"I scorn, Wherefore my long bow I '11 lay by;

breath coming in painful whooping gasps that reached me clearly even above the thin high shriek of the wind. No doubt but that Small wood and Corazzini had left us to die, but they had made one mistake: they had forgotten Balto. Balto; as always, had been running loose when they had left us, and they had either failed to see him or forgotten all about him. But Balto hadn't forgotten us, he must have known something was far wrong, for all the hours we had been prisoners on the tractor sled he had never come within a quarter-mile of us. But as soon as the tractor had dumped and left us, he had come loping in out of the driving snow and settled to the task of leading us down towards the glacier. At least, we hoped he was doing that. Jackstraw declared that he was following the crimp marks of the Citroen's caterpillars, now deep buried under the flying drift and new-fallen snow. Zagero wasn't so sure. Once, twice, a dozen times that night, I heard him muttering the same words: "I hope to hell that hound knows where it's goinV But Balto knew where he was going. Sometime during the nightit might have been any time between midnight and three o'clock in the morninghe stopped suddenly, stretched out his neck and gave his long eerie wolf call. He seemed to listen for an answer, and if he heard anything it was beyond our range: but he seemed satisfied, for he suddenly changed direction and angled off to the left into the blizzard. At Jackstraw's nod, we followed. Three minutes later we came upon the dog-sledge, with two of the dogs curled up beside it, their backs to the wind, their muzzles to their bellies and long brushes of tails over their faces, the drift wailing high around them. They were comfortable enoughso splendid an insulation does a husky's thick coat provide that snow at forty degrees below zero will lie on its back indefinitely without being melted by body heatbut they preferred freedom to comfort, for they were on their feet and vanished into the swirling whiteness beyond before we could lay hands on them. That left only the sledge. I suppose that after Smallwood had gone far enough to consider that we would never be able to reach that point, he had cut loose dogs and dog-sledge as a needless encumbrancebut not before he had severed all the traces attaching the dogs to the sledge and, I noticed grimly, removed all the wraps and the magnetic compass that had been there. He thought of everything. For a moment, admiration for the man's undoubtedly remarkable qualities came in to supplant what had become the digital camera price review motivating reason for my existence, a reason that, as the hours crawled by, were crowding out even the feelings I had for Margaret Ross: my hatred for Small wood burned like a cold steady flame, an obsession with the . idea of sinking my fingers into that scrawny throat and never Jetting go. Within three minutes of finding the sledge we had tied together the severed remnants of the traces, changed them to the front and were on our way again, Marie LeGarde, Mahler and Helene propped up on the thin wooden slats. We had, of course, to pull the sledge ourselves, but that was nothing: for Jackstraw, Zagero and myself, the relief was beyond measure. But it was only momentary. We were running on to the smooth, slick ice of the Kangalak glacier, but our progress was no faster than it had been before we found the sledge. The wind was climbing up to its maximum now, the blizzard shrieking along horizontally to the ground and coming in great smoking flurries that cut visibility to zero and made us stop and grab one another lest one of us be knocked flying and for ever lost to sight: several times Theodore Mahler, restless in unconsciousness, rolled off the sledge until I at last made Brewster sit at the back and watch. He protested violently, but he was glad to do as I said. I don't remember much after that, I think I must have been unconscious, eyes shut, but still plodding along in my sleep on leaden, frozen feet. My first conscious memory after installing Brewster on the back of the sledge was of someone shaking me urgently by the shoulder. It was Jackstraw. "No more!" he shouted in my ear. "We must stop, Dr Mason, wait till it's blown itself out. We can't live through this." I said something that was unintelligible even to myself, but Jackstraw took it for agreement and began pulling the sledge into the sloping side of the glacier valley and to the leeward side of one of the snowdrifts piled up against some of the ridges on the side of the valley. It wasn't all that much of an improvement, but the wind and the effect of the blizzard were perceptibly less. We unloaded the three sick people on the sledge into what pitiful shelter the ridge offered: I was just about to let my knees buckle and collapse beside them when I realised that someone was missing: it was a fair indication of the toll taken by wind and cold and exhaustion that almost twenty seconds passed before I realised it was Brewster. "Good God!" I cried

