. There were salutes in plenty for the Herr Professor, and it occurred to Schmidt that the government must be anxious to keep the research a secret to provide these guards.

“And here we are,” said Heinz, holding open a door for Schmidt to pass through.

There were guards here as well, in the long well-lit laboratory, guards in black uniforms with death’s head insignia; guards carrying whips—it was they whom Schmidt saw first, and the sight puzzled him. There were seated workers and standing workers; the seated workers, each at a separate bench, were covered with scientific instruments of all sorts applied to their naked bodies. Schmidt could guess at the use of most of them; there were instruments for measuring blood pressure, and instruments for measuring the amount of air inspired, for recording respiration and heart beat. Beside each seated worker another, standing, was diligently employed in noting the recordings. The nakedness of the seated workers was surprising. More surprising still was the sight of the apparatus before each one, when Schmidt came to notice it. Each one had a roulette wheel in front of him, and was spinning it and was dropping the little ivory ball into the basin as he spun it. Schmidt could understand nothing of what he saw, and looked at his nephew in complete bewilderment.

“What is happening here?” he asked. “Where are the animals?”

“Animals?” said Heinz. “I thought I made it plain to you that I do not use animals. These are my subjects. These.”

He indicated with a sweep of his hand the twelve naked men sitting at the roulette wheels.

“Oh,” said Schmidt weakly.

“With animals,” said Heinz, and something faintly professorial crept into his manner as he spoke, “it would be quite impossible, as I told you, to obtain quantitative results of any value. For those, intelligence on the part of the subject is necessary. Besides, I have already proved that there is almost no analogy between the physiological effects of fear in animals and in man.”

“But what are they doing?” asked Schmidt.

“It is simple,” explained Heinz, “as practical ideas usually are. They spin their roulette wheels, as you see. The numbers that turn up are immaterial. It is the red and black that count.”

“Yes?”

“It is explained to each subject when he is brought here that when he spins eight consecutive reds it is the end for him.”

“The end?”

“These subjects are all people who are destined for liquidation, of course. They might as well be usefully employed first. And some of my most valuable data are acquired at the autopsies, as you can understand.”

“Yes.”

“And so these subjects are spinning their roulette wheels, and that is how I get my quantitative results. It is remarkable how exact they can be. A man spins a single red, and he hardly cares. Two, he is not much more concerned either. With the third and the fourth the physiological effects become more marked, and when it reaches seven the graphs show a very steep incline.”

“I suppose so,” said Schmidt.

He told himself that he was in a real world, with these things actually happening in it, and yet he found himself still wishing wildly that he would awake from the nightmare. There was a sharp crack and a cry of pain from the far end of the room, and Schmidt looked in that direction in time to see a guard turn away from one of the subjects after dealing a blow with his whip.

“As the number of consecutive reds increases the subject grows reluctant to go on spinning the wheel,” explained Heinz. “Compulsion has to be employed with most of them.”

“Naturally,” said Schmidt. He knew perfectly well that if he blazed out in protest he would be proved not to be wholeheartedly for the regime—he might even find himself sitting spinning a roulette wheel.

“And yet the psychology is as interesting as the physiology,” went on Heinz. “There are some who spin feverishly as if anxious to reach the end. We have even had a few who anticipated it, killing themselves in their cells at night—a nuisance, because it means a premature termination of the results in their case.”

“That must be a nuisance,” said Schmidt.

“The psychological findings are of course being analysed by another department,” said Heinz. “Old Engel has a team of assistants at work on them. But psychology is by no means as exact a science as physiology—it can hardly be called a science at all, can it?”

“I suppose not.”

“With half these subjects,” explained Heinz, “it is made clear to them that when they spin their eight reds they will meet their end by the quick SS neck shot, all over in a second. The other half are told that it will be a more painful process, prolonged as far as the SS can manage it. But it is quite surprising how little difference that prospect makes to the physiological results—the subjects really do not look beyond the fact that they will die when they spin their eight consecutive reds. In fact, I am thinking of discontinuing that part of the investigation, for the treatment administered by the SS brings about a serious confusion in the eventual findings at the autopsy. My work is more important than that of the psychologists.”

“Of course,” said Schmidt. He wanted to sit down, but Heinz went on talking, enthusiastic about his subject.

“Most of this apparatus I designed myself,” he said. “This one here provides a continuous record of the rate of sweat secretion. The curves I am obtaining with it sometimes offer interesting contrasts with the graphs of blood pressure and respiration.”

He bent over to show the apparatus to Schmidt, standing close to the subject, a heavily built and swarthy man, who at that moment uttered a groan of despair.

“Seven, I see,” said Heinz. “You notice how the blood pressure rises?”

