i8o 



The last day of 1952 ! My weary brain shot occasional probes 

 of worry into the future. Could we stand this pace and pres- 

 sure? 



A trunk-call. The London Times wanted an article. When? 

 At once, please, its point would otherwise be less, and if I would 

 write it, it could come by cable. I said it was doubtful if it could 

 be done, as life was more than full, and would not promise, but 

 said I would see how things went and if at all possible would do it. 

 I would let them know by next morning at the latest. They asked 

 if they could make provisional arrangement meanwhile ? Yes, but 

 it must be understood that this did not bind me, and at the 

 moment there seemed no hope. This was the afternoon of our 

 return, the 31st December 1952. 



This story is told partly to show the wonder of modern com- 

 munications and partly because this article played an important 

 part in countering the unfortunate effects of that 'Missing Link* 

 appellation that had been tacked on to the Coelacanth. 



My brain often annoys and sometimes alarms me, for it has 

 a part that works secretly, even when I am hard at work at some- 

 thing else. Although exhausted that night, I knew I would have to 

 write that infernal article, but put it from me then. Telephone 

 calls pursued us to our house, through a meal, and until we had 

 to ask the Post Office to draw the curtain. I slept like a log for 

 five hours, and at 3 a.m. found myself fully wide awake with that 

 confounded article clear-cut in my brain. I slid out of bed, 

 though probably not even a bomb would have wakened my wife, 

 crept downstairs, and had a cup of Nescafe. I can never condemn 

 those who are addicts to alcohol or tobacco, for I am just as bad 

 with that stufT and turn to it in every crisis. 'A nice cup of tea !' 



I wrote steadily until daylight dimmed the electric lamps, 

 and by then most had been got down on paper. This was only 

 the first part. It is doubtful whether those who hear a good broad- 

 cast or read an interesting article know how much labour lies 

 behind it. I put a call through to say that the article would be 

 ready by noon, and learnt that though it was a public holiday, 

 1st January 1953, when all public services are dead, provisional 

 arrangements had been made with the Post Office at Grahams- 

 town, and a telegraphist would be waiting to send this off by 

 cable to London. This would now be confirmed: he would be on 