And he called with furious mood,

his mind to the thought of how his feet would be after a few hours' walking over rough territory in these boots: time enough for the reality, he thought grimly, without the added burden of anticipation. . . . He stopped abruptly as something hard and metallic pushed into the small of his bacL "Surrender or die!" The drawling, nasal voice was positively cheerful: after what he had been through on the caique and the cliff face, just to set foot on solid ground again was heaven enough for DustyMiller. "Very funny," Mallory growled. "Very funny indeed." He looked curiously at Miller. The American had removed his oilskin capethe rain had ceased as abruptly as it had cometo reveal a jacket and braided waistcoat even more sodden and saturated than his trousers. It didn't make sense. But there was no time for questions. "Did you hear the phone ringing just now?" he asked. "Was that what it was? Yeah, I heard it. "The sentry's phone. His hourly report, or whatever it was, must have been overdue. We didn't answer it. They'll be hot-footing along any minute now, suspicious as hell and looking for trouble. Maybe your side, maybe Brown's. Can't approach any other way unless they break their necks climbing over these boulders." Mallory gestured at the shapeless jumble of rocks behind them. "So keep your eyes skinned." "I'll do that, boss. No shootin', huh?" "No shooting. Just get back as quickly and quietly as you can and let us know. Come back in five minutes anyway." Mallory hurried away, retracing., his steps. Andrea was stretched full length on the cliff-top, peering over the edge. He twisted his head round as Mallory approached. "I can hear him. He's just at the overhang." "Good." Mallory moved on without breaking step. "Tell him to hurry, please." Ten yards farther on Mallory checked, peered into the gloom ahead. Somebody was coming along the clifftop at a dead run, stumbling and slipping on the loose gravelly soil. "Brown?" Mallory called softly. "Yes, sir. It's me." Brown was up to him now, breathing heavily, pointing back in the direction he had just come. "Somebody's coming, and coming fast! Torches waving and jumping all over the placemust be running." "How many?" Mallory asked digital camera service center quickly. "Four or five at least." Brown was still gasping for breath. "Maybe morefour or five torches, anyway. You can see them for yourself." Again he pointed backwards, then blinked in puzzlement. "That's bloody funny! They're all gone." He turned back swiftly to Mallory. "But I can swear" "Don't worry," Mallory said grimly. "You saw them all right. rye been expecting visitors. They're getting close now and taking no chances. . . . How far away?" "Hundred yardsnot more than a hundred and fifty." "Go and get Miller. Tell him to get back here fast." Mallory ran back along the cliff edge and knelt beside the huge length of Andrea. "They're coming, Andrea," he said quickly. "From the left. At least five, probably more. Two minutes at the most. Where's Stevens? Can you see him?" "I can see him." Andrea was magnificently unperturbed. "He is just past the overhang . . ." The rest of his words were lost, drowned in a sudden, violent thunderclap, but there was no need for more. Mallory could see Stevens now, climbing up the rope, strangely old and enfeebled in action, hand over hand in paralysing slowness, half-way now between the overhang and the foot of the chimney. "Good God!" Mallory swore. "What's the matter with him? He's going to take all day . . ." He checked himself, cupped his hands to his mouth. "Stevens! Stevens!" But there was no sign that Stevens had heard. He still kept climbing with the same unnatural over-deliberation, a robot in slow motion. "He is very near the end," Andrea said quietly. "You see he does not even lift his head. When a climber does not lift his head, he is finished." He stirred. "I will go down for him." "No." Mallory's hand was on his shoulder. "Stay here. I can't risk you both. . . . Yes, what is it." He was aware that Brown was back, bending over him, his breath coming in great heaving gasps. "Hurry, sir; hurry, for God's sake!" A few brief words but he had to suck in two huge gulps of air to get them out. "They're on top of us!" "Get back to the rocks with Miller," Mallory said urgently. "Cover us. . . . Stevens! Stevens!" But again the wind swept up the face of the cliff, carried his words away. "Stevens! For God's sake, man! Stevens!" His voice was low-pitched, desperate, but this time some quality in it must have reached through Stevens' fog