The subject struggled on his stool—it was only then that Schmidt noticed that the subjects were leg ironed and chained in their places. A guard came sidling up, his whip whistling shrilly as he swung it in the air, and at the sound of it the subject subsided.

“Spin,” said the assistant who was taking the recordings, and the subject spun the wheel and dropped in the ivory ball, which bounced clicking against the metal studs.

“Ah, black,” said Heinz. “Most of his curves will show an abrupt decline at this point.”

Schmidt felt relief that it had been black this time.

“Some of these subjects last literally for weeks,” commented Heinz. “It takes that long sometimes for them to spin their eight consecutive reds. And yet there is very little flattening of the curves—you would be surprised at the consistency of the results. I’ll show you some of my graphs in a moment.”

“That would be very interesting,” said Schmidt.

“One at least of my preconceived notions has been disposed of already,” said Heinz. “I had formed a theory regarding possible fatigue of the suprarenals, but I’ve proved myself wrong. It was one more example of the necessity to correlate relevant facts before forming an hypothesis.”

Heinz twinkled at the memory; he did not mind admitting the human weakness.

“Yes, it is very necessary,” agreed Schmidt.

It was in the adjoining smaller laboratory that the graphs were kept. Heinz dilated on them with enthusiasm as he displayed them to his uncle, the saw-backed curves, continuous lines and broken lines, dotted lines and starred lines, lines of different colours, a dozen curves on each sheet for the various physiological measurements of an individual subject, mounting irregularly upwards towards an abrupt end; each sheet told the physiological history of the last days of a man.

“Extremely interesting,” said Schmidt, trying not to think about that part of it.

Back at the house Caecilie was quite indignant with her husband.

“Uncle looks more tired than ever, Heinz,” she said. “You’ve worn him out today. I’m sorry, uncle. These scientists never know when to stop when they get started on their hobby. Why don’t you have a little rest before the evening meal?”

Schmidt certainly needed a rest, and at dinner fortunately the conversation was not directed towards the physiology of fear. The Luftwaffe was at that time engaged upon the subjugation of England, so there were plenty of other subjects to discuss—the results of the day’s air fighting, and the possibility that England might accept the Fuehrer’s magnanimous offer of peace without the necessity of submitting to invasion, and the future of a world enlightened by the ideas of Nazidom. It was only at intervals during the rest of Schmidt’s stay that Heinz discussed his research work. Once was when Caecilie had displayed some feminine weakness or other.

“Odd,” said Heinz when he was alone with his uncle, “how inconsistent women can be. Some of the curves I’ve obtained with women subjects at the laboratory show the most remarkable variations from normal. The psychologists have seized upon them to help prove some of their theories. And I have to admit there’s something to be said for them, too.”

And another time, after they had listened to a broadcast speech by Baldur von Schirach, Heinz talked about race in connection with his research.

“Of course,” he said, “most of my subjects are Poles and Czechs. I expect you noticed that they were all of the Alpine or Mediterranean types. Even the non-Slavs were of these types. Naturally there are Semitics as well in plenty, but to make my research more complete I need Nordic types.”

“Naturally,” said Schmidt.

“And Nordic types are not so readily available. But I have asked the president to make the strongest representations on the point, and he is doing so. A Nordic type may commit a murder, perhaps. Or there is always the chance of a few Norwegians.”

“Of course that’s possible.”

“And then I shall get a new set of curves. And the postmortem appearances should be most interesting.”

“Yes.”

It was a great surprise to Schmidt to hear his nephew talking the Nazi nonsense about race, about Nordics and Alpines. It was hard to believe that a scientist, a scientist with a good mind—even though completely heartless in his work—could possibly give any weight at all to those old theories. Schmidt had to remind himself that Heinz had been exposed to that sort of talk since his boyhood, had hardly known a world where Nordic superiority was not assumed as an article of faith—at least publicly—by everyone. That upbringing of his would largely account for the utter heartlessness, too. So that to Schmidt it was hard to decide which was the greater strain, to stay and listen to his nephew talking about his physiological research or to go back to his nightmare duties at the concentration camp. But he had no choice; when his leave was up he had to go back to Rosenberg camp, into the dreadful conditions there, and he had to do the dreadful things he was called upon to do. It was in the winter that he received a letter from Caecilie. He recognized the writing on the envelope, but the postmark was strange.

The first thing that Schmidt did after reading that letter was to burn it. It was dangerous enough to be related to a man who had been arrested by the SS; to be asked by that man’s wife to help was very dangerous indeed. And there was nothing he could do, either. The SS kept its secrets, and no insignificant surgeon could hope to be admitted to them, and if that surgeon began to ask questions it might be—it would certainly be—too bad for him. Schmidt did not even answer Caecilie’s letter; her mail would undoubtedly be opened and read, and he could not risk even expressing sympathy for a man whose guilt was obvious because of his arrest. He worried about it, though.

