Some men have to go to the doctor about it. They are beset with a ringing in the head and voices calling from a far distance. Their index fingers grow stiff and weave small circles in the air. If their wives call them suddenly they bark “wrong number!” and slam down their tea cups.

And while they explain their hallucinations to the doctor his telephone rings; he hurls himself across his desk and man-handles the receiver as though it were the throat of his best enemy or his worst friend. He is suddenly transformed from a benign dispenser of physic and physiology to a Samson disputing the right to bite with Leo the lion. He is a changed man. It is possible that even his wife might respect him could she see him pitting his courage and cunning against the horrors of invention.

When it is all over he sinks wearily into his chair and smiles a pathetic apology. “You see how it is,” he says. “There is no hope for you. Even I—.” He buries his head in the filing cabinet, A to J. “It goes like that all day,” he sobs.