'They '11 pay a visit to thee.

look so worried. She grinned up at the three. They dont leave you hanging about here for weeks on end. Youll know by midday. Its anticipation that gets to you, and waiting! Killashandra knew that Chadria meant to reassure them, for both brain and brawn partners had been excellent hosts, with stories scurrilous and amusing, and stocks of exotic foods and beverages in the scout ships well-stocked larder to tempt every taste. With exquisite tact, the others had left Killashandra and Lars to enjoy their own company for the week in which the CS 914 hurtled from one corner of the sector to the Regulan planet at its center. Courtesy, however, had dictated to both Lars and Killashandra that they join the others at mealtimes and for evening conversations, and the occasional rehearsals of Larss defense against the warrants charges. Trag and Olav had begun a friendly competition over a tri-dimensional maze game which could last up to a day between well-matched players. Chadria and Samel had teamed up against the two men in another contest, one of multiple-choice, which could be expanded to include Lars and Killashandra whenever they chose to play. There was a strange dichotomy about that journey: the tug between learning more of each others minds and sating their bodies and senses sufficiently to cushion the imminent parting. On the final day, it was more than Killashandra or Lars could endure to make love: instead they sat close together, one pair of hands linked, playing the maze game with an intensity that bordered the irrational. Now Chadria swung back to the screens as their progress to the landing site closed with the linear diagram Samel displayed on the situation screen. Killashandra could not restrain the small gasp nor her instinct to clutch at Larss hands as the two positions matched and the scout ship settled to the ground. Here we are, Samel said in a tactfully expressionless tone. Ground transport is approaching. Glad to have had you all aboard and I hope that Chadria and I will meet you again. Chadria lifted her long frame from the chair, shaking hands with each one in turn, clasping Killashandras with an encouraging smile and giving Lars an impish grin before she kissed his cheek in farewell. Good luck, Lars Dahl! Youll come out on top! Feel it in my bones. Me. too, Samel added, and opened the two lock doors. Killashandra wished that she felt as positive. Then, suddenly, there was no way to evade the inevitable. They picked up 8 maximum aperature digital cameras their carisaks and filed out. Trag and Olav took the lift down first, permitting Lars and Killashandra a few moments privacy. Killashandra didnt know what she had expected but the ground transport was a four-seat skimmer, remote controlled, the purple-gold-and-blue emblem of the FSP Judiciary Branch unobtrusively marking the door panel. She took in a deep breath. Looking off to the massive tower of the entrance. As she had done for several days, she repeated to herself that justice would prevail, that the much edited wording of the warrant would support their hopes. And that the disclosure of subliminal conditioning would result in the swift dispatch of a revisionary force to overthrow the Elders tyranny on Optheria. But one Killashandra Ree, one-time resident of the planet Fuerte, barely four years a member of the Heptite Guild, had had no encounters at all with Galactic Justice, and feared it. She had never heard or known anyone who had been either defendant or plaintiff at an FSP court. Her ignorance rankled and her apprehension increased. Silently the four settled into the skimmer and it puffed along on its short return journey. It did not, as Killashandra half expected, stop at the imposing entrance. It ducked into an aperture to one side, down a brightly lit subterranean tunnel, and came to a gentle stop at an unmarked platform. There a man built on the most generous of scales, uniformed in the Judicial Livery, awaited them. In a state of numbness, Killashandra emerged. Killashandra Ree, the man said, identifying her with a nod, not friendly but certainly not hostile. Lars Dahl, Trag Morfane, and Olav Dahl. He nodded politely as he identified each person. My name is Funadormi, Bailiff for Court 256 to which this case is assigned. Follow me. I am Agent Dahl, number I know, the man said pleasantly enough. Welcome back from exile. This way. He stepped aside to allow them to enter the lift which had opened in the wall of the platform. It wont take long. Killashandra tried to convince herself that his manner was reassuring if his appearance was daunting. He towered above them and both Lars and Trag were tall men. Killashandra and Olav were not many millimeters shorter but she had never felt so diminished by sheer physical proportions. The lift moved, stopped, and its door panel slid open to a corridor,