The following summer, after the invasion of Russia had begun, Schmidt attended a selection parade in his official capacity.

“A hundred and twenty,” said the camp commandant to him; from the little office they could hear the shouts of the guards and the kapos as they formed up their party for the parade. “There will be five hundred present, so you can take one in four. A few more than a hundred and twenty will not matter.”

This was the worst of Schmidt’s duties, to select the men and women who were to die in the Rosenberg gas chamber. Those were the times when he almost thought he would rather have the gas chamber for himself—almost. That ‘almost’ might explain how he had come to be selected as surgeon in the SS and posted to a concentration camp; the SS picked their instruments carefully, and they had noted how fear had forced Schmidt into accepting duties progressively more revolting.

Schmidt drank a glass of schnapps, saw to it that his uniform was correct, and stepped out into the blinding sunshine on the parade ground. Perhaps it was not as bad to select men victims as women. Usually the men made less commotion about it; many of them tried to appear brave, and were ashamed to show emotion before their fellows—some of them, not very many, would try desperately to make a joke when they were selected. And on the other hand they were often so worn down with harsh treatment that they were apathetic. Schmidt hoped that would be the case now.

He walked along the line. Behind him followed the guards to herd away the victims he selected. He had to choose one in four. He might merely have indicated every fourth man, by pure chance, but he dared not do so, lest the anomalies should be too glaring. If he picked those who were still fit and able, and left the old, the sick, and the worn out, it would be noticed. He had to exercise some care in the selection.

He did not look at the faces; he could not. He looked at the bodies. The diseased, the old, the starved; he had to keep his head clear and his mind active so as to keep count and maintain the proportion of roughly one in four. He pointed to those he selected and passed on. Behind him there were groans of despair; sometimes hysterical screams, the sharp sound of blows, sometimes even a shot as some desperate man resisted and was given his end on the spot. Halfway down the line Schmidt heard a sudden whisper from the line; a single word.

“Uncle!”

He looked up from the body to the face. It was Heinz; but if the word had not been spoken he would not have recognized him. The growth of a dirty beard alone was a disguise. And Heinz had lost some of his teeth, and his nose was not quite straight now, and his cheeks were hollow, with the cheekbones standing out. Schmidt looked down again at the scars and sores on the body. If he had not looked at the face he might well have selected Heinz for the gas chamber, young and vigorous though he had recently been.

Neither man dared show further sign of recognition. Luckily the SS men were some yards behind and had not heard the whispered word. Luckily the men on either side of Heinz were old and could be picked as victims—luckily Schmidt’s mind was clear enough for him to think of that, lest they should talk and should involve him in Heinz’ catastrophe. Schmidt passed on and left Heinz standing in the line, unchosen. Schmidt was shaking with the shock, after his moment of clear thinking, and it was all he could do to complete the parade.

As medical officer Schmidt had access to the files in the central office, and after a decent interval he went to examine them. He went through the card index elaborately, looking at many names, so that the corporal on duty there would not guess what was the real object of his search. Heinz’ card was there, but—as Schmidt fully expected—it told him nothing of importance. There were only dates and the names of camps. Heinz had been in two bad ones before coming to Rosenberg, which accounted for the scars and the sores. But there was no indication of what his offence had been—that was only given on the cards of prisoners who were guilty of crimes in the old sense. The SS kept its secrets; Schmidt came away from his examination of the files knowing no more than he had before. Nor was he going to make any further inquiries. No one ever inquired about an SS prisoner; nobody wanted to be thought interested in an SS prisoner’s fate.

He was due to have leave soon again, and it called for an effort to decide what he was to do then. He had heard from Caecilie that she had been conscripted into factory work, but her house was still open to him, of course. There was almost nowhere else that he could go, and he went, eventually, and Caecilie made him welcome as always. The house was by no means entirely hers now, as a number of technical workers had been billeted in it—to Schmidt that was something of a relief, because it restricted conversation about Heinz. Caecilie could only speak about him when they were quite alone, and then no louder than a whisper. Schmidt was sympathetic but non-committal; he had decided after prolonged thought not to tell her about his encounter with Heinz. It would do her no good, and it might do her a great deal of harm. She would want to know all about him, how his health was and how he looked, and Schmidt neither wanted to tell her nor could he trust himself to lie convincingly. And, moreover, Caecilie would expect him to do something to alleviate Heinz’ fate, and Schmidt knew that to be downright impossible. He could not bear having to tell her that.

