the White Ensign. Her fling with Sammy had finished nearly five years ago, but the sight of anything to do with the Royal Navy still gave her a little nostalgic glow.
How was she ever going to find the Skang ship? She didn’t even know its name.
And then she saw it. Very modern and streamlined, and painted brilliant white (of course). Not all that large. It would be a bit of a squash if it was going to house the entire community. But it must have cost a bomb, which just showed that there were plenty of other clots like Jeremy. It was flying the Indian flag, and on its bow it proudly bore its name, in big capital letters: SKANG.
It made a sort of sense. But wasn’t it odd, this mixture of openness and secrecy? Still, if the Doctor’s suspicions were justified - and how could they not be? - that’s exactly how it would appear: the New Age cult open to the world on the one hand; and on the other, the hidden mystery known only to the elect.
The thought produced a shudder of sudden fear. For surely, somewhere in the bowels of this shining vessel, concealed from all but the chosen few, must be the Skang itself. And what would it be living on?
Hilda Hutchens had experienced many different types of meditation. Even before going to university, where her introduction to the rigour of philosophical thinking led her to lose her rich Anglo-Catholic faith, she had practised a deep contemplation that was surely first cousin to her later experience of Hindu Samadhi.
But now, as she sat in focused concentration, observing the feelings that had arisen in her breast at the sight of the limp body of Brother Alex being carried out, she recognised that she no longer identified with them in any way. Compassion was there, yes, and an iron determination that the project should not be jeopardised, but they were not her feelings. It was not even Mother Hilda, herself, who was concentrating on them. What had to be done, was done. What had to be felt, was felt. And that was all.
‘Mother Hilda...’ The rough voice of Brother Will brought her back to the bungalow.
‘Where is Doctor Smith now?’ she said, after she had scanned the note he handed her with a wryly raised eyebrow.
‘At the main gate. Brother Dieter was concerned that...’
‘Of course I must see him.’
‘But Mother, are you sure that’s wise? We’ve been so careful not to let anybody get a sniff of...’
‘He would think it very strange if I refused. At this time of all times, we can’t allow the slightest suspicion. Show him in at once.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dame Hilda glanced at the note in her hand. She smiled.
‘How could I resist, Doctor? It reminded me at once of our delicious arguments in Oxford. Do you think I shall end up thumping the table this time?’
‘One or two emphatic taps, perhaps, or would even that be beneath the dignity of an emeritus professor? Not to mention a Dame of the British Empire.’
Hilda’s laugh was a delicious gurgle, like the bubbling of a mountain beck. ‘Oh, I’ve dropped all that nonsense,’ she said.
‘It would hardly go with the teachings of the Skang. That is why we wear white, you see. As I’m sure you know, it’s the colour they wear at funerals in India. We are celebrating the death of the personal self.’
The Doctor nodded. ‘So I’ve gathered,’ he said. He’d filled the time he’d spent fruitlessly waiting for the return of the Brigadier by absorbing the information in the book that Sarah had given him. ‘It must have been nigh impossible not to have been blown away by the winds of change that have swept through the universities, I can see that,’ he continued.
‘It is, after all, the Zeitgeist, the spirit of the New Age. But Hilda Hutchens of all people! I had to come and ask why.’
‘You’re not the first, Doctor,’ said Hilda. ‘Most of my friends have expressed their astonishment.’
‘It seems a world away from the logical positivism of the young don who
How was she ever going to find the Skang ship? She didn’t even know its name.
And then she saw it. Very modern and streamlined, and painted brilliant white (of course). Not all that large. It would be a bit of a squash if it was going to house the entire community. But it must have cost a bomb, which just showed that there were plenty of other clots like Jeremy. It was flying the Indian flag, and on its bow it proudly bore its name, in big capital letters: SKANG.
It made a sort of sense. But wasn’t it odd, this mixture of openness and secrecy? Still, if the Doctor’s suspicions were justified - and how could they not be? - that’s exactly how it would appear: the New Age cult open to the world on the one hand; and on the other, the hidden mystery known only to the elect.
The thought produced a shudder of sudden fear. For surely, somewhere in the bowels of this shining vessel, concealed from all but the chosen few, must be the Skang itself. And what would it be living on?
Hilda Hutchens had experienced many different types of meditation. Even before going to university, where her introduction to the rigour of philosophical thinking led her to lose her rich Anglo-Catholic faith, she had practised a deep contemplation that was surely first cousin to her later experience of Hindu Samadhi.
But now, as she sat in focused concentration, observing the feelings that had arisen in her breast at the sight of the limp body of Brother Alex being carried out, she recognised that she no longer identified with them in any way. Compassion was there, yes, and an iron determination that the project should not be jeopardised, but they were not her feelings. It was not even Mother Hilda, herself, who was concentrating on them. What had to be done, was done. What had to be felt, was felt. And that was all.
‘Mother Hilda...’ The rough voice of Brother Will brought her back to the bungalow.
‘Where is Doctor Smith now?’ she said, after she had scanned the note he handed her with a wryly raised eyebrow.
‘At the main gate. Brother Dieter was concerned that...’
‘Of course I must see him.’
‘But Mother, are you sure that’s wise? We’ve been so careful not to let anybody get a sniff of...’
‘He would think it very strange if I refused. At this time of all times, we can’t allow the slightest suspicion. Show him in at once.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dame Hilda glanced at the note in her hand. She smiled.
‘How could I resist, Doctor? It reminded me at once of our delicious arguments in Oxford. Do you think I shall end up thumping the table this time?’
‘One or two emphatic taps, perhaps, or would even that be beneath the dignity of an emeritus professor? Not to mention a Dame of the British Empire.’
Hilda’s laugh was a delicious gurgle, like the bubbling of a mountain beck. ‘Oh, I’ve dropped all that nonsense,’ she said.
‘It would hardly go with the teachings of the Skang. That is why we wear white, you see. As I’m sure you know, it’s the colour they wear at funerals in India. We are celebrating the death of the personal self.’
The Doctor nodded. ‘So I’ve gathered,’ he said. He’d filled the time he’d spent fruitlessly waiting for the return of the Brigadier by absorbing the information in the book that Sarah had given him. ‘It must have been nigh impossible not to have been blown away by the winds of change that have swept through the universities, I can see that,’ he continued.
‘It is, after all, the Zeitgeist, the spirit of the New Age. But Hilda Hutchens of all people! I had to come and ask why.’
‘You’re not the first, Doctor,’ said Hilda. ‘Most of my friends have expressed their astonishment.’
‘It seems a world away from the logical positivism of the young don who
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