Not on the Stygian shore, nor in clear sheen

tied when she woke the second time, with an awful taste in her mouth and the tang of salt in her nostrils. She could hear the hiss of wind and the slap of water not far from her ears. Cautiously she opened her eyes a slit. She was on a boat, all right, in an upper berth in a small cabin. She was aware of another presence in the room but dared not signal her consciousness by sound or movement. Her jaw still ached though not, she thought, as much as on her previous awakening. Whatever drug they had given her was compounded with a muscle relaxant, for she felt exceedingly limp. So why did they bother to keep her bound? She heard footsteps approaching the cabin and controlled her breathing to the slow regularity of the sleeper just as an outer hatch was flung open. Spray beaded her face. A warm spray so that her muscles did not betray her. No sign? No. See for yourself. Hasnt moved a muscle. You didnt give her too much, did you? Those singers have different metabolisms. The inquisitor snorted. Not that different, no matter what she said about alcoholic intake. Amusement rippled in his voice as he approached the bed. Killashandra forced herself to remain limp though anger began to boil away the medically induced tranquillity as she reacted to the fact that she, a member of the Heptite Guild, a crystal singer, had been kidnapped. On the other hand, her kidnapping seemed to indicate that not everyone was content to remain on Optheria. Or did it? Strong fingers gripped her chin, the thumb pressing painfully on the bruise for a moment, before the fingers slid to the pulse-beat in her throat. She kept her neck muscles lax to permit this handling. Feigning unconsciousness might result in unguarded explanations being exchanged over her inert body. And she needed some before she made her move. That was some crack you fetched her, Lars Dahl. She wont appreciate the bruise. Shell have too much on her mind to worry about something so minor. Are you sure this scheme is going to work, Lars? Its the first break weve had, Prale. The Elders wont be able to fix the organ without a crystal singer. And theyve got to. So they must apply again to the Heptite Guild to replace this one, and that will require explanations, and that will bring FSP investigators to this planet. And theres our chance to make the injustice known. What about the injustice you did me? Killashandra wanted to shout. Instead she dsm 520 digital camera twitched with anger. And gave herself away. Shes coming round. Hand me the syringe. Killashandra opened her eyes, about to argue for her freedom when she felt the pressure that brooked no argument. Her final awakening was not at all what she had been expecting. A balmy breeze rippled across her body. Her hands were untied and she was no longer on a comfortable surface. Her mouth tasted more vile than ever, and her head ached. She controlled herself once more, trying to sort out the sounds that reached her ears. Wind soughing. Okay. A rolling noise? Ocean waves breaking on shore line not far away. The smells that accosted her nostrils were as varied as the wind and wave, subtle musty floral fragrances, rotten vegetation, dry sand, fish, and other smells which shed identify later. Of human noises or presences she had no input. She opened her eyes a fraction and it was dark. Encouraged, she widened her vision. She was lying on her back on a woven mat. Sand had blown onto it, gritty against her bare skin, under her head. Overhead, trees bent their fronds, one sweeping against her shoulder in a gentle caress. Cautiously she lifted her torso, propping herself up on one elbow. She was no more than ten meters from the ocean, but the high-tide mark was safely between her and the sea, to judge by the debris pushed into an uneven line along the sand. Islanders? What had Ampris said about the islanders. That theyd had to be disciplined out of autonomous notions? And the young man of the corridor who had assailed her. He had been suntanned. That was why his skin was so dark in comparison to the other onlookers. Killashandra looked around her for any sign of human habitation, knowing that there wouldnt be any. She had been abandoned on the island. Kidnapped and abandoned. She got up, absently brushing the sand off her as she swung about, fighting her conflicting emotions. Kidnapped and abandoned! So much for the prestige of the Heptite Guild on these backward planets. So much for another of Lanzeckis off-world assignments! Why hadnt she left a message for Corish? Chapter 8 Killashandra grimaced as she crossed off yet another week on the immense tree under which she had erected her shelter. She sheathed the knife again and involuntarily scanned the horizon in all

