Pinker, the
Shakespearian, who had shortened his name to Puck (“that merry
wanderer of the night”). His mother was British, which explained
his almost perfect English, distinctive only because he pronounced
it so carefully.
“You have come to give us assistance?”
“So it seems.” He shyly disengaged himself from Puck’s embrace.
“For what it’s worth.”
“Splendid, splendid.” Logie regarded them fondly for a moment,
then began rummaging among the litter on his desk. “Now where is
that thing? It was here this morning”
Puck nodded at Logie’s back and whispered: “Do you see, Tom? As
organised as ever.”
“Now, now, Puck, I heard that. Let me see. Is this it? No. Yes.
Yes!”
He turned and handed Jericho a typewritten document, officially
stamped and headed “By Order of the War Office”. It was a billeting
notice, served on a Mrs Ethel Armstrong, entitling Jericho to
lodgings in the Commercial Guesthouse, Albion Street,
Bletchley.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s like, old thing. Best I could
do.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” Jericho folded the chit and stuffed it
into his pocket. Actually, he was quite sure it warn’t fine—the
last decent rooms in Bletchley had disappeared three years ago, and
people now had to travel in from as far away as Bedford, twenty
miles distant—but what was the point in complaining? On past
experience he wouldn’t be using the room much anyway, except to
sleep in.
“Now don’t you go exhausting yourself, my boy,” said Logie. “We
don’t expect you to work a full shift. Nothing like that. You just
come and go as you please. What we want from you is what you gave
us last time. Insight. Inspiration. Spotting that something we’ve
all missed. Isn’t that so, Puck?”
“Absolutely.” His handsome face was more haggard than Jericho
had ever seen it, more tired even than Logie’s. “God knows, Tom, we
are certainly up against it.”
“I take it then we’re no further forward?” said Logie. “No good
news I can give our lord and master?”
Puck shook his head.
“Not even a glimmer?”
“Not even that.”
“No. Well, why should there be? Damn bloody admirals!” Logie
screwed up the message slip, aimed it at his rubbish bin and
missed. “I’d show you round myself, Tom, but the Skynner waits for
no man, as you’ll recall. All right with you, Puck? Give him the
grand tour?”
“Of course, Guy. As you wish.”
Logie ushered them out into the passage and tried to lock the
door, then gave up on it. As he turned he opened his mouth and
Jericho nerved himself for one of Logie’s excruciating
housemaster’s pep talks—something about innocent lives depending on
them, and the need for them to do their best, and the race being
not to the swift nor the battle to the strong (he had actually said
this once)—but instead his mouth just widened into a yawn.
“Oh, dear. Sorry, old thing. Sorry.”
He shuffled off down the corridor, patting his pockets to make
sure he had his pipe and tobacco pouch. They heard him mutter
again, something about “bloody admirals”, and he was gone.
♦
Hut 8 was thirty-five yards long by ten wide and Jericho could
have toured it in his sleep, probably had toured it in his sleep,
for all he knew. The outside walls were thin and the damp from the
lake seemed to rise through the floorboards so that at night the
rooms were chilly, cast in a sepia glow by bare, low-wattage bulbs.
The furniture was mostly trestle tables and folding wooden chairs.
It reminded Jericho of a church hall on a winter’s night. All that
was missing was a badly tuned piano and somebody thumping out “Land
of Hope and Glory”.
It was laid out like an assembly line, the main stage in a
process that originated somewhere far out in the darkness, maybe
two thousand miles away, when the grey hull of a U-boat rose close
to the surface and squirted off a radio message to its controllers.
The signals were intercepted at various
Shakespearian, who had shortened his name to Puck (“that merry
wanderer of the night”). His mother was British, which explained
his almost perfect English, distinctive only because he pronounced
it so carefully.
“You have come to give us assistance?”
“So it seems.” He shyly disengaged himself from Puck’s embrace.
“For what it’s worth.”
“Splendid, splendid.” Logie regarded them fondly for a moment,
then began rummaging among the litter on his desk. “Now where is
that thing? It was here this morning”
Puck nodded at Logie’s back and whispered: “Do you see, Tom? As
organised as ever.”
“Now, now, Puck, I heard that. Let me see. Is this it? No. Yes.
Yes!”
He turned and handed Jericho a typewritten document, officially
stamped and headed “By Order of the War Office”. It was a billeting
notice, served on a Mrs Ethel Armstrong, entitling Jericho to
lodgings in the Commercial Guesthouse, Albion Street,
Bletchley.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s like, old thing. Best I could
do.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” Jericho folded the chit and stuffed it
into his pocket. Actually, he was quite sure it warn’t fine—the
last decent rooms in Bletchley had disappeared three years ago, and
people now had to travel in from as far away as Bedford, twenty
miles distant—but what was the point in complaining? On past
experience he wouldn’t be using the room much anyway, except to
sleep in.
“Now don’t you go exhausting yourself, my boy,” said Logie. “We
don’t expect you to work a full shift. Nothing like that. You just
come and go as you please. What we want from you is what you gave
us last time. Insight. Inspiration. Spotting that something we’ve
all missed. Isn’t that so, Puck?”
“Absolutely.” His handsome face was more haggard than Jericho
had ever seen it, more tired even than Logie’s. “God knows, Tom, we
are certainly up against it.”
“I take it then we’re no further forward?” said Logie. “No good
news I can give our lord and master?”
Puck shook his head.
“Not even a glimmer?”
“Not even that.”
“No. Well, why should there be? Damn bloody admirals!” Logie
screwed up the message slip, aimed it at his rubbish bin and
missed. “I’d show you round myself, Tom, but the Skynner waits for
no man, as you’ll recall. All right with you, Puck? Give him the
grand tour?”
“Of course, Guy. As you wish.”
Logie ushered them out into the passage and tried to lock the
door, then gave up on it. As he turned he opened his mouth and
Jericho nerved himself for one of Logie’s excruciating
housemaster’s pep talks—something about innocent lives depending on
them, and the need for them to do their best, and the race being
not to the swift nor the battle to the strong (he had actually said
this once)—but instead his mouth just widened into a yawn.
“Oh, dear. Sorry, old thing. Sorry.”
He shuffled off down the corridor, patting his pockets to make
sure he had his pipe and tobacco pouch. They heard him mutter
again, something about “bloody admirals”, and he was gone.
♦
Hut 8 was thirty-five yards long by ten wide and Jericho could
have toured it in his sleep, probably had toured it in his sleep,
for all he knew. The outside walls were thin and the damp from the
lake seemed to rise through the floorboards so that at night the
rooms were chilly, cast in a sepia glow by bare, low-wattage bulbs.
The furniture was mostly trestle tables and folding wooden chairs.
It reminded Jericho of a church hall on a winter’s night. All that
was missing was a badly tuned piano and somebody thumping out “Land
of Hope and Glory”.
It was laid out like an assembly line, the main stage in a
process that originated somewhere far out in the darkness, maybe
two thousand miles away, when the grey hull of a U-boat rose close
to the surface and squirted off a radio message to its controllers.
The signals were intercepted at various
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