The Singlebody Conspiracy

by cartera2

The Singlebody Theory sets Russia's James Bond, pursued by a crack American military blues band, pursuing the formula holder of the world's favourite drink: Ferrocola. The trail runs to the castle home of a mad Scots clan chief, who sits on a mountain of gold he needs for world domination. But a parrot-loving Aussie Vietnam veteran uses his jungle skills to save the innocent.

The Singlebody Conspiracy

a novel that may be true

HILVERTON, U.S.A.

Jonathan B. Clackmore stood up. He sighed, adopting the pose of a man looking pensively from a window: hands clasped behind the back, frowning and doing his best to hold the stomach in. The flowers of the campus beds, the green of the parkland beyond, the questing branches of the trees and the autumnal colours of the creeping Boston ivy on the walls: were boring. Jonathan B. Clackmore was bored by it all, but stuck.

A fillip was needed; if only to prove that he knew more than the days and hours until the uplifting of the pension. It had been a long time since Jonathan B. Clackmore had tasted academic fame. Now, even the youngest freshest student was no longer impressed by the man who had given the world: The Inducement Theory of Relative Demand Inaction (The Abolition of the X Factor). Now, the theory was just, there; a small part of the world of human knowledge within the academic universe. And its progenitor was just, here; a small part of the academic lump of Hilverton University, U.S.A.: A quiet easy place to be buried with one's theories.

Twenty years ago they had all wanted to hear him: Harvard; Sorbonne; L.S.E.; Oxford; Cambridge; Yale, Sidney and even dozy old Edinburgh. They had all listened to the young Clackmore with the theory that indicated - no, more - showed - how to maintain upward Production and eliminate Poverty. And in Moscow they had cheered. Those Muscovites were capital on economics. They could spot a man who knew what he was talking about. Moscow had embraced the theory, while the West had fallen for the simple charms of the men from Chicago, and Jonathan B. Clackmore's theory had become a mere footnote in the First-year textbooks. Jonathan B. Clackmore: A footnote. Now the new Dean, a monetarist to the last dollar in his wallet, was seeking cuts: No publish, no stay; No publicity, no pay. A fillip was very much required. Jonathan B. was feeling insecure. This was alarming. Out of the autumnal window was looking prophetic rather than inspirational. He turned from the window, shuffled a few books on the shelf, moved the telephone four inches and patted the blotter. Alarming.

The door looked a good thing to be going out. Jonathan pulled the study door open and looked out. Just looked. Mrs. Woody sat in the outer office knitting. The ageing, disconcerting secretary person did not put the knitting down; she too just looked: looked and asked what he wanted with just that enquiring look over her inquisitorial glasses. Jonathan looked until, finally convinced the mouth and brain would not co-ordinate in the face of this face, he scuttled back to his sanctum. He had failed the Woody test. Again. Some more books shuffled. Lunch lunch lunch. A walk to the Refectory. That would help inspiration. It was only eleven - thirty Walk slowly.

Jonathan tucked his Paisley pattern scarf carefully, but casually, around his neck and into his pullover. He looked into the small mirror, adjusting its position until Jonathan B. Clackmore appeared four-square in the frame, nodded approvingly without being entirely convinced,and boldly set out. Mrs. Woody was still sitting, still knitting and again looking that look over her glasses. Jonathan felt braver with his old scarf on. "Mrs. Woody, I'm out to lunch. What do you have for me this afternoon?"

The knitting pins did not stop in their criss-evercrosser-cross stitching and that face did not alter. "You have a Miss Singlebody at one o'clock, Professor. After that you have nothing until your staff appraisal meeting with the Dean at four."

"Right." The wise look, as though some great decision had to be made. This was Mrs. Woody: a point had to be made here. this was Mrs. Woody. There was no point. No point in smiling either. "I'll be back for one." Jonathan left.

The classes were changing. Where did they all come from, year after year? He pushed through the ebbing and flowing changing but unchanging river of students, all moving against the tide of learning that threatened to turn them around by the ears and drown them all in knowledge.

The broad Avenue led from the University buildings straight to the Refectory on the hill. A rank of tall poplars ran along each side of the walkway, their ranks only broken where the road cut across the Avenue. Jonathan ran across the road, running in the way he had adopted since someone, in the sixties, had told him his running-across-the-road style cut a dash: Right hand cupped on the neck; left hand flat on hip pocket, with fingers splayed and index finger resting along the seam of the trouser-leg.

He crossed over, looking always, and all ways. A pipe-smoking man in a silk-backed grey waistcoat and brown Fedora hat was trimming the grass around the base of the trees. Today Jonathan B. Clackmore should be such a man: quietly; meditatively; ruminating puffing; in tune with nature, Zen even and no Platonic ideals or pension to worry about. The tree-trimmer looked up and lifted his pipe in salute. Jonathan removed his hand from his neck and waved over. It was as well to: everyone knew that as well as the usual crop of academics, the full complement of janitorial staff were also C.I.A. Even Mrs. Woody maybe? Secretarial staff should be the first recruits, plied with love and roses by some gigolo of a spy. Perhaps not Mrs. Woody. Universities were not secure places at all any more, especially this one.

From the restaurant window the tree-trimmer could be studied. The gardening man was new, surely? He looked a bit pale to be a gardener. The waitress brought the coffee, but Jonathan's mind could not leave his predicament to acknowledge her softly spoken: Enjoy. After the first sip, he just sat and stared and stirred the liquid with his finger. Publish or be damned. He needed something to publish. Perhaps even just something to have in the pipeline. Having something in the pipeline bought one a year, at least. And a year is a long dollar time in a pension scheme. To be made redundant at this time. At this age. To be made redundant at all. Redundant; the word had a useless feel to it. This was serious. The house, the car, the wine-cellar, the dog, the books - not the books – some of them – maybe. Clackmore. Redundant. Thrown out to be tutted and clacked over by the small minds of academe. Water was forming in the eyes. Why could the Abolition Theory not be recognised for what it is? A curse on all monetarists. If only the Abolition Factor could be added to. Inducement Theory was the key.

"Would you like something else?" The waitress had remained at the table, looking down with a sympathetic face. Beyond her, leaning on the counter, one of her colleagues were laughing at something. Jonathan waved droplets from his finger, before rolling it in a napkin.

"No, thanks."

"It's no trouble, Professor Clackmore."

Jonathan studied the woman more closely. Did janitorial staff include the Refectory staff? Relief. Miss Singlebody. Recognition. Relief. This was Miss Singlebody. Top student in Economics, and the Abolition Theory's top fan. Miss Singlebody: in tight, body-hugging uniform, with her hair tied up, and, of course, no glasses on. This was a Miss Singlebody he had never seen before. "Professor, please. Just call me Miss." She leaned over, showing cleavage. Jonathan lifted his head to look at her hair. She whispered her explanation. "In here I try to keep my professional life separate from my life as a mature student. I'm sure you know what it's like."

"I see. Quite. Well, you succeed brilliantly. I never really recognised you fully - in this way."

"Just semiotics and context, Professor. Well, if you're sure you don't want anything?" Jonathan shook his head. She turned and moved away through the tables. He watched her swish away. This was not the known Miss Singlebody, this was a hitherto unknown Miss Singlebody: a known unknown. Certainly his was not the Miss Singlebody whose eyes glazed over behind the granddad spectacles at each and every lecture, whose whole body language spelled out spellbound, not the Miss Singlebody who primly sat and primly delivered her tutorial papers in that shy voice, not the Miss Singlebody who knew the Clackmore theories backwards, not - she looked - this was no way for a professional man to think - or the time – stop this. Jonathan B. Clackmore had enough on his plate to disturb him.

Jonathan sipped the coffee as though it wasn't cold, but this was no use; his eyes kept wandering with his concentration, his eyes following Miss Singlebody in her new uniform as she cleared table. Now and again her colleague's eyes would meet his, and the woman would laugh, giving a shake of her head with a knowing wink. And sometimes Miss Singlebody would look up quizzically at each of them. This was no place to be in contemplation of a new world - shattering theory. When Miss Singlebody disappeared into the kitchen, Jonathan stood up, read the check, hesitated – what was the etiquette here? She was his student.

He left no tip beyond a few scattered coins that he deemed appropriate..

Outside, Jonathan had regained enough composure to acknowledge the gardener with a hale and hearty, almost Texan, wave. The gardener had moved up more than a few trees nearer the restaurant. From that tree he could have watched anyone at the window - table. The man was studying a hosepipe. Perhaps he wasn't C.I.A.; perhaps he was one of the new Dean's men. The Dean did have a background in D.I.Y. The gardener lifted his pipe from his mouth and raised it in response to the wave. He really was an awfully pale, clean and quick gardener.

The cracked bell of Hilverton University clapped out high noon. Young enthusiastic students flooded out the unlocked gates and tumbled down the stairs.

The little silver man or silver shapeless person on his or her big horse swung back and forth, back and forth. Going nowhere, getting nowhere.

Margaret had given him this one as another surprise - just like the little balls in the cradle; the little magnetic bars; the two shapeless acrobats on the see-saw, the duck with the unquenchable thirst and the rule that was a calculator which also had twenty-seven cocktail recipes written on the back for that wonderful party moment. The desk was a depository of swinging gamers and items of well-disguised usefulness. Margaret just knew they would help to ease the tensions of being a Professor of Economics at the hot house of learning that was the University of Hilverton, U.S.A. - and Margaret knew best. Now this Professor was in a tense situation, and the little executive games did not ease the tension one pendulumic piece.

Jonathan set them all swinging, revolving, ducking and weaving. He pressed the button that made the little green lights on the calculator-that-was-a -recipe-sheet flick on and off. The person on the horse with the bulbous feet was sitting astride it, handless arms in the air, as if saying: Look, Professor, look at me, ain't I the clever one? Jonathan flicked his forefinger off his thumb. The little person and the horse flew through the air and struck the wall, leaving a hole in Jonathan's fading poster which proclaimed: FREE EVERYBODY. Jonathan felt more relaxed. Something had to be done, but he didn't know quite what, or even why, really. Perhaps he should be existential about it all, and do something, well . . . decisive. But Jonathan B. Clackmore was committed to Hilverton, and its pay checks. Hadn't always been weary like this; when he had proclaimed the X Factor Theory to a dumbstruck world, he had been committed, a missionary even. Now he was being reduced to looking for a work to publish for purely material selfish reasons. Perhaps he should have a word with folk in Moral Philosophy.

In the old, young days, he had dreamed of inspiring future Presidents as they perused their learning at Hilverton. Now they could hardly bear to allow the clean-cur youth of America to read his theory, except as a footnote. If only inspiration could be found, even some clichéd inspiration would do. Perhaps a blending of Marx with Friedman. Too simplistic. Too many had done it before. If only. If only. The anthem of the uneducated masses - this was not for Jonathan B. Clackmore . . . if only. If only the world might be a lecture theatre again.

The inter-com buzzed from somewhere among the scattered papers on the desk. Jonathan lifted a pile and placed it under another pile. A little red light glowed. He pressed the switch down. "Yes, Mrs. Woody?"

"Miss Singlebody for you, Professor. Shall I tell her to wait? It is only 12.57." Mrs. Woody's voice was definitely not improved by technological mediation. It still man aged to run along the wires, jump out from the speakers and ream out the ear holes, leaving the brain temporarily anaesthetised.

"No, that is all right Mrs. Woody, show her in. I'll finish the session early." The switch was up, but he was sure that he heard Mrs. Woody's snort come through the dividing wall.

Quickly Jonathan got up. He took off the dark suit jacket he had been wearing that morning. He hung it at the side of his cabinet and lifted down the faded brown cord jacket with the leather patches. It was becoming a tighter fit now, but he was fond of it. Regaining the chair, he pushed his hair back and extracted the pipe from its drawer. A quiet knock came at the door. Jonathan crossed one leg over one knee and leaned back into the chair, which creaked. "Come in."

