indulgence, a harmless one despite what the surgeon-general of the United States had determined, and he took the stem firmly between his teeth again.
Stride took alcohol in moderation and was considered knowledgeable on the subject of wine. He raced occasionally, more as a social outing than as a serious punter, and the odd fifty pounds he could well afford. There was no evidence of other gambling. However, he did not hunt, nor did he shoot â traditional pursuits of the English gentleman. Perhaps he had moral objections to blood sports, Parker thought, though it seemed unlikely, for Stride was a superlative marksman with rifle, shotgun and pistol. He had represented Britain at the Munich Olympics as a pistol shot, winning a gold in the fifty metre class, and he spent at least an hour every day on the range.
Parker turned to the page of the print-out that gave the manâs medical history. He must be superbly fit as well â his body weight at the age of thirty-nine was one pound less than it had been at twenty-one, and he still trained like a front-line soldier. Parker noticed that he had logged sixteen parachute jumps the previous month. Since joining Atlas he had no opportunity or time for golf, though when he was with NATO Stride had played off a handicap of three.
Parker closed the folder and played on softly, but neither the sensual polished feel of cool ivory beneath his fingertips nor the achingly lovely lilt of the music could dispel his sense of disquiet. Exhaustive as the report was, yet it left unanswered questions, like why Stride had downgraded himself to accept the command of Thor â he was not then kind of man who acted ill-advisedly. Yet the most haunting questions that nagged at Parker were just how strong were his qualities of resilience and independent thought, just how strongly was he driven by his ambitions and that penetrating intellect â and just how great a threat such a man would present to the evolution of Atlas into its ultimate role.
âDoctor Parker, sirââ his assistant knocked lightly and entered, ââ there are new developments.â
Parker sighed softly. âIâm coming,â he said, and let the
last sad and beautiful notes fall from his long, powerful fingers before he stood up.
T he Hawker slid almost silently down the sky. The pilot had closed down power at five thousand feet and made his final approach without touching the throttles again. He was ten knots above the stall as he passed over the boundary fence and he touched down twenty feet beyond the chevron markings of the threshold of runway One Fife, instantly applying maximum safe braking. One Fife was the secondary cross-wind runway and the Hawkerâs roll-out was so short that every part of the approach and landing had been screened by the buildings of the main airport terminal from where Speedbird 070 stood at the southern intersection of the main taxiway.
The pilot swung the Hawker through 360° and back-tracked sedately up runway 15, using just enough power to keep her rolling.
âWell done,â grunted Peter Stride, crouching behind the pilotâs seat. He was almost certain that nobody aboard 070 had remarked their arrival.
âTheyâve prepared a slot for us, with hook up to the electrical mains at the northââ Peter broke off as he saw the apron marshal waving them in with the bats, and beyond him a tight group of four men waiting. Three of them wore camouflage battle dress and the other the trim blue uniform, cap and gold insignia of a senior South African police officer.
The uniformed officer was the first to greet Peter as he came down the Hawkerâs fold-out air-stairs.
âPrinsloo.â He shook hands. âLieutenant-General.â
He ranked Peter, but it was a police, not a military appointment. He was a stocky man, with steel-rimmed spectacles, a little paunchy, and not less than fifty-five years
of age. He had the rather
Stride took alcohol in moderation and was considered knowledgeable on the subject of wine. He raced occasionally, more as a social outing than as a serious punter, and the odd fifty pounds he could well afford. There was no evidence of other gambling. However, he did not hunt, nor did he shoot â traditional pursuits of the English gentleman. Perhaps he had moral objections to blood sports, Parker thought, though it seemed unlikely, for Stride was a superlative marksman with rifle, shotgun and pistol. He had represented Britain at the Munich Olympics as a pistol shot, winning a gold in the fifty metre class, and he spent at least an hour every day on the range.
Parker turned to the page of the print-out that gave the manâs medical history. He must be superbly fit as well â his body weight at the age of thirty-nine was one pound less than it had been at twenty-one, and he still trained like a front-line soldier. Parker noticed that he had logged sixteen parachute jumps the previous month. Since joining Atlas he had no opportunity or time for golf, though when he was with NATO Stride had played off a handicap of three.
Parker closed the folder and played on softly, but neither the sensual polished feel of cool ivory beneath his fingertips nor the achingly lovely lilt of the music could dispel his sense of disquiet. Exhaustive as the report was, yet it left unanswered questions, like why Stride had downgraded himself to accept the command of Thor â he was not then kind of man who acted ill-advisedly. Yet the most haunting questions that nagged at Parker were just how strong were his qualities of resilience and independent thought, just how strongly was he driven by his ambitions and that penetrating intellect â and just how great a threat such a man would present to the evolution of Atlas into its ultimate role.
âDoctor Parker, sirââ his assistant knocked lightly and entered, ââ there are new developments.â
Parker sighed softly. âIâm coming,â he said, and let the
last sad and beautiful notes fall from his long, powerful fingers before he stood up.
T he Hawker slid almost silently down the sky. The pilot had closed down power at five thousand feet and made his final approach without touching the throttles again. He was ten knots above the stall as he passed over the boundary fence and he touched down twenty feet beyond the chevron markings of the threshold of runway One Fife, instantly applying maximum safe braking. One Fife was the secondary cross-wind runway and the Hawkerâs roll-out was so short that every part of the approach and landing had been screened by the buildings of the main airport terminal from where Speedbird 070 stood at the southern intersection of the main taxiway.
The pilot swung the Hawker through 360° and back-tracked sedately up runway 15, using just enough power to keep her rolling.
âWell done,â grunted Peter Stride, crouching behind the pilotâs seat. He was almost certain that nobody aboard 070 had remarked their arrival.
âTheyâve prepared a slot for us, with hook up to the electrical mains at the northââ Peter broke off as he saw the apron marshal waving them in with the bats, and beyond him a tight group of four men waiting. Three of them wore camouflage battle dress and the other the trim blue uniform, cap and gold insignia of a senior South African police officer.
The uniformed officer was the first to greet Peter as he came down the Hawkerâs fold-out air-stairs.
âPrinsloo.â He shook hands. âLieutenant-General.â
He ranked Peter, but it was a police, not a military appointment. He was a stocky man, with steel-rimmed spectacles, a little paunchy, and not less than fifty-five years
of age. He had the rather
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