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Authors: John Brunner
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and a moment later the driver of his car appeared, panting.
“Radio message, sir,” he said between gasps. “They found a phial of capsules near the body. Looks like it’s been trodden on, they said. At any rate all the capsules were broken open.”
“Thank goodness for that!” Kneller exclaimed. “So we don’t need to worry after all. A minute or two at subzero temperatures like today’s, and– Campbell, look out!”
Hector whirled, and was just in time to catch the landlady as she slumped in a dead faint.
VII
As he shrugged out of his greatcoat, heavy with damp, Lance-Corporal Stevens caught a snatch of news being read over a radio playing in the orderly-room.
“–described as ‘disastrous’ by the manager of one of London’s largest department-stores today. In the hope of making up lost business at the last minute many shops will remain open for an extra two hours on Christmas Eve–”
–No skin off my nose, thank goodness. That’s my lot until after the holiday. Christ, I’m really looking forward to going home, in spite of all the arguments I’m bound to have with the old man!
He pushed open the orderly-room door and had taken two strides across the floor before he realised there was an officer present: the Church of England chaplain, to be exact, talking to the staff sergeant in charge. Belatedly Stevens threw up a salute, which the chaplain acknowledged with his usual vague smile and wave.
“Just a moment, sir, if you don’t mind,” the staff sergeant muttered, and went on more loudly, “So there you are, Stevens! Took your time over it today, didn’t you?”
“Well, staff, there was an awful lot of traffic–”
“Never mind the excuses! Double on over to the armoury and collect your rifle, and then pack your kit. And be quick about it!”
Stevens stared at him blankly.
“Don’t just stand there as though you’d grown roots! Acting Lance you may be, but on the strength it says you’re headquarters platoon runner for C company and you’re coming to Glasgow with the rest of us. It’s nearly five already and we have to be at RAF Uxbridge at six-thirty. Buses leave in forty minutes, and if you’re late I shall personally–”
But Stevens had departed at a run.
“Now where were we, sir?” the staff sergeant continued. “Oh, yes. Arrangements for notifying next of kin.”
“I really think it’s too bad of Brother Bradshaw to have kept us hanging about the way he did,” fretted Lady Washgrave, seated at her elegant escritoire and poring over the seemingly endless pile of papers which the last postal delivery before Christmas had produced. “Having to overprint all our Crusade leaflets–print those special stickers and add them to our posters–telephone all the newspapers and amend the wording of our advertisements … I do wish he had had the simple courtesy to give us a little more notice!”
Tarquin Drew, who had actually had to take care of the tasks she was describing, was discreetly silent.
“Still …” Lady Washgrave gathered herself together; she had never done anything so unladylike as to pull herself together since she discovered the quite indecent meaning of the phrase “to pull a bird”. “One must admit it is very encouraging to see how we are appealing to the hearts and minds of the public who are disillusioned with the fruits of permissivity.” She leafed through some of the Christmas presents she had received on behalf of the Campaign: a thousand pounds from that nice Mr Filbone who was having such trouble with strikers at his factory in Scotland, fifty pence from “A Sympathetic Pensioner”, with apologies that it was all she could afford, a sampler sewn by pupils at a convent school, and others and others far too numerous to take in all at once.
Not that even at this season of good-will the whole of the post was of that nature. Here was the umpteenth complaint about a BBC serial based on the life of a jazz musician called Morton who
“Radio message, sir,” he said between gasps. “They found a phial of capsules near the body. Looks like it’s been trodden on, they said. At any rate all the capsules were broken open.”
“Thank goodness for that!” Kneller exclaimed. “So we don’t need to worry after all. A minute or two at subzero temperatures like today’s, and– Campbell, look out!”
Hector whirled, and was just in time to catch the landlady as she slumped in a dead faint.
VII
As he shrugged out of his greatcoat, heavy with damp, Lance-Corporal Stevens caught a snatch of news being read over a radio playing in the orderly-room.
“–described as ‘disastrous’ by the manager of one of London’s largest department-stores today. In the hope of making up lost business at the last minute many shops will remain open for an extra two hours on Christmas Eve–”
–No skin off my nose, thank goodness. That’s my lot until after the holiday. Christ, I’m really looking forward to going home, in spite of all the arguments I’m bound to have with the old man!
He pushed open the orderly-room door and had taken two strides across the floor before he realised there was an officer present: the Church of England chaplain, to be exact, talking to the staff sergeant in charge. Belatedly Stevens threw up a salute, which the chaplain acknowledged with his usual vague smile and wave.
“Just a moment, sir, if you don’t mind,” the staff sergeant muttered, and went on more loudly, “So there you are, Stevens! Took your time over it today, didn’t you?”
“Well, staff, there was an awful lot of traffic–”
“Never mind the excuses! Double on over to the armoury and collect your rifle, and then pack your kit. And be quick about it!”
Stevens stared at him blankly.
“Don’t just stand there as though you’d grown roots! Acting Lance you may be, but on the strength it says you’re headquarters platoon runner for C company and you’re coming to Glasgow with the rest of us. It’s nearly five already and we have to be at RAF Uxbridge at six-thirty. Buses leave in forty minutes, and if you’re late I shall personally–”
But Stevens had departed at a run.
“Now where were we, sir?” the staff sergeant continued. “Oh, yes. Arrangements for notifying next of kin.”
“I really think it’s too bad of Brother Bradshaw to have kept us hanging about the way he did,” fretted Lady Washgrave, seated at her elegant escritoire and poring over the seemingly endless pile of papers which the last postal delivery before Christmas had produced. “Having to overprint all our Crusade leaflets–print those special stickers and add them to our posters–telephone all the newspapers and amend the wording of our advertisements … I do wish he had had the simple courtesy to give us a little more notice!”
Tarquin Drew, who had actually had to take care of the tasks she was describing, was discreetly silent.
“Still …” Lady Washgrave gathered herself together; she had never done anything so unladylike as to pull herself together since she discovered the quite indecent meaning of the phrase “to pull a bird”. “One must admit it is very encouraging to see how we are appealing to the hearts and minds of the public who are disillusioned with the fruits of permissivity.” She leafed through some of the Christmas presents she had received on behalf of the Campaign: a thousand pounds from that nice Mr Filbone who was having such trouble with strikers at his factory in Scotland, fifty pence from “A Sympathetic Pensioner”, with apologies that it was all she could afford, a sampler sewn by pupils at a convent school, and others and others far too numerous to take in all at once.
Not that even at this season of good-will the whole of the post was of that nature. Here was the umpteenth complaint about a BBC serial based on the life of a jazz musician called Morton who
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