She entered. And this was not the same woman. A young woman now. Different again. Student mode. In bright pale blue except for her short white sox and a pink ribbon which stuck up from her hair like a helicopter propeller. She stood with her back at the door, holding her files and papers to her. A book fringed with bits of paper bookmarks topped the lot. Without seeing it properly Jonathan knew it was his own: The Abolition of the X Factor. Miss Singlebody had always been his greatest-ever disciple. Now she was his only true disciple. Jonathan patted his pockets and smiled a wordless greeting through teeth stolidly holding the pipe-stem. He began to open and close the drawers of the desk, muttering to himself as he did so. Finally he gave his breasts a pat, shook his head and spun round on his chair. The chair collapsed.

Jonathan found himself on his back, clutching space, with the pipe skewed out of his mouth at a crazy angle. Miss Singlebody ran to him, knelt by him, comforted him. "Professor, Professor. Are you O.K.? Are you hurt?"

Jonathan's head hurt, but he struggled to rise, trying to avoid the helping hands of Miss Singlebody. He flailed like a back-stroke swimmer in a pool that was empty. A rap came at the door. Mrs. Woody's glasses were followed by the rest of her. Mrs. Woody was just looking, the usual.

Jonathan spoke, his head at such an angle his mouth was opening and closing into his lapel. "I am all right Mrs. Woody. There is no cause for alarm."

"Who's alarmed? I thought you might be just be, just be, well, all right. That's why I came in." Mrs Woody left.

Jonathan struggled to his feet, fixed the pipe, and replaced the pedestal of the chair back into its hole. He stepped back, admired his handiwork, looked at Miss Singlebody, and tentatively sat down. The chair held. This time he did not swivel but scraped his chair round to face his student. "Miss Singlebody, do sit down." He indicated the chair to the side of his desk. Miss Singlebody patted the chair before sitting down clutching her reclaimed not-so-neat-now pile of work. Jonathan took a chance and leaned back into the chair. The chair still stood. He took the pipe from his mouth, held the stem and pressed a finger into the clean and empty bowl. "Forgive me, Miss Singlebody, you don't want to be bothered by a man's dirty habits. I'll put it away." He tapped the empty pipe on his heel. Miss Singlebody protested.

"It really is all right, Professor. Honestly I don't mind you having a puff. In fact, some tobaccos make me feel quite, well, secure."

Jonathan waved the pipe. "No. No. I insist. Why should I subject you to this dirty old thing. Years of thick black in here you know."

The pipe was replaced in the drawer. "O.K., what can I do for you today?" He caught the passing ripple of pain in her face. " Oh yes, do forgive me. I said I would devote today to your thesis, didn't I? Of course I did. I did. Well? How are you progressing with it? Jonathan leaned over and cleared a space on the desk for her papers.

Miss Single body smiled her thanks. Her fingers fidgeted with her papers. her lips stretched shyly, settled back, stretched, and settled back. When she had finally gained control of her mouth, she spoke. "Actually. I think I was going perfectly well, Professor, along the lines we spoke about last time. But. But . . .

"Yes?"

"Well I think I've become rather side-tracked."

"Aha." Jonathan B. Clackmore knew all about side-tracks. Boy and man. Student and graduate, doctor and Professor, Jonathan B. Clackmore knew more than a little about side-tracks. "Go on?"

"I know you'll think I haven't put in the work. but I have, oh I have

Professor, I have. It's just that I allowed myself to go up this side street as it were, and well . . .

"Aha. And what did I warn you about allowing yourself to be taken up side streets, Miss Singlebody? Did I not warn you? Beware of academic cul-de- sacs I seem to recall saying. Did I not? Such cul-de-sacs have a nasty habit of turning into well-intentioned blind alleys. You've been naughty Miss Singlebody. Naughty, naughty." He smiled: standard teaching procedure: keep smiling: don't upset them.

But the smiles did not stop Miss Singlebody looking pained again, nor stop her fingers becoming more and more agitated. The girl was obviously highly strung. She needed calming. It was time for the voice of the father figure. The one he had picked up from the old movies of Pat O' Brien on the old late-night television movies as he waited for Margaret to unpack her face and go to bed. "Now, now, Miss Singlebody. Everything is going to be all right. A little faith, that's all you need, a little faith, and maybe just a smidgen of help from the little people. What do you say? Shall we start again?"

Jonathan laid his arms along the desk, clasped his fingers together and set his chin on the back of his hands. "Come, Miss Singlebody, confess all. It won't be as bad as you think. And I'll do my level best to help you." Miss Singlebody lowered her head. Jonathan was encouraged, to be sure. "I can't help you if you don't talk you know." Miss Singlebody smiled. 'The Irish accent never failed to bring a smile. And Jonathan B. Clackmore had never even visited Ireland. "Your work has led you into a blind alley, hasn't it, my child? Well let's see if I can talk you out of that blind alley and on to road to enlightenment, out, on, up to the light. And may the road rise up to meet us." She was nodding vigorously. Jonathan straightened up into the chair - slowly. His back was sore. "Roight then me fine colleen, begin."

She opened the black file. Jonathan closed his eyes, dropped his head to his chest and clasped his hands across his front. Her voice was trembling a little. "I was going along the lines of our last discussion, Professor, following your Theorems in Chapter Four of your book and trying to use it as a link into the work of Ankaravitz and Adam Smith. I decided to use perishable consumer goods, including food and drink, for my data base. I collected information on selected countries and set about linking these imports, in ratios of their own production indices."

"Yea? And?" It is strange how a head in the chest deepens the voice.

"Fa- Professor, I must confess, I got really excited and carried away."

"So you have said. Pray continue." A benevolent smile was usual at points like this.

Miss Singlebody continued. "I abandoned any attempt to control my base, and yet hold on to Ankaravitz. The only thing I had in my head was your X Factor, Professor that was all."

"I am afraid you're losing me Miss Singlebody. To recap - you are using my theory on a collection of data culled from the amount of perishable imports into selected countries, and setting the result into ratios of the production indices of these countries. First, which countries?"

"Sorry. Of course. Japan, Brazil, West Germany and Lesotho - and Tonga."

"Eh? Oh yes. And what does my theory show up?"

"Using your Theory I was able to make valid co-relations between these imports and domestic rises in Production. All 'of these countries have shown consistent rises in Production since 1965. And there is only one import that shows up constantly as major factor once we apply the Inducement Theory."

Jonathan clasped his hands together. It had been so long since he'd actually read the book. The theory was still here, in his head, or at least all it needed was a slight brush-up from the book. Miss Singlebody was awfully excited and pulling at that pink propeller. Jonathan gave the overview to her from the depths of his chest. "Miss Singlebody, I believe I'm getting a picture. You are presenting a view that these countries you have mentioned owe their increases in production since 1965 to the same thing. That 'thing' being a consumer perishable, or a food perhaps. I -

"It's a drink, actually."

"A drink?"

"Yes. Isn't it exciting? Your theory states that countries should only select for import those consumer perishables that there is the most given Demand for, then, if possible manufacture it for themselves. Am I correct? So far?"

"Well . . .

"So, as you put it in your book, when such Demand is met, the consumers are happy, because it is they themselves who have asked for the import. Happy consumers are the result. But consumers are generally workers; happy consumers make happy workers, happy workers work harder, ergo, increased production."

"Well, I think you have the drift of it, but how does this lead to this, this, drink or whatever it is?"

" Professor, all of these countries show a direct and exact co-relation between the importation of that one product and the major indices of their production, since 1965."

"They do? They have? Interesting. Some drink and -

"Yes, yes, Professor. And it .was only because of your theory I was able to see it."

Jonathan sat up in his chair. This was the voice of a convert in ecstasy. Miss Singlebody's fingers were spread flat over her papers, her arms were stretched straight and her head was back. Her eyes were closed, her teeth exposed. The face was flushed. Her face -Miss Singlebody was having an orgiastic Eureka experience. Jonathan leaned forward and pointed a finger. "Now, Miss Singlebody, Keep calm, please. Are you saying that there is a statistically valid case for stating that as a country imports this, this whatever it is, so the industrial production of that nation rises?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

"Miss Singlebody. Please tell me the name of this wonderful substance."

Miss Singlebody dropped her head around to the side, paused, and then stood up. She flicked through her papers. Some stuck together and she smiled over as she tried to unstick them. Eventually she pulled a sheet of foolscap from the pile, brandishing it under the Professorial nose. "There. Here it is."

"Where? Where it is?"

"There. There. At the bottom, next to the red asterisk."

"Where? Where?"

Miss Singlebody came around to stand behind and over him. Her smell was the heady mix of coffee and cheap perfume. She jabbed a finger on the paper, moving it, bending it, buckling it. She leaned on his shoulder as she held the last jab down. "There. There it is. FERROCOLA."

The chair collapsed once more under the push of the last victorious jab. The Professor found Miss Singlebody sprawled upside down on his chest, her face between his thighs. Mrs. Woody did not miss the opportunity; she pushed her face round the door. 'The look matched the voice. "I can see you're still all right. I am going now, Professor, my parrot's sick. Don't forget your staff meeting at four."

The door clicking closed made the Professor and student move. Jonathan fixed the chair again but did not sit down. He still clutched the sheet she had given him. Professor Jonathan B. Clackmore was stumped. Nothing had prepared him for this. "Excuse my ignorance, Miss Singlebody, but could you tell me what this FERROCOLA actually is?"

Miss Singlebody looked shocked. "Don't you know?" It was the incredulous tone of the youth culture. Jonathan felt old.

"No."

"Ferrocola is a fizzy drink. It's like . . . well it's like nothing else I can think of really. Everybody drinks it."

Everybody meant young people. "I see. Is it American?" She nodded, grinning, while shaking her hair with a frantic hand. "And as other countries import it, their Production rises. In tandem even. Is that it?"

"Almost exactly, yes. If you look at my figures I'm sure you'll see they check out, although I need you Professor, to help me give the model a little more sophistication."

"Of course, of course. I'll do what I can. But I'm sure you won't

have overlooked anything." Miss Singlebody was top student every year. Obsessed by the X Factor, of course - but then, why not? These figures would check. out. And they could be dressed up for foreign consumption. Her theory would be provable and adaptable. Singlebody's papers were always top-drawer.

FERROCOLA THEORY.

This should be kept quiet. At least until the staff appraisal meeting with the Dean. "Miss Singlebody, have you tried a comparative check against countries that do not import this what-you-call-it?"

Miss Singlebody shuffled on the spot. "I knew you'd find something."

"No, no, don't misunderstand, I just wondered: are there any countries which do not import Ferrocola?"

"Probably. There are quite a lot, I suppose."

"Are there any comparable with the group you have studied?"

Miss Singlebody ran a childish finger around in a circle on the desk "None of the Eastern bloc countries, the new nations, or the old, take it."

"Ah. Well then. But don't worry, Miss Singlebody, I'm sure all will be well. Why don't I look over your figures this weekend? Would that be all right? And don't worry; I'm sure you'll get your Doctorate for this. I am absolutely sure you have added to the world of knowledge. Considerably."

He walked her out through the outer office to the door. "I'll see you on Monday, Miss Singlebody. in fact, we'll have lunch, would you like that?" She nodded. That was a yes. "Good. Meet me at the Hill Restaurant at twelve?"

"Thank you, Professor. Do you think we'll be able to do something with this?"

"I am absolutely sure of it, Miss Singlebody. This theory will one day go all across the globe."

Jonathan waved her away down the corridor. He walked slowly back to his own office door, pausing, stopping, trying to read the figures on the move. He looked up as Mrs Woody came in. "I forgot my knitting." she said.

"Ah. Mrs. Woody, I wonder if - if you don't mind that is, - if you could -please -make a couple of calls for me? Please?"

She looked that look: sideways. But this was urgent for Jonathan B. Clackmore. "Please can you make an apology for me to the Staff meeting, and could you phone my wife please, and tell her that I am working late tonight? P1ease?"

