embossed in gold.
The mixture of temper and funk jarring his brain was becoming all too familiar. Forgetting the air of dignity and poise he usually favoured, he snarled twice at the driver during traffic bottlenecks. The man gave him a look which, in Skardon's present paranoiac state, might almost have been interpreted as contempt. He was grateful for the subservient nods from the two duty policemen at the entrance to the PCD block.
The lift was full of other civil servants. Not a word passed between them, although each knew perfectly who the others were.
'Seven,' Skardon said, his voice impact producing a light against the figure seven on the dial. Floor buttons were no longer necessary.
Within minutes, he was ensconced at the head of the conference table in his office, the security of deferential deputies and the Chief Emigration Officer around him.
'They're getting out! They're getting out regularly, steadily, in greater numbers! It's like a scheduled service!' he spat at them. 'The gutter press will be calling it the Great Exodus before long! And it has to stop. The Home Secretary's had a bellyfull.' He slapped the still damp copy of the
New York Times
on the table. 'Look at it! The American press is full of it.' Hitting the photograph with the back of his hand. 'You'd think he was the greatest scientist since Einstein the way they're playing him up. And he was only a third-rate nuclear engineer.'
'So why should we worry?' asked Delly Lomas, with feigned innocence.
'He signed Form P17,' Skardon growled. 'And he makes us look like incompetents.'
She remained deliberately pragmatic. 'So we tighten up our port controls.'
'I doubt if Scholes got out through one of my ports, sea or air,' Jack Nichols blustered. 'It would take a mouse to get out through the net we've got now.'
'We seem to have a lot of mouse-sized runaways,' the Controller barked at him.
Delly remarked, conversationally, 'When I was a girl they were all trying to get
into
this country.'
'Africans and Pakistanis!' Tasker retorted, with all the scorn of a West Indian who has married a white girl and moved a long way from Brixton. The other three stared at him, but he was quite oblivious.
Delly rattled on, 'And now even some of their kids are trying to get out. It's come to something when Jack, here, and his emigration officers are being made a target for the Race Relations Board.'
The Controller looked weary. 'All that matters is that we seal these bolt holes. Otherwise the Home Secretary's going to have my guts for garters.'
It was a recognisably accurate forecast. He waved a dismissive hand and the three trouped out leaving him gazing gloomily at the heap of newspapers on the table.
Perhaps they had all moved too far from the grass roots, Delly Lomas thought to herself. They were personally out of touch : inspectors and surveillance machines apart, their only direct contact with activity at ground level was through idiots like Nichols.
Although she enjoyed goading the Controller, she was also ambitious and conscious that trouble for him could affect all. A shift in power was not in her interest unless she was the one promoted.
Returning to her office, she asked the male secretary to check through recent records. One of the files he selected was in her briefcase as she boarded a train for the Midlands the following morning.
The court was intimate, informal and without any apparent panoply of authority. No bewigged lawyers, no dock, no witness box. Even the chairman was not robed, because he was not part of the judiciary, but a senior civil servant in the Ombudsman's department.
Alan Vickers, the appellant, sat in a chair in the body of the court and the hearing had started when Delly arrived and took a chair beside the State counsel.
The Chairman was speaking. 'So what it comes down to, Doctor Vickers, is an appeal on compassionate grounds?'
'Yes, sir.'
'What you are asking this court to accept is that, because your child is subject to
The mixture of temper and funk jarring his brain was becoming all too familiar. Forgetting the air of dignity and poise he usually favoured, he snarled twice at the driver during traffic bottlenecks. The man gave him a look which, in Skardon's present paranoiac state, might almost have been interpreted as contempt. He was grateful for the subservient nods from the two duty policemen at the entrance to the PCD block.
The lift was full of other civil servants. Not a word passed between them, although each knew perfectly who the others were.
'Seven,' Skardon said, his voice impact producing a light against the figure seven on the dial. Floor buttons were no longer necessary.
Within minutes, he was ensconced at the head of the conference table in his office, the security of deferential deputies and the Chief Emigration Officer around him.
'They're getting out! They're getting out regularly, steadily, in greater numbers! It's like a scheduled service!' he spat at them. 'The gutter press will be calling it the Great Exodus before long! And it has to stop. The Home Secretary's had a bellyfull.' He slapped the still damp copy of the
New York Times
on the table. 'Look at it! The American press is full of it.' Hitting the photograph with the back of his hand. 'You'd think he was the greatest scientist since Einstein the way they're playing him up. And he was only a third-rate nuclear engineer.'
'So why should we worry?' asked Delly Lomas, with feigned innocence.
'He signed Form P17,' Skardon growled. 'And he makes us look like incompetents.'
She remained deliberately pragmatic. 'So we tighten up our port controls.'
'I doubt if Scholes got out through one of my ports, sea or air,' Jack Nichols blustered. 'It would take a mouse to get out through the net we've got now.'
'We seem to have a lot of mouse-sized runaways,' the Controller barked at him.
Delly remarked, conversationally, 'When I was a girl they were all trying to get
into
this country.'
'Africans and Pakistanis!' Tasker retorted, with all the scorn of a West Indian who has married a white girl and moved a long way from Brixton. The other three stared at him, but he was quite oblivious.
Delly rattled on, 'And now even some of their kids are trying to get out. It's come to something when Jack, here, and his emigration officers are being made a target for the Race Relations Board.'
The Controller looked weary. 'All that matters is that we seal these bolt holes. Otherwise the Home Secretary's going to have my guts for garters.'
It was a recognisably accurate forecast. He waved a dismissive hand and the three trouped out leaving him gazing gloomily at the heap of newspapers on the table.
Perhaps they had all moved too far from the grass roots, Delly Lomas thought to herself. They were personally out of touch : inspectors and surveillance machines apart, their only direct contact with activity at ground level was through idiots like Nichols.
Although she enjoyed goading the Controller, she was also ambitious and conscious that trouble for him could affect all. A shift in power was not in her interest unless she was the one promoted.
Returning to her office, she asked the male secretary to check through recent records. One of the files he selected was in her briefcase as she boarded a train for the Midlands the following morning.
The court was intimate, informal and without any apparent panoply of authority. No bewigged lawyers, no dock, no witness box. Even the chairman was not robed, because he was not part of the judiciary, but a senior civil servant in the Ombudsman's department.
Alan Vickers, the appellant, sat in a chair in the body of the court and the hearing had started when Delly arrived and took a chair beside the State counsel.
The Chairman was speaking. 'So what it comes down to, Doctor Vickers, is an appeal on compassionate grounds?'
'Yes, sir.'
'What you are asking this court to accept is that, because your child is subject to
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