Himselfe on a dapple-gray,

leg looked ghastly. Now he dropped on one knee and stooped low over it. "What a mess!" he murmured slowly. He looked up ov?r his shoulder. "We've gotta do something about that leg, boss, and we've no damned time to lose. This kid's a good candidate for the mortuary." "I know. We've got to save him, Dusty, we've just got to." All at once this had become terribly important to Mallory. He dropped down on his knees. "Let's have a look at him." Impatiently Miller waved him away. "Leave this to me, boss." There was a sureness, a sudden authority in his voice that held Mallory silent. "The medicine pack, quickand undo that tent." "You sure you can handle this?" God knew, Mallory thought, he didn't really doubt himhe was conscious only of gratitude, of a profound relief, but he felt he had to say something. "How are you going" "Look, boss," Miller said quietly. "All my life I've worked with just three thingsmines, tunnels and explosives. They're kinda tricky things, boss. I've seen hundreds of busted arms and legsand fixed most of them myself." He grinned wryly in the darkness. "I was boss myself, thenjust one of my privileges, I reckon." "Good enough!" Mallory clapped him on the shoulder. "He's all yours, Dusty. But the tent!" Involuntarily he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the cliff. "I mean" "You got me wrong, boss." Miller's hands, steady and precise with the delicate certainty of a man who has spent a lifetime with high explosives, were busy with a swab and disinfectant. "I wasn't fixin' on settin' up a base hospital. But we need tent-polessplints for his legs." "Of course, of course. The poles. Never occurred to me for splintsand rye been thinking of nothing else for" "They're not too important, boss." Miller had the medicine pack open now, rapidly selecting the items he wanted with the aid of a hooded torch. "Morphine that's the first thing, or this kid's goin' to die of shock. And then shelter, warmth, dry clothin'" "Warmth! Dry clothing!" Mallory interrupted incredulously. He looked down at the unconscious boy, remembering how Stevens had lost them the stove and all the fuel, and his mouth twisted in bitterness. His own executioner. . . . "Where in God's name are we going to find thorn?" "I don't know, boss," Miller said simply. "But we gotta find them. And not just to lessen shock. With a leg like this and soaked to the skin, he's bound to get pneumonia. And then as much sulfa as that bloody great hole in his leg will review 4 megapixel digital cameras takeone touch of sepsis in the state this kid's in. . ." His voice trailed away into silence. Mallory rose to his feet. "I reckon you're the boss." It was a very creditable imitation of the American's drawl, and Miller looked up quickly, surprise melting into a tired smile, then looked away again. Mallory could hear the chatter of his teeth as he bent over Stevens, and sensed rather than saw that he was shivering violently, continuously, but oblivious to it all in his complete concentration on the job in hand. Miller's clothes, Mallory remembered again, were completely saturated: not for the first time, Mallory wondered how he had managed to get himself into such a state with a waterproof covering him. "You fix him up. I'll find a place." Mallory wasn't as confident as he felt: still, on the scree-strewn, volcanic slopes of these hills behind, there ought to be a fair chance of finding a rock shelter, if not a cave. Or there would have been in daylight: as it was they would just have to trust to luck to stumble on one. . . . He saw that Casey Brown, grey-faced with exhaustion and illnessthe after-effects of carbon monoxide poisoning are slow to disappearhad risen unsteadily to his feet and was making for a gap between the rocks. "Where are you going, Chief?" "Back for the rest of the stuff, sir." "Are you sure you can manage?" Mallory peered at him closely. "You don't look any too fit to me." "I don't feel it either," Brown said frankly. He looked at Mallory. "But with all respects, sir, I don't think you've seen yourself recently." "You have a point," Mallory acknowledged. "All right then, come on. I'll go with you." For the next ten minutes there was silence in the tiny clearing, a silence broken only by the murmurs of Miller and Andrea working over the shattered leg, and the moans of the injured man as he twisted and struggled feebly in his dark abyss of pain: then gradually the morphine took effect and the struggling lessened and died away altogether, and Miller was able to work rapidly, without fear of interruption. Andrea had an oilskin outstretched above them. It served a double purposeit curtained off the sleet that swept rOund them from time to time and blanketed the pin-point light of the