Jonathan moved into his own study quickly. The jacket was hung and the shirt-sleeves rolled up and the swing-lamp switched on. He pulled the chair in, and efficiently switched on the coffee machine. This session could be a long one. The door opened. Mrs. Woody's mouth opened. "If I miss my bus because I had to make those calls, I'll cut your clacking balls off come Monday." She closed the door.

MOSCOW, U.S.S.R.

Ten sat around the highly polished wooden table, each with a set of papers stacked neatly to each front. They sat: their palms resting on thighs, staring directly in front, silent. Workmen in dungarees busied themselves around the room. They lifted pictures from the walls, lifted standing ash-trays and looked under them, tapped along walls and listened at walls. One man walked around feeling at the carpet on the floor with his bare feet. On a plank, set between two trestles two men struggled with a large painting which depicted the March on the Winter Palace. They eased it off the wall and balanced it on the plank. A little man in a tight brown jumpsuit ran a long metal rod all over the back of the frame, and the space left outlined in dust. He nodded. Security Approved.

The two men struggled again with the picture, lifting it up, squaring it up, and finally replacing it art its hanging. The man with the long rod stepped away and approached the round table. He addressed himself to the only man not dressed in military uniform. "The check is complete, Comrade of the Chair, and all is clear."

The Comrade of the Chair pointed his arm, hand and finger forward, gradually bending them upwards until the forearm and the upper arm were at right angles and his finger pointed ceiling-ward. The finger jabbed, pointing upwards. The man with the rod stood, blinked. He nodded, but was still bemused. He nodded and stood. He stood and nodded. The arm and the pointing finger were raised higher, more agitatedly, angrier.

The blinking eyes and the nodding head of the worker followed the arm, the hand, the finger. "Ah. The chandelier. I do beg the pardon of the Comrade of the Chair." The leading arm, hand and the finger slowly returned to their places on the leading thigh.

The brown-suited man leaned across the table between an Admiral and a General. He stretched his rod up. Up, up. It failed to reach the chandelier by some four feet. He straightened himself up, turned and stepped over to his workmen. "Comrades of the Work, do we have a ladder?" Five heads shook. "Then we must use our standby method." Twenty shoulders shrugged, but immediately each man began to move, each man obviously aware of what he had to do in such an emergency.

An ornamental footstool was brought over and set seven paces from the top of the table, at its centre. The plank from the trestle was set upon it, manoeuvred until it balanced evenly. One man pulled an end down and stood on its very edge. By the other end one man helped another up onto his shoulders and in turn another was hoisted up until the three stood in a human column, one on another on another. Two jumped down onto the end of the plank. From the other end of the plank their comrade was thrown high in the air. As he hurtled through the air he performed a single somersault over the heads of the Admiral and the General. He landed plumb in the centre of the table, arms outstretched, rock steady. He flexed his legs, clapped his hands, held his arms up and shouted. The man with the rod was already on the plank. The human column was ready. The grip on the rod was tightened. There was no shouting, no clapping, only the silence. The man at the base of the column teetered a little. The little man banged his rod on the floor. The two jumped." Ha. Ho. Hayaaahoop." They landed on the raised edge of the plank. The little man flew .He flew up and through the air to land on the shoulders of the man standing legs akimbo on the table. His catcher caught him by the legs, held him, and moved only one half-pace forward. The catcher steadied. The little man straightened up. Quickly but surely he applied his searching rod to the nodules of the chandelier, running it all round and over them. When satisfied he tapped his rod on the catcher's head. His bearer turned and walked to the edge of the table, before turning to face the centre again. The rod-bearer back-somersaulted over the dead-pan faces of the Admiral and the General. Admiral and the General rose and pulled their chairs to the side. Comrade on the table back-somersaulted high and off. The ten men applauded without speaking. The workmen knelt in a line, arms stretched, heads bowed. The Admiral and the General resumed their places and all hands ere replaced onto thighs. The leader of the checking troupe approached the Comrade of the Chair. "It is clear, Comrade of the Chair."

After some hesitation the Comrade of the Chair lifted a clenched fist, opened it into a flat hand and waved them away. The troupe gathered up the trestles, the plank, replaced the footstool, and left. The two men struggled again with the picture, lifting it up, squaring it up, and finally replacing it art its hanging. The man with the long rod stepped away and approached the round table. He addressed himself to the only man at the table not dressed in military uniform, but only nodded.

The Comrade of the Chair pursed his lips together and nodded non-specifically to the others. Excitement broke out around the table: cigars and cigarettes were lit, arms and legs stretched, all secure in their joint excitement. The Admiral spoke to the General. "I see Posov let a couple of easy ones in last night."

Comrade General made a spitting sound. "'The Dynamo have never had a good goalkeeper since 1945."

''Who was goalkeeper then?"

"I was."

Chair Comrade banged his fist on the table. "To business." He pulled at the white stiff cuffs of his shirt in the business-like way he had seen in British films. "Comrades. We are living in changed times. Change is upon us whether we like it or not."

The sound of this word 'change' made breaths draw in and faces go a whiter shade of pale. Collectively. He continued. "The people of this tiny Republic we reside in, Tashkinajan, as it calls itself, wishes us all to return to Mother Russia – you, me all our clerks and all our families."

A new collective intake of breath was sharp enough to be almost a scream. A member slipped from her chair clutching at her heart. The chair went on delivering the blow. "The only thing that stops them doing so immediately is that our buildings, or rather the rent from Moscow, is the only asset they have."

A grey-haired newer member shook a trembling finger. "The Supreme Bureau of Intelligence has always been in Tashkinajan. We made this Republic and Russia what it is today. We are separated only in name."

The Chair Comrade nodded. "Quite so. But that token separation gives all of us here a good salary. But we must take note of this talk. It shows our people are disconnected from us.

If change there must be change, we must lead and direct that change."

"Just like the old days." said the old man, his eyes wide with delight.

"These new multi-coloured politicians of Tashkinajan are unhappy with the Supreme Bureau. They ask what we contribute to their economy."

''Economy?'' The old man's voice quivered, this was old workaday ideology.

"Comrades, everywhere now, everyone is being called upon to present proof of recent merit and worth. We are all constantly being surveyed and appraised. Our Supreme Bureau and Intelligence Training Unit can be no exception. All Bureaus that are outsourced from Moscow now have to show practical examples of how expenditure is related to results, and these results must be seen to be contributing to the advancement of our Republics. In short Comrades: we are become profit centres." There was a silence. One man slid from his seat. Chair continued. "Our Bureau is no exception - except that, in our case, Mother Russia does not really want us anyway, and this ungrateful Tashkinajan only tolerates us because Moscow pays for us."

The General spoke. "My people have had no pay since last year."

The cuffs were waved around. "I know. But I have come to an arrangement with the Tashkinajan government." They all leaned forward, this might mean cash. "Tashkinajan is willing to keep us employed here, if we no longer think of ourselves and our Intelligence gathering in terms of security for a nation that is no more. Rather, we are to gather Intelligence that is likely to aid the more efficient use of the machines and factories of Tashkinajan. And the people, of course."

The General rubbed his forearm along his medals and spoke up, without looking up. "You mean you expect my people in the field to turn to commercial espionage?"

There was another collective gasp that made medals rise up, ripple, and fall back on individual chests. "What I mean, General, is that even Mother Russia cannot pay for military espionage, and the Tashkinajan peoples' purse is certainly not bottomless. However these Ministers say that if we can supply their industry with economic secrets that boost Production, then a share of the increases in that Production will allow us all to remain here in Tashkinajan. Jobs, not bombs, must be our performance criteria." He raised his head a touch higher and spoke a touch louder. "And for that, they say, we need not return to Moscow."

The Admiral spoke. "Comrade, it is well known that the new elite in the Commercial Bureau in Moscow have sought to eliminate us and have us all retired before we are eighty. But we must give them some credit. These are all young modern people; although no longer comrades, they will be difficult to compete against in their own specialist area. More and more I hear these westward-looking young men of Moscow talking of card-ware, software, Tupperware. While we have the Intelligence, they have the new learning." He glanced at the Chair Comrade who was frowning at him. "Of course, they do not know everything." he finished.

A jowly-faced, wet-eyed comrade opposite leaned over toward the General. "You are correct, Admiral. My very own son is one of them. On holiday I could not talk to him as he pushed at buttons, and swore at colours on a glass screen, filling his study with sheets upon sheets of such paper. But," he whispered, "My very own son, he does not know how to produce invisible ink. Only here at the Tashkine University of Intelligence do we teach these basics."

Some laughed nervously, while others rubbed at their hair in confusion. The Chair Comrade remained unruffled; he stretched his arms and pulled at his cuffs; silently calming the meeting down as they all gradually watched in fascination. When silence had again engulfed the circle he looked slowly around the table, from face to face, from one set of eyes to one set of eyes. "Comrades. We are battling for survival. I am about to make changes. Will everyone move around three places?" In various ways, dependent upon fitness, and overcoming the fallen comrade, they moved around. The Comrade of the Chair grasped the table-top and pulled at it with both hands, sending it spinning in a clockwise direction. The table-top spun and spun, until, spinning slower, slower, it came, hesitantly, to rest, under the watching uncertain eyes of the assembly. "Be seated."

They sat.

"In front of each person, Comrades, you will find a selection of all economic, social, psychological, and industrial publications issued by the various institutions of the West. We must cull through these and find anything that is happening there, which can usefully be transferred into productive use for the people of Tashkinajan. Waste no time. Begin."

Everywhere around the table the comrades began flicking through whichever publications had landed at the various seats. Some looked over at other comrades, some covered the pile up with arm and hand, others pulled faces at Lady Luck. The General, however, sat back and polished at his League and Cup medals. The Comrade of the Chair was unsure how to handle the General's dumb insubordination, this was almost an overt act of revolution. He twiddled at his cuff-link, two chunky pieces of gold from Siberia. If only that option was available now. "Comrades, I want all of you to study these files. All of you."

The General glanced up from his polishing. "I came up through the ranks; these magazines are gobbledy-gook to me."

A comrade looked up from his file as if to agree, but the Chair Comrade caught his eye and he changed his mind.

"General, can I remind you of the consequences of failure? Here in Tashkinajan we have access to meat and fruit. Not to mention those fruity little Western films you like. We have very little queuing or squabbling or even bullets flying. If we fail, we shall all be returned to Russia, or whichever other Republic we may have originally come from."

The General harrumphed, but set to at least looking in the general direction of the papers. The wet-eyed embarrassed father put a hand up. "Comrade Chair, speaking as Comrade Shop Steward, I have to remind you of the time."

"'Who has the buzzer?"

"I have."

"Press for coffee."

A working silence descended upon the table. Each man was concentrating, poring over his own set of files, contributing to a great wave of concentration which swept over the table.

There was no more talk of sons, wives, daughters; no more talk of football, of chess, no more talk of wives, mistresses, enemies and friends: There was only this work. There was only a miracle to be found; or at least some kind of girble-garble, that, could be, sold to the new marketeers as the lynch-pin of Western success. The woman with the coffee came and went. There was no acknowledgement nor murmur of thanks. Jackets came off and were hung over the backs of chairs. Sleeves were rolled up and ties were loosened.

The comrade of the trolley came and cleared the cups from the table and still there was no talk. Two chunks of golden material were rolled onto the table. The darkness was pushing at the window. Comrade Pashinov of the Chair of the Forgotten Bureau of Intelligence rose and stretched.

Matches lit up like flares and cigarettes glowed, only to fade as the blue-grey smoke appeared. Comrade Pashinov crossed over and put on the light of the Great Chandelier. No-one looked up. No head looked up to watch him go to the window and pull at the curtains which obediently closed to block out the watching moon. No eyes looked up as he resumed his seat.

