“Whatever it dislocates,” said Redwood, “my little boy must have the Food.”
They heard some one falling rapidly upstairs. Then Cossar put his head into the flat. “Hullo!” he said at their expressions, and entering, “Well?”
They told him about the Princess.
“Difficult question!” he remarked. “Not a bit of it. She’ll grow. Your boy’ll grow. All the others you give it to ‘ll grow. Everything. Like anything. What’s difficult about that? That’s all right. A child could tell you that. Where’s the bother?”
They tried to make it clear to him.
“Not go on with it!” he shrieked. “But—! You can’t help yourselves now. It’s what you’re for. It’s what Winkles is for. It’s all right. Often wondered what Winkles was for. Now it’s obvious. What’s the trouble?
“Disturbance? Obviously. Upset things? Upset everything. Finally—upset every human concern. Plain as a pikestaff. They’re going to try and stop it, but they’re too late. It’s their way to be too late. You go on and start as much of it as you can. Thank God He has a use for you!”
“But the conflict!” said Bensington, “the stress! I don’t know if you have imagined—”
“You ought to have been some sort of little vegetable, Bensington,” said Cossar—“that’s what you ought to have been. Something growing over a rockery. Here you are, fearfully and wonderfully made, and all you think you’re made for is just to sit about and take your vittles. D’you think this world was made for old women to mop about in? Well, anyhow, you can’t help yourselves now—you’ve got to go on.”
“I suppose we must,” said Redwood. “Slowly—”