And there was the question of his oaths; at the time of his induction into the SS he had sworn to keep the secrets of the organization, and he had sworn a further oath never to reveal to the outside world anything about what went on in concentration camps; secrecy made the SS more dreaded than ever, and it was even possible that the SS did not feel happy at the thought that the outside world should know about the nature of the punishments it inflicted. Schmidt had no scruples about the oaths he had taken, but he did not want to violate them by telling Caecilie what he knew. Caecilie might at any time be arrested, and under questioning by the SS she would certainly reveal (Schmidt knew about that questioning) anything Schmidt had told her. It was best not to tell her anything.

But because of the prickings of his conscience in the matter he decided in the end to do what he had had in the back of his mind for some time. There was a risk about it, but it was the best he could do. He sent a polite note to Standartenfuehrer Kroide at the university, telling him of his presence in the city on leave, and—he had not really expected it but only hoped for it—received in return an invitation to luncheon.

It was the usual large party, and Kroide was his usual charming self, the perfect host. It occurred to Schmidt as he listened to the conversation that these parties were one tiny strand in a vast spider’s web spread all over the country, in the centre of which was the spider, Dr Goebbels himself, attentive to all the vibrations that passed along the strands. There was wine, there was the freest of conversation, and after such a party Kroide would be able to pass along a good deal of information regarding the attitude of the local intellectuals.

Today there was no lack of a subject to talk about. The army was pressing far and fast into Russia, and the communiques were blaring victory. There could be no doubt that the Russian colossus would soon be beaten to the ground. No army could long endure the defeats the Fuehrer was inflicting on the Russians. They would collapse, and that would be the end of Germany’s last rival save for England, impotent across the sea and fast being strangled by the U-boat campaign. There were some quite amusing jokes about what the Fuehrer would do with Stalin when he fell into his hands. Standartenfuehrer Kroide sat beaming as he listened to the talk, and he let it be understood, by his significant reticences, that he could, if security did not forbid, add much to the conversation, and that, as a high official of the Ministry of Propaganda, he was cognisant of many secrets regarding the further surprises the Fuehrer had up his sleeve for the enemies of the Reich. He beamed and he drank wine, mellowed by alcohol and victory. It was after lunch was over, as the guests still stood chatting, that he addressed himself to Schmidt.

“Too bad about that young nephew of yours,” he said.

“My nephew Heinrich?” asked Schmidt, without committing himself.

“Yes. I once had great hopes of him. I thought he was a talented scientist and a fervent friend of the Reich, but to my disappointment I found he was neither.”

“I am sorry about that, Standartenfuehrer,” said Schmidt. It was safe to be sorry about Kroide’s hurt feelings, even if it was not safe to be sorry about Heinz’ fate.

“The silly young fool,” said Kroide. “Not only was he I completely wrong-headed, but he wanted to proclaim the fact publicly.”

“How very extraordinary!” said Schmidt.

“Yes, indeed. He told me he had completed the piece of physiological research on which he was engaged—you remember—and I was quite delighted. I encouraged him all the time he was writing his paper regarding his results, and I looked forward to the time when it should be completed.”

“And did he complete it, Standartenfuehrer?”

“Yes. Of course I did not read it; it was far too technical for me. I forwarded it, just as it was, graphs, statistics, and all, to Dr Goebbels’ office, as was my duty, of course.”

“Yes?” Schmidt hoped he was not displaying too much interest. Despite the wine which made his head swim he tried to put exactly the right intonation into what he said.

“I was really only concerned with security—I thought it was possible, or even likely, that the paper might contain material that our enemies could find useful as well as us. It was a routine step, to decide whether it would be desirable to publish the paper in the university ‘Transactions’.”

Kroide took off his spectacles and polished them, and blinked short-sightedly at Schmidt.

“It was a great shock to me,” went on Kroide, “when the teletype message came in ordering me to suppress everything to do with your nephew’s paper. The SS, of course, had already arrested him by the time the message reached me.”

“How shocking!” said Schmidt. He still did not dare to ask the obvious question, but he waited hopefully and his hope was not disappointed.

“Yes,” said Kroide, almost with regret. “The SS had no choice but to arrest him and put him where his ridiculous theories could do no harm. Do you know what the madman had written?”

“I simply cannot guess,” said Schmidt.

Kroide leaned forward confidentially and tapped Schmidt on the chest with his spectacles.

“He had it all wrong. I even think he might have had insane delusions. He thought he had proved that fear had exactly the same physiological results with Nordics as with the lesser races! Can you imagine anything more insane or more treasonable?”

“No,” said Schmidt.