The eyes on the faces of the Marchers to the Winter Palace stared out, as if silently willing the searchers on. But still there was nothing; nothing but ten minds, ten thoughts : More coffee More coffee More coffee More coffee More coffee More coffee More coffee More coffee More coffee More coffee - but I really would prefer vodka.

One by one, cautiously, wearily, they slumped back in their chairs, stretching legs and allowing hands to fall where they may. If the saviour was in these files, it was well hidden. Puzzled faces exclaimed that something must have been missed, or that the exercise was a problematic waste of effort. Occasionally, one who had slumped back would lean forward to the task again, mindful of the consequences of failure. Others pretended to carry on, if only to encourage those who had not yet surrendered. The General's head fell to the side, but he did not snore. Comrade Pashinov sighed, placed his hands behind his back and walked to the window.

He held open a curtain to look out at the night-sleepy roof tops. Work like this kept those roof tops secure, and those under them safe in their beds. Constant vigilance over the enemies of the people, who were now merely so-called competitors, had let all the people sleep, or be born, or make love, or die in peace. All these things could still be theirs under the shelter of Pashinov. But maybe these new suits might allow good men to rise, for they talked of Meritocracy. Had not the Georgian risen to be father of his Republic? Premier Pashinov. Sounded good. But for now the Bureau was under the threat, and these new men had only feelings for their machines and figures, not the people as he, Pashinov, knew them. Something must be found.

Pashinov stared a long moment at the moon, patted the curtains, then turned from the window. The Comrades at the table had worked hard, it appeared they could do no more. They wearied; sitting at the table, lying across the table, devoid now of mental and physical energy. It was over. A quest from afternoon, through evening until moonrise. A quest for light as it only grew darker.

"You have done well, Comrades, but we are all tired. Please let us go home and think, and perhaps to-morrow - who knows? Perhaps inspiration will follow from our perspiration."

Men at the table rose, put on their jackets, dusted and fluffed out their medals, shoved the empty seats under the table, but did not speak their disappointment. But the old Admiral Ashka remained. He held a journal of some kind out in front of himself, as if trying to read some small print. Now the Admiral looks toward Pashinov. "Comrade Pashinov, do you remember when we were much younger we attended a seminar on the Comrade Marx and the Modern Economy, or some such? There were many speakers and . . . " Some stragglers had hesitated at the door, ears flapping. Pashinov waved them away. If the Admiral had found something then he and Pashinov must talk - alone. When the last man had left and closed the door, Pashinov made his ritual visit to the keyhole. Admiral Ashka smiled as Pashinov keeked through it. "I see you have not forgotten the basics."

Pashinov grinned, then became more serious as he came over and gripped the Admiral's shoulder. "You have found something?"

"Well, just a twinkle. If you recall that seminar, then you may recall an American Professor, a Professor Clackmore?"

"No; but continue."

Ashka waved the journal: 'Economocolica'. "There is an article in here by him. It seems to suggest that as a people devour a certain American drink, so they produce more, in material terms. The GDP rises. Inexorably. He credits The Singlebody Papers"

Pashinov had picked up cuff-links and fiddled with them as he thought. He spoke. "Can it be the decadent West has reached new depths? Are they drugging the workers into some false consciousness to make them produce more? Can this drink also be a drug?"

Ashka laughed. "If it is then it is a successful one - at least according to the credited research in this journal." The Admiral began another laugh - but choked it. "Comrade Pashinov, this is, this is . .

"This is maybe what the people of Tashkinajan are screaming out for. Yes, yes, yes. What is it made from? How is it manufactured? Does it say? What clues?"

"I do not know. I am not a chemist Comrade comrade. But I do have some knowledge of this beverage from my times in the field. Many have tried to analyse it, and many have failed."

"How so?"

Ashka shrugged. "The formula is known only to the head of the company."

"Then to get the formula one must get this person?"

Pashinov moved to the curtain again. He peeked out. The cold moonlight had turned the grey slates silver. Ashka must be told. "The cold moonlight has turned the grey slates silver."

Ashka came over and had a peek. "What you say is true, Comrade. But, please, if I read you aright, stay your hand. Give this material to the economists, let them make a decision as to its usefulness."

"A decision, comrade? From an economist? We would wait until Siberia melts into a flood. No. We must act."

Admiral Ashka frowned at the 'we'. Act? If there is an ingredient that is missing, how can 'we' act? Ashka had fallen for it; this was the Republican 'we'. This time 'we' meant Admiral Ashka.

Pashinov clasped his hands behind his back and paced over to stare at the frenetic Winter Palace Marchers "Comrade Ashka, not so long ago we would have searched for this recipe, for good reasons: to produce an antidote to free the exploited workers of the West from its spell - but now, here, the young commercial bears are undermining us and the ways of the Tashkinajan University. Instead of training in Intelligence, they wish us to produce M.B.A.s. No, we must act to secure our place within the new regime."

Again the 'we'. Ashka was uncomfortable. Pashinov continued. "Ashka, old Comrade of Comrades, I am going to make you responsible for this task we have." Pashinov was smiling. The smile on the face of the bear. "I knew I was correct not to allow them to give you early retiral."

The Chair ignored his look of shock and continued to address the sad-looking Admiral. ''You may be old and hard of hearing, I said, but you carry a wealth of knowledge of nations in that wily cranium of yours. Much too valuable to retire, I argued. And look how you prove me correct." The Admiral had nothing to say. He had heard it all before. "Find him, her . . .

"McCrabberty – it's here in the journal."

''Find this McCrabberty. Have this as your last, glorious fling. And you shall be made whatever the new equivalent of Hero of the People is to be - with full pension rights."

Admiral Ashka stood up, buttoned the top button of his jacket, saluted and moved to the door. Pashinov smiled at his back, then shouted. "Ashka, you will have full white coupons on this one."

The Admiral stopped in his tracks. "White coupons? Do we still have white coupons? Even now?"

"Ashka, old friend, some things will never change." Pashinov raised his eyebrows, Ashka saluted once more, and left, leaving Comrade Pashinov of the Bureau of Intelligence (Intelligence Section Without - A-Home) well-pleased. This last throw was now the responsibility of an irresponsible old Admiral acting without orders, anxious to prove his worth in the way of disaffected grumpy old men. Unless he came up trumps, of course.

Pashinov set the table-top spinning, jumped on it, sat on it, jumped off, waved at the still silently yelling Marchers, stole one more look at the moon, switched off the Great Chandelier and went home to sleep.

Admiral Ashka walked to his office along the usual route, passing the usual buildings, but recognising none of them, passing friendly hellos, but hearing none of them. This weight on his mind compressed his vision. These steps he was taking along the pavements, up the stairs and along the corridors to his own few square feet of the Intelligence Bureau (Intelligence Section) were being guided by some inner eye. He saw nothing, saw no-one, though many passed, and heard nothing, though, many called his name. Ashka heard only the one voice. The voice of Comrade Pashinov calling : Find McCrabberty.

In the office the Nest Leader called for his three assistants. He hesitated before speaking into the inter-com but there was nothing he could do. They were all he had. "Send me my three foolish monkeys." The three foolish monkeys who heard all, noted all, and told plenty.

Yevta, Podroyin and Hacov entered, shuffling themselves into a kind of line in front of the tidy desk of the old master. The old master made them wait, in the hope that a wait might induce some general air of tension and perhaps cause some adrenalin to flow in the general direction of their brains. He laid his pen down. The Volga or the Don could flow adrenaline, and these three might swim in it, and still they would crawl as the old men. They could never be tense. Tension arose from the pull of opposites. That meant having more than one thing at a time in the brain. They could never be tense. Already Podroyin was feeling behind for the bum of Yevta, seeking to make him giggle as a child. Ashka did not want to start this interview. Perhaps it could be done without involving them. If only Ashka had the legs of a young man. If only Ashka was of the years of any of this three. If only. Then he could do it by himself, without troubling their tripartite brain. But now the Party said he needed three; one to put the stuff into their little magic box, another to get the stuff back out from the magic box, and one to make the coffee. Perhaps Ashka did need new thinking. But such a three as this? "Podroyin, you are feeling Yevta's arse there like a shipwrecked sailor. Do you like Yevta's bum? Turn around Yevta. I have not been away from sea so long that I cannot appreciate a good piece of arse. Let us all see what it is that excites our Podroyin." Ashka twirled his pen by way instruction. "Go on, turn around." Yevta turned around. "Pif. It is a wonder you managed to get a grip on anything, Podroyin. How is your own bum, Podroyin? Come, show me. Turn. Turn."

Podroyin's face flushed. Hacov eased himself to the side making his separation from the other two clearer. "Podroyin. I said: turn." Podroyin turned, slowly, looking backwards over his shoulder at his Admiral Ashka. Admiral Ashka rose and came around the desk. He stood beside Podroyin and gently made his hand flow over the outline of Podroyin's buttocks.

"There is certainly a little something here. Is there not Yevta? Bend a little, Podroyin. Let me see more of this arse which has been hardened and refined by our Gymnasium. Bend." Podroyin bent over, just a little. Ashka placed his hand in the small of Podroyin's back.

"Here, Podroyin, bend more. Let me see this seat of learning." Podroyin bent more until his head was in line with his knees. Ashka turned to Hacov. "Hacov, observe this bum. Is this not a mighty bum? With bums like this there can be no limit to the achievements of our Motherland. Do you not agree?" Hacov nodded. Ashka patted Hacov in the groin. "Of course you agree. Now, Hacov, do you see this pen? I am going to thrust this pen into that mighty bum and hope that its tip will dip itself into Comrade Podroyin's inkwell of knowledge." He swung the pen back. Podroyin jerked upwards, but there was still strength in this old Admiral's arm that held him downwards. "Stay, Podroyin, stay."

The pen was back, up, behind, in an arc, then swinging down and up again fast. Podroyin screamed. Just as he was screaming Ashka's knee was connecting with the mighty backside. Podroyin's head struck Yevta's knees and together they crashed against the wall and collapsed in a heap on the floor. "Now, attention. This Nest, my nest, which is unfortunately your Nest, has work to do. Work which will bring us great honour, or lose us all position. We work alone, and no-one, I repeat no-one, must be aware of our activities. Are you three ready for such a task? "

The three foolish monkeys nodded. Podroyin lifted himself up on one leg and scratched his crutch like football manager. "All you have to know is that if we succeed our Motherland will know the secret of the Singlebody Papers. That is as much as I shall tell you muslin mouths."

Ashka sat on the corner of his desk waving the pen that had nearly been a sword. He put it away, sensing it was distracting their concentration, which he knew to be already limited.

"For the moment I want you three to perform one mission for me with that little magic box of yours. I want you to get me as much information as possible on one James Lomond McCrabberty, highly regarded citizen of the United States of America. All I can tell you is that he is a manufacturer of a drinking lotion called Ferrocola. I want the information and I need it to-morrow. I mean yesterday." There was a rustle of collective confusion in the rank. "Will you please get me this information as quickly as you can?"

Yevta tentatively raised a finger, let it down, raised it again. "Comrade Ashka, is it only the man or his business?"

"Everything. I want everything. Age, sex-

"Do you mean how often?" "I mean any, how shall we say, strangeness of taste. I want his wealth, his family, his background from birth, his friends, relations, friends, enemies, his present whereabouts and where he is going to-morrow. Everything. This man is a class enemy of the proletariat of the world. Including us. Now, go about your technical hocus-pocus." The three little-the-wiser monkeys made for the door, fighting for the door handle. "Hacov."

"Yes Admiral?"

"Make me some tea. The Earl Grey, please." A cup of Earl Grey tea brought sanity to the workings within this office. Ashka remembered being calmed down by a: cup presented to him by a junior British Foreign Office official at disarmament talks in Geneva. At first he believed he had been drugged, then after some more he realised that he had discovered the secret of the British Empire and its Civil Service. With these three, Earl Grey was needed in increasing quantities. Industrial even. "See if you can have it ready before you start World War

Three. Please."

"I am afraid we are out of Earl Grey, Admiral Ashka."

