"The Empress of Blandings has disappeared," declared Gaskin, sitting down on a chair in Biggles' office.

"I didn't know we had an Empress," said Biggles, puzzled. "Isn't it enough with a Queen?"

"The Empress is a sow, a prize pig. Owned by Lord Emsworth, in Shropshire. His lordship is screaming his head off. Rumour has it he's got his secretary drafting something for the House of Lords. The powers that be would like to nip that in the bud, thank you very much."

"I don't want to hear about it," said Biggles, firmly. "I remember the time you came to me about rustlers. Pigs don't fly. I refuse to believe this has anything to do with aeroplanes."

"But you can conduct a search much better from the air."

"Looking for what, exactly? An overgrown, green landscape where a pig, any size, will be completely impossible to spot. It's time you learned that even the Air Police are no miracle workers."

"Lord Emsworth?" said Algy, looking up from filing technical specifications for aeroplanes. "I remember him; he's an acquaintance of my guv'nor's. Before he got into pigs, he was crazy about pumpkins, I believe. Or was it flowers? Nice old man; quite potty, of course," said Algy cheerfully, and continued with his work.

"Show me a member of the Landed Gentry who isn't," muttered Gaskin, darkly.

Biggles looked thoughtfully at Algy and Bertie.

"That might be difficult," he agreed.

"Here, I say, old chap; I think we were just insulted," protested Bertie, turning to Algy for support.

"Ignore him – that's what I've been doing all my life," retorted Algy. "It's just middle-class insecurity."

"Middle-class what!" exclaimed Biggles, outraged. He turned to Gaskin.

"Come to think of it, who am I to say that pigs can't fly? I'll send these two toffs to Shropshire, where they can look for sows to their heart's content."

"Not that I would mind going, you understand – the rose garden at Blandings Castle should be marvellous by now – but have you checked if any of Lord Emsworth's nephews or nieces are involved in a romance at the moment? Rumour has it that several of them have kidnapped the pig, at one time or the other, to force his lordship's hand," said Algy.

"As far as I've heard, the only younger, unmarried relative in residence at the moment is his lordship's brother, Mr. Threepwood. Not a likely candidate for pig-napping, I would say."

"If it's the Threepwood I heard stories about when I was a kid, I'd say he's up to anything," put in Bertie.

"How about the neighbour, Parsley something? He and old Emsworth were always fighting it out over who had the fattest pig."

"You mean Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe. The local constabulary has searched Matchingham Hall from stern to aft, or whatever, without so much as an oink. I understand Sir Gregory has given up pigs. He's trying to grow the largest onions in the shire, instead."

"Algy and Bertie can check for an underground sty, behind revolving panels in the library," said Biggles, sarcastically.

Said Algy, who obviously thought that the joke had gone on long enough:

"Listen, Gaskin, you can't be serious about this. Who in his right mind would call in Scotland Yard for a lost pig? What could the old boy write to the House that might upset anyone? Pig-napping as a capital offense?"

"You might be on to something there, considering what the old toff ranted about when I heard from him," said Gaskin dryly, "but I fancy it's not so much the demands old Emsworth will make that worries people, as the fact that a lost pig could be a question in the House. I got the impression someone high up doesn't want the House of Lords to be a laughing stock in the media."

"They should have thought of that before they invented all those silly traditions," muttered Ginger to nobody in particular.

He had recently been reading an article about the traditions of the House of Lords, and his head was spinning trying to grasp how many rows of ermine tail should adorn the red robe of different peers. Or white rabbit, as it were, for those who preferred the cheap option.

Algy shook his head.

"I don't see what we can do that the local police can't do better. As Biggles pointed out, if you want to spot a hidden pig, flying is not the best option. If the Constable failed to find anything on foot, we're not likely to see her from the air; that is, if she's still in the vicinity. The key will most probably be in the local gossip, and we'll hardly be the first to hear about it."

"Who would want to steal a pig, anyway," added Ginger. "Meat rationing has ended, after all."

"You don't know this pig," said Gaskin darkly. "She attracts more thieves than the Crown Jewels."

"An Empress or an Empress' Jewels comes to much the same thing, I should jolly well say. Ha! Joke!" interposed Bertie.

Algy took up the second last file, hesitating admiringly over the specifications for the new type of Hawker Hunter.

"Well, one can always dream," he murmured to himself, before letting the file slip down between the Hawker Sea Hawk and the Mig 17.

He rolled his eyes; someone had shuffled the files again. A few days of pig-spotting might make a nice change from the filing cabinet.

"Anyway, you did find that rustler, Biggles," argued Gaskin, doggedly.

"I say, old chap, cows are quite another cup of tea," protested Bertie. "They are bigger and more difficult to hide, for one thing. One pig looks just like another, if you ask me."

"No-one did ask you, Bertie. Chief, you can phone Lord Whatever and tell him that as long as he provides a landing strip, we'll send two of our finest to go over the grounds with a fine-tooth comb," declared Biggles.

"Thanks, Biggles – I owe you one," averred Gaskin, rising from the chair.

"A picture of the great, white chief, putting his foot down," murmured Bertie and polished his monocle.

Biggles gave him a hard look.

"Did you say anything, Bertie?"

Bertie put on his most fatuous smile and fixed the monocle in his eye.

"Delighted to go looking for lost pigs, old boy – delighted!"