A broad arrow with a goose-wing:

any eyebrows left." Louki sighed. "A pityit was such a splendid machine." Then he brightened. "But before God, Major, it burned magnificently." Mallory stared at him. "Why on earth?" "It is simple," Louki explained patiently. "By this time the men out in the Devil's Playground must know that their car has been stolen. They see the fire. They hurry back tohow do you say?" "Investigate?" "So. Investigate. They wait till the fire dies down. They investigate again. No bodies, no bones in the car, so they search the castle. And what do they find?" There was silence in the room. "Nothing!" Louki said impatiently. "They find nothing. And then they search the countryside for half a mile around. And what do they find? Again nothing. So then they know that they have been fooled, and that we are in the town, and will come to search the town." "With the teeth-comb," Mallory murmured. "With the teeth-comb. And what do they find?" Louki paused, then hurried on before anyone could steal his thunder. "Once again, they will find nothing," he said triumphantly. "And why? For by then the rain will have come, the moon will have vanished, the explosives will be hiddenand we will be gone!" "Gone where?" Mallory felt dazed. "Where but to Vygos castle, Major Mallory. Never while night follows day will they think to look for us there!" Mallory looked at him in silence for long seconds without speaking, then turned to Andrea. "Captain Jensen's only made one mistake so far," he murmured. "He picked the wrong man to lead this expedition. Not that it matters anyway. With Louki here on our side, how can we lose?" Mallory lowered his rucksack gently to the earthen roof, straightened and peered up into the darkness, both hands shielding his eyes from the first drizzle of rain. Even from where they stoodon the crumbling roof of the house nearest the fortress on the east side of the squarethe wall stretched fifteen, perhaps twenty feet above their heads; the wickedly out- and down-curving spikes that topped the wall were all but lost in the darkness. "There she is, Dusty," Mallory murmured. "Nothing to it." "Nothin' to it!" Miller was horrified. I'veI've gotta get over editor's choice digital cameras 2009 that?" "You'd have a ruddy hard time going through it," Mallory answered briefly. He grinned, clapped Miller on the back and prodded the rucksack at his feet. "We chuck this rope up, the hook catches, you shin smartly up" "And bleed to death on those six strands of barbed wire," Miller interrupted. "Lould says they're the biggest barbs he's ever seen." "We'll use the tent for padding," Mallory said soothingly. "I have a very delicate skin, boss," Miller complained. "Nothin' short of a spring mattress" "Well, you've only an hour to find one," Mallory said indifferently. Louki had estimated that it would be at least an hour before the search party would clear the northern part of the town, give himself and Andrea a chance to begin a diversion. "Come on, let's cache this stuff and get out of here. We'll shove the rucksacks in this corner and cover 'em with earth. Take the rope out first, though; we'll have no time to start undoing packs when we get back here." Miller dropped to his knees, hands fumbling with straps, then exclaimed in sudden annoyance. "This can't be the pack," he muttered in disgust. Abruptly his voice changed. "Here, wait a minute, though." "What's up, Dusty?" Miller didn't answer immediately. For a few seconds his hands explored the contents of the pack, then he straightened. "The slow-burnin' fuse, boss." His voice was blurred with anger, with a vicious anger that astonished Mallory. "It's gone!" "What!" Mallory stooped, began to search through the pack. "It can't be, Dusty, it just can't! Dammit to hell, man, you packed the stuff yourself!" "Sure I did, boss," Miller grated. "And then some crawlin' bastard comes along behind my back and unpacks it again." "Impossible!" Mallory protested. "It's just downright impossible, Dusty. You closed that rucksackI saw you do it in the grove this morningand Louki has had it all the time since then. And I'd trust Louki with my life." "So would I, boss." "Maybe we're both wrong," Mallory went on quietly. "Maybe you did miss it out. We're both helluva tired, Dusty." Miller looked at him queerly, said nothing for a moment, then began to swear again. "It's my own fault, boss, my own gawddamned fault." "What do you mean, your own fault? Heavens above

Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman

this?" "It certainly does. An explorer called Alfred Wegener wintered not fifty miles from here in 1930-1, and the temperature dropped by 85 degrees below zero117 degrees of frost. And that may have been a warm winter, for all we know." I gave some time to allow this cheering item of information to sink in, then continued. "Well, that's us. Miss LeGardeMarie LeGardeneeds no introduction from anyone." A slight murmur of surprise and turning of heads showed that I wasn't altogether right. "But that's all I know, I'm afraid." "Corazzini," the man with the cut brow offered. The white bandage, just staining with blood, was in striking contrast to the receding dark hair. "Nick Corazzini. Bound for Bonnie Scotland, as the travel posters put it." "Holiday?" "No luck." He grinned. "Taking over the new Global Tractor Company outside Glasgow. Know it?" "I've heard of it. Tractors, eh? Mr Corazzini, you may be worth your weight in gold to us yet. We have a broken-down elderly tractor outside that can usually only be started by repeated oaths and assaults by a four-pound hammer." "Well." He seemed taken aback. "Of course, I can try" "I don't suppose you've actually laid a finger on a tractor for many years," Marie LeGarde interrupted shrewdly. "Isn't that it, Mr Corazzini?" "Afraid it is," he admitted ruefully. "But in a situation like this I'd gladly lay my hands on another one." "You'll have your chance," I promised him. I looked at the man beside him. "Smallwood," the minister announced. He rubbed his thin white hands constantly to drive the cold away. "The Reverend Joseph Smallwood. I'm the Vermont delegate to the international General Assembly of the Unitarian and Free United Churches in London. You may have heard of itour biggest conference in many years?" "Sorry." I shook my head. "But don't let that disturb you. Our paper boy misses out occasionally. And you, sir?" "Solly Levin. Of New York City," the little man in the check jacket added unnecessarily. He reached up and laid a proprietary arm along the broad shoulders of the young man beside him. "And this is my boy, Johnny." "Your boy? Your son?" I fancied I could see a slight resemblance. "Perish the thought," the young man drawled. "My name is Johnny Zagero. Solly is my manager. Sorry to introduce a discordant note into company such as this"his eyes swept over us, dwelt significantly longer on the expensive young lady by his side "but magnet damage to digital camera I'm in the way of being a common or garden pugilist. That means 'boxer', Solly." "Would you listen to him?" Solly Levin implored. He stretched his clenched fists heavenwards. "Would you just listen to him? 'pologisin'. Johnny Zagero, future heavyweight champion, apologisin' for being a boxer. The white hope for the world, that's all. Rated number three challenger to the champ. A household name in all" "Ask Dr Mason if he's ever heard of me," Zagero suggested. "That means nothing," I smiled. "You don't look like a boxer to me, Mr Zagero. Or sound like one. I didn't know it was included in the curriculum at Yale. Or was it Harvard?" "Princeton," he grinned. "And what's so funny about that? Look at Tunney and his Shakespeare. Roland La Starza was a college boy when he fought for the world title. Why not me?" "Exactly." Solly Levin tried to thunder the word, but he hadn't the voice for it. "Why not? And when we've carved up this British champ of yoursa doddery old character rated number two challenger by one of the biggest injustices ever perpetrated in the long and glorious history of boxin"when we've massacred this ancient has-been, I say" "All right, Solly," Zagero interrupted. "Desist. There's not a press man within a thousand miles. Save the golden words for later." "Just keepin' in practice, boy. Words are ten a penny. I've got thousands to spare" Tousands, Solly, t'ousands. You're slippin*. Now shut up." Solly shut up, and I turned to the girl beside Zagero. "Well, miss?" "Mrs. Mrs Dansby-Gregg. You may have heard of me?" "No." I wrinkled my brow. "I'm afraid I haven't." I'd heard of her all right, and I knew now that I'd seen her name and picture a score of times among those of other wealthy unemployed and unemployable built up by the tongue-in-the-cheek gossip columnists of the great national dailies into an ersatz London society whose frenetic, frequently moronic and utterly unimportant activities were a source of endless interest to millions. Mrs Dansby-Gregg, I seemed to recall, had been particularly active in the field of charitable activities, although perhaps not so in die production of the balance sheets. She smiled sweetly