Admiral Ashka reached into his pocket and with drew his wallet, extracting from it a white plastic card. He smiled at Hacov as the young man pointed to it, coughing and spluttering. "A white coupon - you mean . . .?

"Yes, young Hacov, this mission is top level. The secret of the Singlebody Papers must be found. Now take this and fetch some Earl Grey from the store. This means you can make it for four."

"You mean for two, Admiral Ashka. Tea for two."

"I mean four. With the white coupon .we can afford to make it for four.

"But Admiral Ashka, Yevta and I do not care for the imperialist overtones of this Earl Grey."

"Very well. Make it for one. I should keep my mouth shut."

With Hacov gone, Admiral Ashka resumed his seat to think. A decision would have to be made. This James Lomond McCrabberty was almost certainly not in Moscow. And if he was the key to the secret of these Singlebody Papers, then he must be interrogated. He must be found. At once found. At once.

Once found he must be persuaded to reveal his formula. It was this formula Pashinov wanted. It was always some formula or weapon. Years ago Ashka would have volunteered for this work. To be young again. To be the young Admiral Ashka again: scuba-diving in Jamaica, dancing in the streets of Brazil, crashing cars in Las Vegas, speeding on the Everglades and the canals of Venice and sipping vodka and swapping tea, tales and girls with the young English Naval Commander on the hills of India. The international security cognoscenti knew of the work of Ashka then. Perhaps he should have written a book on his experiences. No-one would have believed it to be true - although he recognised himself in the films made about the young English Commander. No, here is the once the high-flying Ashka grounded: stuck behind a desk, with arthritic bones that were suffering now from too many amours in long damp grass and cold air-conditioned bedrooms. Thus do the mighty droop. An agent could not be drawn from the pool. Pashinov had made it clear that the Supreme Bureau were not aware of this action and were not to b e made aware of this action - though everyone knew that all the field agents reported everything to the Supreme Bureau as well as their Nest Leaders. There was little alternative: one of these three button bashers would have to seek and search. The man found, a report to the Nest would allow Nest leader to formulate a plan. Podroyin was strong, but did not take Security seriously enough. It was his view, was it not that the Supreme Bureau was riddled with the Agents of the C.I.A.? So, logically there was no point to any of the Nest's activities.

Yevta. Yevta. What was there to say about Yevta? A mathematical genius who read cheap imported British novels - all day; novels with titles like: Lovers Moon or Tie My Heart Tightly. No. Besides, his English was too limited. Hacov. Nephew of someone on the Supreme Bureau. Tried in every kind of work and a failure in every kind of work - except the making of tea. Yevta had tried to teach him the ways of the magic box and the Nest had had two hundred rolls of lavatory paper delivered by half a dozen Plumbers of the people. The choice was no choice. And in the end, if, or when, whoever was chosen failed, the crafty Pashinov would stand half-a-mile back and deny all knowledge and probably produce memoranda exonerating himself, or else he would even now be holidaying on the Black Sea and be able to show he had been there for a month. Such choices were no choices.

Through the glass in the door Ashka could see Hacov coming along the corridor bearing a tray filled with the paraphernalia of the tea ceremony. Ashka decided to open the door, just in case. Hacov came through and laid the tray down. "Hacov. When you go, find out from those other two how long they are going to be. Tell them I was under the impression that all they had to do was press a button and we would know how many times any person in the west went to the lavatory. Hurry them up."

The Admiral poured the tea from his tiny teapot into his fine bone china cup. The colour was exactly correct. Hacov had indeed a rare skill. Perhaps Hacov could be persuaded to try the Catering Section. The tea tasted as it looked; good. The tea tasted good but the problem was still here. If this James Lomond McCrabberty was an agent of the West like most American businessmen, he would be too clever for any of these three. Too clever by three-quarters. Yet one of them must go after him. Now the tea did not taste so good. Admiral Ashka decided to go and see for himself what was happening at the nervous centre of his Nest.

He walked along the corridor to the office of Yevta, Podroyin and Hacov, deciding to enter without knocking. Yevta: seated at a computer, gazing intently at the screen as his fingers danced among the keys. Finally, he leaned back and pushed imperiously at a button with his index finger. Immediately paper started chuntering from a square box which stood over beside his bookshelves.

Podroyin grasped at the paper, running it through his hands and reading it as it appeared. He turned to Yevta. "Do we have to start at the A, Comrade?"

"No sweatski." Yevta's fingers did some more dancing, finishing again with the grand poke of the finger. The paper came again, folding over into itself. It grew thick and thick and thicker. Podroyin lifted a bundle to the floor. The paper kept flooding out. Yevta called over. "Where are we now, Comrade?"

"McCadam." Yevta repeated his performance with his dancing fingers. More paper came. "Now, Comrade?"

"Yes, yes, this will do. McColl. And here, here, now, here we are, McCra, McCracken , McCraber, McCrae, McCrag . . .

Admiral Ashka leaped at the paper, tearing it from Podroyin's grasp. " Stop. Stop. Stop. Yevta. Stop your machine." The machine stopped, one last sheet of print falling out into Admiral Ashka's hands. He ripped it free. "Nowhere is McCrabberty. McCrabberty, not McCrae or McCrog or McCrud - everything thing else but McCrabberty. Where in here is McCrabberty?" He stormed around the room, holding the sheets in both hands with the rest of the print-out following on behind, winding up from its pile like a snake from a charmer's basket.

Podroyin stumbled along behind the Admiral attempting to catch the sheets as they fell to the floor, reading a sheet on the tumble and trying to make intelligent Intelligence noises. The Admiral turned and his stomach hit Podroyin on the face. Ashka stretched out a long line of print-out paper and wrapped it around Podroyin's neck. The paper tore. Yevta laughed.

"Yevta, there is something you find funny? Yevta, do you have relations on the Supreme Bureau?" Yevta shook his head. "Then Yevta do not laugh I still have enough friends that I can have you sent where the natives always use an abacus. If they have one. Where is McCrabberty?"

Yevta pointed a palm at the screen. "I can only bring out what is in the mainframe. McCrabberty cannot have been programmed in. Someone has missed out his name, or else he has been deleted. "

"Deleted. Deleted. I like the sound of that word, Yevta. Don't use it too often around me. Please. For your own sake."

Admiral Ashka knew when it was time to withdraw. Often he had won the war games for the Navy against the Army and the Air Force for just that reason: knowing when to make a strategic withdrawal. Against Podroyin and Yevta and computers and on-line, down-line mainframes and flowing reams of paper this was a time for retreat. He returned to his own office. Hacov was clearing away the tea things, and attempting to steal a read at Admiral Ashka's morning paper. Admiral Ashka held the door open and spoke to disturb this reverie. "Hacov. Are you going? Do you wish to take my paper with you? Can you read? Tell me, what does it say? Are you reading last night's football stories? Eh? Or maybe you are reading the Dear Olga column? Is that so? Go. Take the paper if you want it. Leave me."

"I'm sorry Admiral Ashka it's just that I'm sorry."

"Sorry? What do you have to be sorry about? Apart from being born?"

Hacov pointed a tea-cup and saucer at the newspaper. The teaspoon fell to the ground. "It's just that there is an article here about a deputation of our Comrades going to an International Drinks Fair in Edinburgh, in Scotland"

"So, another junket, we must keep upsides with this European Union. Perhaps, with any luck and your relations your turn will come soon for such travellings."

"Comrade Ashka, this Fair is to be chaired by an American, J.L. McCrabberty." Admiral Ashka banged the door shut, looking sideways at Hacov before grabbing at the newspaper as a man might reach for a bomb, reaching and still looking distrustfully at his tea-wallah. He picked the paper up and brought it round below his eyes. Yes, there was a deputation going to an International Drinks Fair in Edinburgh; yes, the deputation was the usual names; yes, they sought friendship through trade, and yes, they hoped to learn from this exchange of Information on Drink, which, understandably was attracting delegations from all over the world and yes yes yes yes yes yes yes it was to be chaired by this J. L. McCrabberty.

J. L. McCrabberty, yes, yes, yes, yes. But. But Hacov had seen this first. The newspaper must be last year's. The date was correct. The day was correct. But. But Hacov had seen this first. The newspaper must be a plant. The newspaper seller must be in on this. It was all a plot by Pashinov to pay him off. No. No. This was genuine. And there could only be one J. L. McCrabberty. And he was going to be in Edinburgh, in Scotland. Someone must go there. Someone must go for the honour of the people and because Ashka must remain here to watch Machiavelli Pashinov and his machinations. Admiral Ashka slumped in his chair. Hacov was bending to retrieve the fallen teaspoon. The cup fell on the floor. Admiral Ashka wiped his forehead, clamped a hand over his mouth, pulled at an earlobe, sniffed, and felt the tears rise in his eyes, for that someone to go must be any one from three: Podroyin Yevta or Hacov.

Hacov had successfully managed to balance the tea-cup in its saucer and the teaspoon against the teacup. All at once. Perhaps he was coming on. Hacov spoke. "Are you all right Admiral? Is there anything I can do?"

The Admiral waved a hand. Words were refusing to come out; but finally relented: "Hacov, please go now. I have a very serious decision to make. Please bring me more tea. Lots of it."

Hacov nodded as if he knew what the making of big decisions merited, as if he too had made a big decision in his life and could still remember the effort involved. Hacov turned to the door. He held the teacup in its saucer with its teaspoon in his right hand and high up near his left ear to allow himself to open the door with his left hand without any danger of the ensemble falling. The door opened easily enough. Hacov closed it behind him, tripped over the edge of the carpet and fell along the corridor. Podroyin stepped into the corridor and onto the china cup which broke in many pieces. Admiral Ashka needed lots of tea.

Edinburgh, Scotland

Rain ran down the outside of the shop window: little rivulets of rain racing each other to be first to reach the sill and re-engage with the running rivers that streamed, dropped and dripped to the pavement, forming up in frothy competition to be first to and through the bars of the drain. The Scottish Spring rain was still here. The Scottish Spring rain was now the Scottish summer rain repeating and repeating its threat to be here for the Scottish Winter rain. True, sometimes the sun had shone, but even then the rain continued, cutting through hazy hopeful but disintegrating rainbows to reach earth. Rain dropping; sometimes dropping light like a misty drizzle, or heavy and dark: warm like a shower, or in short and sharp spits that rain that froze the face; or sudden rain that came in sheets like the monsoon. Cold rain, warm rain, dark rain, rain from the North, rain from the South, East, West, but always the rain. For one whole dreich drag of a summer the flag at the Castle had hung lifeless.

And for most of one long whole Summer, John Burnett's solitary coach had remained parked in the street: as much of its back end squeezed under the railway bridge as possible, while the blobs of wet on the bridge formed a pelmet over the rest of it. Four times John Burnett, Edinburgh's newest, most thrusting, most innovative, poorest bus operator had captured enough customers to warrant taking the coach out.

Once he had taken five and a dog and a that pram just to relieve the boredom - and to check that the engine had not turned into an outboard motor during the night. Now here John Burnett's capital was sliding away with the rain on the window and falling in flakes like the rust underneath the coach. And each day the rusty red brown patches under the headlamps grew bigger. John rose from the jig-saw on the desk, sick of trying to find a piece of blue sky to fit over a sun-kissed Tudor cottage. He moved to stand behind the window, to study the form, shape and speed of the larger watercourses, to. place bets with himself as to which runner would gather up speed and streak to the window post first. John the punter betting against John the bookmaker, the only course bookie who really knew the odds. It looked impossible to choose as the rain pelted against the window, dispersing its wet in equally unequal measures, but never in enough of a straight line to ensure a fair start. John chose a running stream which began at the top left-hand corner and dropped in a clear run to the centre and on in a straight line to the sill. Any drops gathering to race on this run must be in with a chance. Spits and spatters gathered at the mouth of the chosen stream, clinging to their spot on the pane until they formed a blob too heavy to remain still. And they were off; flowing away fast down the pane but at the first bend John's chosen runner merged with another to be lost in a larger delta. It was just as well the bet was not for real.

