I urged the PM to be cautious about overoptimism in giving out the news. He nodded his head solemnly in agreement, but he evidently couldnt communicate whatever wisdom he possessed to the BBC announcer, for he, in butter voice, spoke as though Miss Francis had actually destroyed a great section of the weed upon the French coast. There were celebrations in the streets of London and a vast crowd visited the cenotaph and sang Rule Britannia.
September 18: Hoping to find F in a calmer mood, I asked her today just how long she meant by "a matter of time"? She shrugged it off. "Not more than four or five months," she said blithely.
"In a month at most the Grass will be in Britain."
"Let it come," she responded callously. "We shall take the Sisyphus and conclude our work there."
"But millions will die in the meantime," I protested.
She turned on me with what I can only describe as tigrish ferocity. "Did you think of the millions you condemned to death when you refused to sell concentrates to the Asiatic refugees?"
"How could I sell to people who couldnt buy?"
"And the millions who died because you refused them employment?"
"Am I responsible for those too shiftless to fend for themselves?"
"'Am I my brother's keeper?' If fifty million Englishmen die because I cannot hasten the process of trial and error, the guilt is mine and I admit it. I do not seek to exculpate myself by pointing a finger at you or by silly and pompous evasions of my responsibility. If the Grass comes before I am ready, the fault is mine. In the meantime, while one creature remains alive, even if his initials be A W, I shall seek to preserve him. As long as there is a foothold on land I shall try on land; and when that fails we shall board the Sisyphus and finish our work there, somewhere in the Atlantic."