pipal tree.
‘Sorry, Sarah,’ the Doctor had said that morning. ‘I know it seems unfair, but I really think I should go alone. Or maybe with the Brigadier, if he comes back soon.’
Which had been the reason for her shopping trip.
‘You’re all leaving?’ she said to Jeremy. ‘Er... I mean, we’re all leaving, are we? All of us?’
‘Oh yes. We’re going to get our rewards, you see.’
Reward for what? Coughing up twenty grand? Oh no, she remembered now. Devotion to Skang. And he got to love you back. Big deal. So why did they have to sail off into the sunset?
‘I’m so glad you decided to join us, Sarah,’ went on Jeremy.
‘Fancy coming all this way! They must have been really impressed!’
‘Yes, well... they were in an awful hurry, because they’re so busy, packing up and stuff. I mean, I didn’t even catch the password when they told me. But I don’t suppose it matters if we’re leaving.’
They were strolling down the crowded main pathway under an avenue of palms, with Sarah, even as she talked, keeping a surreptitious eye open for Brother Alex, in case he recognised her.
‘Oh, but we’re not sailing yet. They haven’t told us when.
And you might want to go out to the shops. To be honest...’
Jeremy lowered his voice and looked round to make sure nobody was listening, ‘...I nipped out only this morning to get some fags. They’re not exactly banned, but everybody looks at you! You know?’
‘Mm. There are a few things I need. But I expect I’ll manage.’
Jeremy casually looked up into the fronds of the trees above their heads. ‘Open your heart!’ he said, without moving his lips.
‘What?’
Jeremy looked at her in irritation. ‘Open your heart!’ he hissed. ‘That’s the password! Or three of them, I suppose. I can’t be too loud. We’re only supposed to say it coming in at the gate, and then we only murmur it.’
‘Jeremy, you’re a poppet!’
It would have been difficult to judge whether Jeremy was more surprised by the epithet, or by the kiss Sarah planted on his cheek.
After all, Sarah was pretty surprised herself.
Twenty-one different nationalities, with skin-colours ranging from freckled blush-white to deep brown, and a spectrum of gender identities nearly as diverse. They were unified only by their human shape and the long white robes that marked them out as Skang teachers or organisers. They filled the drawing room of Hilda’s bungalow as if they were the ghosts of the former residents’ cocktail-party guests.
But there was no chatter, no tittle-tattle, no bemoaning the shortcomings of their Indian servants. They were there for a very serious purpose: the trial (for that’s what it was) of one of their number for just about the most serious offence possible.
At first things seemed to be going Alex’s way. Having had a metaphorical arm twisted, Dafydd had begged Hilda to be allowed to speak on Alex’s behalf before the charge was heard; and there were three others - including (surprisingly after the row in Rome) Eduardo from Venezuela - who joined Dafydd in expressing their dismay that he should even be under suspicion.
Alex kept an eye open as they spoke. Many others were nodding. Some even gave him an encouraging smile. He’d been worrying unduly. With any luck, the whole thing would be thrown out without a hearing.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t made clear to his supporters the extent to which the evidence itself condemned him. They’d taken his word that it was political; but when they heard what Will Cabot had to say, they fell silent. In spite of all his efforts to woo them, the faces around the room were grave.
Many now avoided his eye, like members of a jury who had found a murderer guilty.
‘But I don’t understand,’ said a small dapper man, who, as ex-editor of one of Tokyo’s leading broadsheets, was not likely to find much beyond his comprehension. ‘Why did you not follow the practice of the group? This journalist
‘Sorry, Sarah,’ the Doctor had said that morning. ‘I know it seems unfair, but I really think I should go alone. Or maybe with the Brigadier, if he comes back soon.’
Which had been the reason for her shopping trip.
‘You’re all leaving?’ she said to Jeremy. ‘Er... I mean, we’re all leaving, are we? All of us?’
‘Oh yes. We’re going to get our rewards, you see.’
Reward for what? Coughing up twenty grand? Oh no, she remembered now. Devotion to Skang. And he got to love you back. Big deal. So why did they have to sail off into the sunset?
‘I’m so glad you decided to join us, Sarah,’ went on Jeremy.
‘Fancy coming all this way! They must have been really impressed!’
‘Yes, well... they were in an awful hurry, because they’re so busy, packing up and stuff. I mean, I didn’t even catch the password when they told me. But I don’t suppose it matters if we’re leaving.’
They were strolling down the crowded main pathway under an avenue of palms, with Sarah, even as she talked, keeping a surreptitious eye open for Brother Alex, in case he recognised her.
‘Oh, but we’re not sailing yet. They haven’t told us when.
And you might want to go out to the shops. To be honest...’
Jeremy lowered his voice and looked round to make sure nobody was listening, ‘...I nipped out only this morning to get some fags. They’re not exactly banned, but everybody looks at you! You know?’
‘Mm. There are a few things I need. But I expect I’ll manage.’
Jeremy casually looked up into the fronds of the trees above their heads. ‘Open your heart!’ he said, without moving his lips.
‘What?’
Jeremy looked at her in irritation. ‘Open your heart!’ he hissed. ‘That’s the password! Or three of them, I suppose. I can’t be too loud. We’re only supposed to say it coming in at the gate, and then we only murmur it.’
‘Jeremy, you’re a poppet!’
It would have been difficult to judge whether Jeremy was more surprised by the epithet, or by the kiss Sarah planted on his cheek.
After all, Sarah was pretty surprised herself.
Twenty-one different nationalities, with skin-colours ranging from freckled blush-white to deep brown, and a spectrum of gender identities nearly as diverse. They were unified only by their human shape and the long white robes that marked them out as Skang teachers or organisers. They filled the drawing room of Hilda’s bungalow as if they were the ghosts of the former residents’ cocktail-party guests.
But there was no chatter, no tittle-tattle, no bemoaning the shortcomings of their Indian servants. They were there for a very serious purpose: the trial (for that’s what it was) of one of their number for just about the most serious offence possible.
At first things seemed to be going Alex’s way. Having had a metaphorical arm twisted, Dafydd had begged Hilda to be allowed to speak on Alex’s behalf before the charge was heard; and there were three others - including (surprisingly after the row in Rome) Eduardo from Venezuela - who joined Dafydd in expressing their dismay that he should even be under suspicion.
Alex kept an eye open as they spoke. Many others were nodding. Some even gave him an encouraging smile. He’d been worrying unduly. With any luck, the whole thing would be thrown out without a hearing.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t made clear to his supporters the extent to which the evidence itself condemned him. They’d taken his word that it was political; but when they heard what Will Cabot had to say, they fell silent. In spite of all his efforts to woo them, the faces around the room were grave.
Many now avoided his eye, like members of a jury who had found a murderer guilty.
‘But I don’t understand,’ said a small dapper man, who, as ex-editor of one of Tokyo’s leading broadsheets, was not likely to find much beyond his comprehension. ‘Why did you not follow the practice of the group? This journalist
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