The clapper in the bell above the shop door waggled, but since the whole bell also waggled, there was no sound. A person in a blue plastic coat and yellow wellingtons came in and shook water from a red plastic hat. Still lost in the window John made no acknowledgement, even when water from the hat was deliberately sprayed up into his face. The girl shook the hat harder. "So don't say hello."

" I was just thinking, Mary Stirling, you have an awful way of coming upon a man. And how nice it is to see you bring the rain in with you. Keeps everything green. Green inside and green outside. Green overall and overall soaking wet."

"Now, now, John, temper, temper. It's not like you to lose your temper. Especially in front of a lady. Or do you not think I am a lady any-more?"

John's face turned red. "Of course; I do Mary. You're ten times a lady. Anyhow, what are you doing here at this time of a Monday morning? Have you no work to go to?"

"Worried about your next meal, eh?" She placed two wet coat-sleeves over his shoulders and around his neck. Water ran down behind his collar. "Well for your information I just thought I'd come over here and ask you to marry me. Again." She kissed him on the nose. "And as for the job - as of this morning I have none. I arrived late this morning .. .

"As usual"

"I arrived late at Palace Pompadour d' Edinburgh and she started her stuff. I just wondered what I was doing there taking her snash and smiling at all these blue rinse ladies of Edinburgh. I told her to shampoo her private parts with her favourite special tonic and rinse her mouth out with conditioner. Might improve it. So, here I am free of Madam Pompadour d' Edinburgh's Rejuvenating Services."

Mary moved over to the far wall and ran her fingers over it, feeling for the the coat-hanger. When she had found the nail, she hung her coat upon it. "So there you are, John, I'm free to be me; so what about it, are you going to marry me?"

John moved through to the back-shop in defence, searching in the empty cupboard for the tea-bags. "Mary you know our agreement: I will marry you when I can afford to." John moved the cups from the sink to make room for the tea-pot. The tea-making ritual would not keep her at bay, but at least it would make him look pre-occupied with other things. Mary's shout came right through to him. "You might miss the boat. I come cheap. First man with two cows and a goat - and a double bed – I'm his." John made no answer. "Listen Carnegie, why don't you move in with me until your business takes off? This is the nineties you know."

John turned on the tap and let the water resound in the bottom of the pot in an attempt to drown out the suggestion. Women's Lib had come to the Scotland of John Knox. John had read about it in The Scotsman and he'd even read that a Sociologist in Glasgow had discovered that men of the Clyde were now hanging out the washing, taking it in, and were really quite knowledgeable on the price of vegetables. John was confused. The pot had filled up and more wet was splashing over the sink onto his crotch. Women's Lib and all that was O.K. But . . .

"Doesn't wee John love wee Mary then? John, for pity's sake loosen up. Young people, old people, they all shack up together now you know, and they don't all end up in the bad fire."

"I know I know."

The pot was lifted on to the cooker, matches found and scraped on a fairly dry- looking piece of sandpaper. Another box was taken from inside the tea towel where it had been put to avoid the damp. This match worked. John leaned over the blue flames of the gas and manoeuvred the pot as through practising Zen in the Art of Tea-making. But Mary would not let it go. "Well then?"

"Ach, Mary, I don't know, its just, its just . . .

"It's just that you're worried they hear about it on that dark island that you come from." Now she stood in the doorway, capturing him in the small back room. John, you only go back there three times a year. And how would whoever is interested find out? Is somebody going to compose a Pibroch about it and then stand on the Signal Rock and play it?"

Mary made small steps around the shop. "Heedera heedera heedera hey; John Burnett has a lover today; hederum heederum heederum ho, off this island he must go; ochone ochone ochone ochoooone; he must leave this woman alone, hittitum tacitum tachitum tum, or to this island never more come."

John laughed: laughing as loudly as he had laughed for months. Placing his arms around her he looked down at her, his face serious. "Mary, I have never told you this before, but the island has its spies everywhere. Even at this moment we are being watched. Everywhere, they are, everywhere." He turned his head all around, pulling faces.

Mary kissed him and smiled. "I don't mind them watching, but I'd like to give them something to see." John Burnett kissed her in return until the steam hissing from the spout of his tea-pot bade him to the stove. He released her and returned to his tea-making.

Two teabags were placed in the pot and stirred with a Biro. Tea was ready. Mary ran water from the tap through the two mugs at the sink. She placed them to the side without drying them and John poured, from a great height. "Have you any milk?" Mary asked.

"Of course, I have, of course I have. Milk is in my refrigerator. Where else?"

Mary took the teas through and placed them on the desk, before rummaging through the drawers of the desk.

" It's in the other side. Other side, second drawer down."

Mary found a carton of milk. "I don't believe this." she said," This is actually today's. You've actually got fresh milk."

John came through with his hands placed over his ears. "Please forgive me. I bought it this morning to celebrate."

''To celebrate?"

"Sure. When I heard on the radio this morning that there had only been five inches of rain in the last forty-eight hours, I just felt so devil-may-care."

Mary laughed. She seated herself on the corner of the desk cum refrigerator cum wardrobe cum table for jig-saws, and now comfy seat, cupping the mug in her hands as she blew into it.

John sat in his chair and sipped at the tea. Having Mary in for morning tea-breaks could become a pleasurable addiction. And it was hard enough already to keep her at bay. This summer should have been it. Bus-loads of tourists clamouring for the mystery tour to Crail and all coming back for more and singing the praises of John

Burnett' s personalised coach tours. So far there had been one assault by a pensioner and a bite on the bum by a Jack Russell. And the rain. Rain rusting Capital: The worst year for rain since records began and it was going to finish John Burnett in record time. Maybe if the business went under Mary would marry him anyway and come back to the island. Maybe she would take to the crofting life. Maybe. No. Marry she would, crofting she could, but the island. No. Anyway it would not be fair on the people. Within a week of Mary landing they would probably all evacuate for the fleshpots of Glasgow. Especially the younger men.

"Penny for them?"

"Oh just the usual."

The shop-door banged open and the little bell and its clapper fell to the floor, rolling sideways on the rim of the bell. A tall man wearing a pork pie hat but also in a well-cut fawn coat, tailored from what looked suspiciously like cashmere, was attempting to push in behind a black umbrella ,which was refusing to close up. The man pulled and pulled at it, but finally threw it into the shop and onto

the floor where it rolled out a wet trail, coming to rest at the foot of John's desk cum recreation centre.

Behind the man a small plump woman in a green coat which was in its turn covered by a transparent plastic coat all of which dripped water into a puddle on the floorboards. She pushed at the man and held on to her hat with the other. Her hat was a crown of daisies, which were wilting under the weight of the rain.

The man turned on the woman. "Giddarn it Martha, hold your horses, stop shoving. I'm doing the best I can."

" Listen, Mr. Big-shot it ain't you whose got the fanny stuck out in the rain. Move yourself, and let me get in." Two mugs of tea stopped at two mouths and the owners of the mouths sat, staring.

The visitors made it in. The man stretched over and closed the door behind his wife. The door did not close completely. He rammed it hard, twice, but it did not close. The punishment that the door was taking made John rise and cross over. The bell was jamming the door, keeping it ajar. John bent down, picked it up and closed the door. He smiled at the man who threw away umbrellas, swinging the silent the bell back and forth. Even as a hand-bell it did not work. The man spoke. "You Burnett?"

"Yes. I am. John Burnett. At . . .

A hand shot out from coat sleeve, jacket sleeve, shirt sleeve, revealing an expensive-looking watch at the wrist. "McCrabberty's the name. James Lomond McCrabberty. But you can call me J.L. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. This here's my wife Martha."

John smiled over at Mrs. McCrabberty, who smiled back but continued to try and resurrect the flowers on her hat.

John extended a palm toward Mary. "This is my . .this is my -

"Burnett, let me get straight to the point -

"Mr. McCrabberty, I was about to introduce you to my fiancee Miss Mary Stirling, but since you do not wish to acknowledge that she is in the room then I don't think we have any point to come to."

Martha McCrabberty stopped her flower arranging. Mary smiled. Wide.

"Mary Stirling. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Honoured." J.L clicked his heels together. "And I surely do apologise if I was in breach of good manners." He picked up Mary's hand and kissed it.

Martha dislodged her hat with a flick. "Oh shit. Now he's Rhett Butler. But at least that's an improvement on Davy damn Crockett. Don't pay any heed to his manners. He gets them from the T.V. Sometimes he thinks he's a pioneer on the Rockies, or a Southern gentleman or some bounty-hunter cowboy - it just depends on what the late night-movie was. He's impressionable. He's still acting out the part the next day. His psychiatrist says its harmless. I wonder. Most of the time he thinks he's Rob Roy. He watches Kidnapped and The Highlander on the DVD every chance he gets. I don't worry. It keeps him off my body." Martha patted herself on the neck behind her head." No . believe me, honest, and now he wants to prove he's as Scotch as you are."

J. L. spun round, head forced forward. "It's Scots. Giddammit Martha how many times do I have to tell you? Scots. Scots. Scotch is for tape and whisky and tomatoes. Scots, Martha, Scots."

" Ah Scots Smots. If I had some Scotch tape right now I know where I would put it."

" Yeh?"

"Yeh. If . . .

John coughed. "What can I do for you Mr. McCrabberty?"

"I want a coach - a bus. I want a bus and a driver. They told me you were the best there is."

John scratched at his head, looking sideways at Mary. In this weather? His face was red, the head confused and the tongue was finding no words. Mary came forward off the desk. "Somebody told you right Mister. Why he's the best doggone driver this side of Argyll County. Goodness, I do like that hat Mrs. McCrabberty, did you buy it here?"

J.L. looked unsure as to whom to speak at. He chose John. "The head porter at our hotel told me. He reckoned no-one knew Scotland like you know it."

" Is that the Colonial Hotel?"

" Yep. That's the one."

John made a note. The island connection at work. Edinburgh's McMafia. Most of the staff at the Colonial came from the island, including the Head porter. This was a favour owed.

" Burnett. I want to go to Castle Crab. Correction, I want to buy it. I've traced my ancestors back to the McCrabs of Crab Castle. My London people sent different people up to negotiate for me and they've never come back. They just seemed to have liked your Highland life so much they just stayed put. At least, we've never heard from them again. So I'm for going myself. My work here in Edinburgh is finished. I've got three days before I go to Japan, so I want you and a bus."

John moved his lips into a circle, his index fingers worked around his thumbs. "Castle Crab is a long way away and as I remember it, it's a very hard place to get to. The road in was never up to much."

"Look Burnett I phoned one or two other operators and they didn't even know where it was. No . I don't want to pay good cash for a driver who is going to spend the day pissing around looking for the place. Do you know where the gildarn place is, or not?"

" Of course I know where it is. Do you? It's a bay over on the west, high up and then down again to the Bay of the Crabs, just where it meets the sea. I'm trying to figure what would be best. For you, I mean. Maybe you'd be better off with a car-hire." Mary dropped her face into her hands, letting Martha's hat fall to the floor. J.L. laughed.

" Burnett. You will never make a million. You never ever recommend the opposition. I've got three days and I want you and your bus and what you should want is my money. Just keep it simple. I want Martha and me to see your Highlands and I want to get to Crab Castle and I am going to buy it. Simple. As for my predilection for a bus, well, I reckon that's the only way to see Scotland. In a bus, trying to look them peaks in the eye, or looking down into them glens of yours. Burnett, for a high country a man has to sit high."

Martha chipped in. "Last night it was Shane."

Mary dived over and hugged John's arm to her. "He's dying to take you, aren't you John? And I'll be happy to go along as your tour guide. Now, why don't you two settle things and I'll make us all a nice cup of tea. You'd like a cup of tea, Martha, wouldn't you?"

