"I CAN T STAND THIS noise，" Paul Taylor cried. "It s<br >driving me mad!"<br > And he both looked and sounded as if he were beside<br >himself， normally pleasant face distorted， mild grey eyes<br >glaring， skin pale to ashen， hands clenched and body quiver-<br >ing. He stood at the window of a small room in a factory<br >laboratory in the north of England， on a mezzanine floor<br >built in one corner overlooking the main machine shop.<br > A dozen machines were there， embedded in the concrete<br >floor， throbbing， throbbing， throbbing. The floor shook. The<br >walls shook. The ceiling shook. And the roar was constant，<br >never slackening， never ceasing. It was like the growl deep<br >in the throat of an enormous creature; just as it never grew<br >less， so it never grew louder.<br > Men stood at the machines or moved among them， some<br >actually mouthing words into little mouthpieces built into<br >the machines; one man s face broke into a broad， idiot-grin<br >as he said something while at another machine a man threw<br >back his head and roared with laughter， which did not sound<br >above the roar. Each man wore a kind of ear-muff， to keep<br >out not the cold but the noise.<br > Rurrr-hurrr ~ Rurrr-hurr ~ Rurrr . . .<br > Up here， on the half-floor， Paul Taylor swung round，<br >clenched hands shaking above his head， face even more<br >distorted; and he mouthed the words again and again. "I<br >