as they came and went from visible to invisible, had steadfast eyes.
He made an effort to begin and did not do so. Then for a moment his son's face glowed out in a hot insurgence of the fire, his son's face looking up to him, tender as well as strong; and at that he found a voice to reach them all, speaking across a gulf as it were to his son.
"I come from Caterham," he said. "He sent me to you, to tell you the terms he offers."
He paused. "They are impossible terms, I know, now that I see you here all together; they are impossible terms, but I brought them to you, because I wanted to see you all—and my son. Once more. . . . I wanted to see my son. . . ."
"Tell them the terms," said Cossar.
"This is what Caterham offers. He wants you to go apart and leave his world!"
"Where?"
"He does not know. Vaguely somewhere in the world a great region is to be set apart. . . . And you are to make no more of the Food, to have no children of your own, to live in your own way for your own time, and then to end forever."
He stopped.
"And that is all?".
"That is all."
There followed a great stillness. The darkness that veiled the giants seemed to look thoughtfully at him.
He felt a touch at his elbow, and Cossar was holding a chair for him—a queer fragment of doll's fur-
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