Martha beamed a smile and nodded. J. L. slapped his thigh, laughing loudly. "Shucks and gosh a mighty boy that's what I like a gal that knows what she's about. Now what do you say? All expenses will be on me. There is no money problem. Just you drive your bus. I'll even throw in a bonus. What do you say?"

John made the decision. "Mary, never mind the tea. We'll stop on the way for food. If we are going to Castle Crab we'd better leave now. Absolutely now. Anyway I have to put petrol in the bus."

J.L. put that arm around John's shoulder. "That's what I like, Burnett, a man of action. Are you sure your name ain't McCrabberty?"

John removed the man's arm from his neck and gathered up his gear before following the others out. Outside he turned to lock up. He decided not to lock it. With a bit of luck someone would break in and improve the place.

Mary and Martha were getting on well, their heads nodding with plenty of smiles. John walked silently beside J.L. They passed a white Rolls-Royce car. "This is my hire-car, John, but when I was young I never went to no outings in a car like that. No sir. It was always a bus. A bus always meant a trip somewhere, before my old man made it big with the old Ferrocola. So you see a bus was always something special for me. A visit to the home of my ancestors is special, so it just has to be a bus. Like I say, It's a better view anyhow, from a bus."

In a three-wheeled vehicle disguised as a car, parked behind the Rolls-Royce, a man watched them all go. When they approached his car, he pretended to comb his hair in the mirror. He watched them move on, down the street, watched them stop and stand at an old blue bus parked under the drips of the railway bridge. Watched as the young man struggled with the bus door, watched as the girl ushered the older woman,probably Mrs. McCrabberty, on board and watched as this James Lomond McCrabberty pinched the cheek of the young woman as he boarded the bus.

This was a problem for the man in the car. This car had no petrol. Some move had to be made. The man left the car, slamming the door behind him so hard the rust fell in pieces. There could be no waiting to lock it. He could only run run run down the street to the bus.

The bus was juddering to a start as he reached it. The girl was struggling to close the door. "Stop. Please stop please." Breath had to be taken in gulps. He could just lean his head inside the door,to plead with her. "Please. I must come with you."

"What? Sorry? This is a private party. We're on a charter to Castle Crab."

"Yes. Yes. Castle Crab. Yes. That is where I am going."

"You're going to Castle Crab?" Mary looked at J.L. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes." the man continued, "I have a contract. I contract – I bring them new brushes – no, sorry, please, I am their new rat-catcher. The new . . .

John yelled over from his seat at the wheel, terrified that the bus would stall. "You all right Mary?"

J.L. came moseying down the passageway. "What's the mater Miss? Can't we get going?"

"Well, yes, certainly, I suppose so, I don't know. It's your bus, as it were. This man wants to go to Castle Crab. He's got business."

''Business, eh? Well bring him aboard, bring him aboard, the more the merrier."

Mary helped the man aboard and closed over the folding door, kicking it to a final close. The bus shivered along its length John let off the handbrake. The wheels moved. The bus moved out from under the bridge. The new passenger sat opposite J.L. They smiled at each other.

Around the corner John drew into a petrol station. He left the cab and went to the pump. A man ran from the office. They argued with much tossing of the arms and pointing of fingers until finally John folded his arms and leaned them on the side of the bus, slumping his head onto them. J.L. left his seat, beckoned Mary to open the door and came down beside his driver. Simon followed him closely. "What's the matter, Burnett?"

"I can't get petrol. My credit is up. Usually it's a friend from the island who works here, but today of all days it's the big boss."

" Big boss, eh? You fill it up. I said I would pay all expenses."

J.L. marched into .the office cum shop. The new passenger followed behind and began to study the cans of oil and cards of windscreen wipers. J.L. drew a wallet from his jacket. "Listen you, I'll pay for my man's petrol. O.K.? Now surely you take one of these?" The wallet opened and a string of credit cards fell out to spread like a broken accordion. The man looked them up, looked them down. And shook his head. J.L. grabbed him by the collar. "What do you mean? What kind of hick town is this? Everybody takes these. What do you mean no?'''

The new passenger stepped forward, placing an arm between the protagonists. "Please. I will help." From his jacket he withdrew a wallet and flipped it open. He took out a single slip of plastic. The garage boss smiled and reached his hand out. "Ah. You have the white coupon. That will do niceski."

J.L. and the new passenger walked back across the forecourt together. J.L. stretched out his hand. "You saved me from killing that man, stranger. I'm mighty pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm J.L. McCrabberty. And you must be a man of some influence. What' s your panhandle?"

"Havoc. My name is Simon Havoc. And I am pleased to find you."

They boarded the bus together. John finished at the pumps, climbed in to his seat, and moved the bus, with its passengers and crew, off and away to Castle Crab.

Gleann Eigh Seachdnar Piuthar

In the Glen of the Seven Sobbing Sisters where rain became stormy water and hurtled itself over stony black crags to be consumed by the insatiable moss, Adam Blue wept. Inside the flapping walls of his tiny tent he knelt, and wept. And wept horribly. Tears hung below his cheekbones until yet more tears forced them off to land where they would, and between these tears his body heaved and his chest and his throat choked for air until a gulp and a swallow forced a way open.

Adam straightened up and stretched forward from his heels and kissed the head of Polly. Polly's head lay to the side, but that one eye was open and stared straight up into the eyes of Adam Blue. Adam Blue lifted the edge of the sleeping bag and. settled it just below the level of that eye. He tucked the sides of the sleeping bag around until all there was a little hummock, with Polly's head peeping out over the top. "Polly, you've been a good mate to me. I never should have brought you here to these god-forsaken Highlands. I'm sorry, Polly. Really sorry. I should've left you in London, but how was I to know, Polly? How was I to know? I didn't know this would turn out like this. You must believe me, Polly. I didn't know, I didn't know." The blue orange-bellied parrot made no answer. Only the one yellow-ringed eye stared back. "There's no need to look at me like that, Polly, by my word, I didn't know." A weeping face was buried into hiding hands. "I meant it for the best, Polly, dinkum I did - that cage was no place for you. Polly I just wanted . . . I wanted you to be free. They said a man could be free here in these here Highlands and I just wanted you to be free like the parrots back home. Polly. In Port Lincoln and even Queensland, Polly, the parrots fly so many and so free the sky turns technicolour." He patted the parrot. "Polly. Polly? Do you hear me Polly? Maybe you'll join all the other pretty Pollies from the Port up there in the happy land. Maybe even St. Peter will see how good a Polly you are and put you on his shoulder. You'd like that Polly wouldn't you? And you could stop him getting lonely in between customers." The choking for air was a frustration. The voice was raised. "Polly, you do believe me, don'tcha Polly?" But the eye only stared. Adam Blue made to cover the face over, but could not. The eye just stared. Stared right at Adam Blue. Adam Blue was fixed right in that eye. Probably forever. Adam Blue shook his head making the tears converge to run down his nose. He pulled his battered hat up from the floor of the tent and hugged it to his chest. "Christ, Polly, don't look at me that way. Aw, Polly, I didn't know, Polly, I DIDN'T KNOW."

Adam Blue stumbled out of the tent and into the howling of the wind and the sound of the rushing of the streams as the rain swept up out of the mist of the glen. Adam Blue knew that this cutting of the wind, and the soaking of the rain, was Just. This bleak glen had claimed his Polly and now tore at Polly's master who had been so foolish as to enter here with an alien bird. The wind, the rocks, the pounding water, all of these were ripping at the heart of Adam Blue. And Adam Blue was alone in this wide, wild glen. Adam Blue was all alone in this wide, wild world. Polly was gone. Taken away. And this glen sobbed. Adam Blue sobbed in sorrow, but this glen sobbed, not in sorrow, but in anger. Anger at Adam Blue.

"Curse you, curse all your bloody glens. "What did I do? What did I do?" Two arms were held aloft, hat clutched in a fist. "Why did you take her? She didn't do you any harm. I didn't do nothing and you took my Polly away. You took her for nothing, for nothing." A rumble of thunder rolled down between the black mountains. "Yeh, I hear you, but you don't frighten me glen, you did it. You bloody did it." The rain soaked on through his clothes to his body, hair was flattened against his forehead and wet found every orifice. "Do you hear me glen? Adam Blue says you are a no good bastard of a glen. Why did you do this? God didn't make this happen. No good God would take my Polly away. Polly was mine. She was my only pretty Polly. Why? Why? Why?"

Adam Blue fell to his knees with the damned unfairness of it all. The squelching moss sucked him down and held him. Painful sobs were quieter now. His voice quietened as he argued with God. "I tried my best for her, I truly did, honest I did, I did. but that wasn't good enough for you was it? No, you wanted more. And Adam Blue had no more to give, so you took Polly. Well, I'm through, y' hear, through. Through, Through, through"

But no answer came down from the seven sisters of the mountain, no voice to reproach or forgive. Adam Blue knelt, head bowed, staring into the pool of water he knelt in, until his head fell onto his chin. Adam Blue sobbed, gulping forth sobs until there were no more sobs left to sob. For a moment Adam Blue was as one with the wet of the heather, and the wet of the grass, the rain and the whistling wind. Kneeling in the moss of the Glen of the Seven Sobbing Sisters, he felt peace. And knew the answer to his sorrow. He rose to his feet and addressed the skies once more. ''Me. If you take Polly you take me. You hear?"

Another rumble of thunder came.

"Yeh. That'll upset you won't it? A volunteer. Takes your fun away doesn't it?" A gust of wind blew him backward. "Too right, mate, you think you've got it all figured. Well Adam Blue isn't going to wait for you to make your move. You take Polly now: you take me now." Another gust of wind blew across the heights of the glen, turning Adam around, setting his legs and feet into a stagger.

Adam Blue staggered and was blown downwards, towards the moor at the front of the glen. Stumbling, picking himself up to lurch with the wind; sometimes quiet, sometimes sobbing but yelling always. The wind blew; it blew him he knew not where and he cared not where. Adam Blue had lost his Polly and only wished to die. Wished to die in this glen. Die somehow, here with Polly. Maybe this wind would blow and send Adam Blue bumping and bouncing from a crag to a boulder, side to side, edge to edge down some Highland ravine. This glen of the Seven Sobbing Sisters must be made to claim another victim. "I'm coming Polly. I'm coming. "

The way he headed was random, but ever downwards; downwards to the marshy moor at the floor of the glen. The high suicidal crags were all behind him now. No merciful fall would happen. Adam Blue had lost out again. Some other way must be tried, Polly must be reunited with her Adam. A burn which had begun as a tearful trickle on the face of the mountain, was broadening; here a stream, there a river in torrent. Adam Blue tottered and teetered along the edge of the riverbank. Brown peaty water surged, fighting against itself, wrestling and coiling its way on; slapping against rock and tearing, tearing at the roots of marsh reeds. In that river Adam Blue could drown, would drown.

The river bent and swung to form a pool in the loop. Above the pool Adam Blue looked down and knew that this was it. The dark moving wrestling shooshing water calmed and hypnotised. This was it. Eyes wrenched away for one last look back up the glen, to where the rippling piece of orange cloth waved its goodbyes. This it. Adam Blue jumped, holding his hat firmly onto his head. "Polly." His feet jarred on the bottom. The dark water rose to his chest, but no

further. Adam Blue was too tall a man to drown. Adam Blue was still alive, only wetter and colder. Adam Blue wept again. These forces were looking for surrender. He struggled from the river, scrambling up the bank, to lie on the mossy bank and beat his fists upon the turf. "Goddam you. Goddam you." The beating of the hands stopped. He folded his arms saltire-fashion under his chin. "Adam ain't finished. Not by a long chalk. I am not finished." And he was not finished.

Again he staggered to his feet, again to be blown on, and on, over the moor till his feet struck tarmacadam. This would be of no use. Roads were optimistic things; generally they went somewhere. Lights. Lights behind. Little dots of light, but there, yes, something was coming. Something, something that could only mean humans. Humans in a car. Cars that destroyed and broke the peace of the glen. Cars that refused to let Polly die in peace. But this car could be constructive: this car could unite Adam and Polly.

Adam hid behind the slats of a broken-down fence at the side of the roadway. The lights cut wider through the misty rain. These lights were high. This was no car. This was a bus. Adam Blue's luck was looking up. This should do the job.

The bus came on and came on and the lights grew bigger. Bigger, brighter and bigger, bigger, until here, by the fence, here, here. Now. Ripper. Adam Blue leapt .

One foot remained stuck in the mud, pulling him sideways. The bus touched his right arm enough to twist him sideways and he fell flat on his face into the muck. The bus slithered and stopped.

John Burnett was first out of the door, running to this man who had leapt from nowhere. The man lay still in the glaur. John knelt beside him at the road's edge. The other passengers followed, clustering round, looking down, struck dumb at coming across a man who jumped in front of buses in the middle of nowhere. John touched the man gently on the shoulder.

"Are you alright? Are you alright?"

The man snorted through the one nostril that remained clear of the earth. He was alive. John put his arms under the man's chest and began to lift. The man was rising: body first, legs straight, feet straight but his toecaps stuck. Suddenly the man rolled over and fell on to his back. One arm was raised and a finger pointed. "Polly, up there, Polly."

John looked up. There was nothing up there but the wet and the cloud, and the stony-faced glen, darkening ever darker, glowering and threatening. The man struggled on to one arm, his other waving toward the slopes. "Polly, she's up there, my Polly."

John turned. "I think he's got a wife or a girl-friend up there."

"Where?" asked Mary.

"I don't know" said John," Somewhere, up there, up the glen." He turned back to the man. "What happened? Is she hurt? An accident? Was there an accident?" The man's head fell forward, he gripped John's shoulder tightly as he struggled to rise.

"Polly. She 's up there. I can't leave her up there. I must be with Polly. She needs me."

J.L. McCrabberty stepped forward. Simon Havoc stepped forward. J.L. looked at him before speaking to the accident victim. "We'll help you, son. Just you lean on young John here and show us the way. We'll find your Polly."

The injured man managed a nod as he regained his feet. He placed one arm across his body and gripped the other. The group waited, watching this man. He spoke. "I think it's too late for my Polly. But if we go back up, perhaps we can bring her down."

Mrs. McCrabberty gasped and held her hand to her mouth. Mary placed an arm around her to comfort her. J.L. tried to take charge. "Martha, Mary, you stay with the bus. This looks like work for us here menfolks."

"Shut up, J.L." said Martha, "If there's some poor female up there dead or a·-dying, then that's work for women-folk. What do you know about how a woman hurts or dies?" Mary nodded. J.L. shut up.

The stranger had already started away back up the glen, following the river. John Burnett followed him. J.L. followed John , as Simon stepped in the soggy footsteps of J.L. Mary waited until Martha fetched her handbag from the bus, then helped her over the ditch at the side of the roadway, and on, up, behind the others Adam Blue led on.

He muttered to himself and occasionally he would stop and throw his head

back and talk to the sky, but the only words John could catch were "Polly"

and "St. Peter's port." The mud was giving way to wet scree, each inch slipped away and rolled downhill from under their sliding feet. But there in the centre of a sudden circular steppe in the lee of a sharp-faced cliff was a pathetic looking bivouac, holding on and snapping back defiance at the wind. The stranger stopped, turning, pointing to the tent, silent. John turned and waved J.L. on.

J. L. turned to wave Simon on. J.L. slapped Simon on the face.

The Australian stranger stood at the entrance to the tent. The flap slapped back and forth across the entrance to the tent. John arrived and stood, unsure. J.L. arrived and stood, watching the man at the tent. Simon stood, watching J.L. Mary and Martha arrived, and stood, puzzled. Mary pushed her hair back from her eyes. Martha fished in her bag and brought out her compact. They all looked toward the man. And they all saw the tears as he bent and pushed his way into the tiny tent.

No-one moved. Even the wind lay still and the man's muffled sobs were the only sounds. Breaths were held as he came out, backing out of the tent. John rushed forward to help. In a cup made by the man's big hands was a parrot. A blue parrot with red and yellow markings and only one eye. And it was dead. John spoke first. "Is this your Polly?" The man gave the merest nod.

J.L. slapped his forehead. "Jesus H. Christ. Is this what we come up here for? A stinking dead parrot? Oh come on, somebody has got to be kidding."

The stranger's tears dried up, instantly. He stared at J.L. with dry lit-up eyes. "You watch your mouth, mate. You say just one more word about Polly and I'll wring your neck like a Christmas chook. Molly here was the best mate I ever had, no mistake. She talked a lot of sense and laughed at this old sundowner's jokes. When I was down she told me her jokes. So don't you go calling her, I warn you: once."

Simon stepped in to protect J.L. "Please. Please. Gentlemen. I am sure that your parrot is a lovely parrot and a good friend. But I am sure she would not have liked you to have harmed Mr. McCrabberty."

The man kissed Polly's head. "That's for sure."

John scratched his head. "What do you intend doing with your, eh, Polly? I mean what can you do? I mean . . .

"If you give me a ride on your bus, I'll take Polly somewhere where I can give her body to science. Something saved me from being a dead man tonight, and I reckon it was for some purpose. And I reckon it's to do with Polly." He held Polly out and let the cup of his hand rise and fall gently, before kissing her cold head. "Perhaps I have to find out why this hellish valley is no good for parrots. Maybe I can do something. Maybe someday people won't be afraid to bring their parrots into this part of the world." He looked up to and around the cloud - covered mountains. "Maybe someday the eagle and the parrot can live together in harmony."

John scratched his head faster. This sort of thing only happened in Glasgow, and never to anyone from Edinburgh – or anywhere else. He looked around for help. J.L. and Simon were stuck. Mary fell back and sat on the ground. Martha was on another fumble into her bag. She pulled out a card and stepped forward. "Excuse me, mister, eh, mister …

"Blue, missus, my name is Blue. Adam Blue."

"Pleased to meet you I'm sure. My guru, he's really a genuine one. He's a Mental Commuter. Isn't he J.L.?" J.L. closed his eyes and grimaced. "He says that that when we go we must go whole and stay whole or else we'll never get back or if we do get back our souls will be shattered into little pieces and may not even know each other. So I would advise strongly against having your Polly cut up." Adam took the card, holding Polly against his chest. He read it and offered it back.

"No, no. You keep it. If you're ever in California look him up. And come and see us too. You'll be welcome."

He searched for a pocket for the card, but found none. He slipped the card between Polly's beak. "So what do you suggest Mrs.?"

"Why, bury her. Bury her right here. Here, where she passed away. Let her soul fly free, free into the hereafter."

Adam looked and Martha. Their eyes held. There was a silence between them; outside of it, others stood in inferior empty silences of their own. "You're a dinkum good woman Martha McCrabberty. I sense you are. I sense truth coming from you."

Martha flushed and turned to the others. "John. You start digging."

John was feeling the sharpness of his nails bringing out blood on to his scalp, and decided that life was too short. He stomped around the circle of grass, now and again stopping and stamping, testing the wet moss with his foot. "What do you think Mr. Blue? Do you think she'll be all right here?"

Adam looked at him quizzically for a pisstake. shook his head anyway. "Here?" Again the head shook. John stamped his foot again. "'This seems a good place. And from here she can see all over Argyll - on a clear day." Adam gave John the benefit of the doubt, and gave the nod. John knelt and pulled at some clumps of grass, which came away easily. He scrabbled away at the earth. J.L. came over and knelt beside him and he too clawed at the hole in the ground, making it wider. Simon came over, knelt beside them, pawing at the ground, and his head struck the two others.

"Please, sorry please" he said.

"Please, sorry, please, I bloody am." said John, "Both of you. I'll manage, thank you." The two stood up. Simon followed J.L. away. John dug on until a fairly wide, deep oblong hole had been dug. Mary brought over some reeds from the marshy ground and laid them along the bottom of the trench. John, Mary, Martha, J.L. and Simon, now stood back, fidgeting. They all looked toward the bereaved man. Adam Blue waited. He held Polly high, brought her down again and stepped over to the graveside. Kneeling, he placed his Polly on the reeds, stroking her head. Mary passed him down some more reeds, which he took, placing them over Polly, one by one.

Adam did not cry. The Blues did not cry. Adam kept control. He stood up, slowly, passing one arm across his body while holding the other by his elbow. He stood looking down on Polly's grave. And there were no tears from this man. J.L. stepped forward. Simon stepped forward. J.L. began to sing. The words came softly, then gathered strength, as J.L. came forward to the graveside. " Aahrmayziyiing Grace, how sweet the sound . . .

Martha came forward and took up the hymn " Thaat saves aaa wretch li - i -ike me . . .

Mary came and placed an arm around Martha's shoulder. She could see the hurting. "I I oncet waaas lost, but now I'm found . . .

Simon moved over behind Martha and Mary, standing erect, head up, placing one hand on a shoulder of each woman. He had learned this one at Cultural Integration Classes. "Waass blind, buut now, I see . . .

John found himself joining in: at first humming as he gently patted and pushed at the earth around the poor Polly, until, finished, he too crossed his arms in front and sung.

Polly's bed of reeds was now covered in, although the outline still resembled a parrot, only bigger. Simon was crying. Adam straightened up his shoulders, picked up a piece of earth and threw it over Polly's last resting place in the Glen of the Seven Sobbing Sisters. One by one they all did the same, throwing the dirt then turning to wend a way down the hill behind this most sensitive of men, Adam Blue.

And the deep Glen echoed to the sweet voices as they sang, as all raised voice in hymn to the memory of the dear departed Polly. And as they sung, a cloud parted, and the late evening sun shone through and down; down on to the file of mourners making their way down the hillside, as a many-hued rainbow tried to cleft the crags above them. But the rain still rained and John was soaking wet. He followed on at the end of the line. At the bottom they all clambered on the bus, following Adam.

Adam sat, screwed up, by himself, casting his eyes to the high hills where eagles dared and parrots lay down to die. John leaned back in the driver's seat and dug the nails of both hands into his scalp. It would be a dark long road to Castle Crab.

Castle Crab

The sun was setting: breaking up in splinters of red through thinning cloud, as Burnett's Touring Bus began the steep haul up the mountain road toward that plateau known as the Rest and be Breathless. The bus groaned in harmony with the groans of its driver, and the groans of the passengers feeling every bump, depression, pothole and every corrugation along the track's pitted and rutted washboard length. The engine protested with each downward search of the gears; the passengers protested with every bump that lifted them from their seats to glide suspended for a long second, but set them swiftly back down again on speedily bruising spinal cords. The steering wheel trembled in John's grip, his foot wrestled with the clutch; the bus was vibrating; every rivet on every panel was loosening, quitting: determining to jump out and off before the end came. Wheels were turning, but getting nowhere. John made his feet move in a frenzy while his left hand leapt from the steering wheel to the old gear-stick and back again and back. The shuddering bus staggered, but moved. Forward. Just a little she moved.

Forward. Engine groaning: whining for release. Forward, and up she moved: clanking; until there came a change in the note of the engine. The Plateau had been reached. John braked.

The wheels stopped. They didn't need to be asked twice. They had reached the plateau of the Rest and be Breathless. And there below, set like a bulbous finger at the end of its long arm of rocky causeway, sat the Castle of Crab. " There she is J .L. - the Castle of the Crabs."

J.L scurried up the aisle to be beside John at the driver's seat. He placed a hand on John's shoulder and stared out.

The rain had dropped to a drizzle to allow the sun to set centre on the stage of the sea. Reddening rags of cloud were all around, trying to wrench themselves free from mountain crags that refused to let them go. The green of the lower slopes had turned to sheets of gold. The green grass-turned-golden shimmered the spray of the drizzle as the streaks of the sun and beat a path down and along: out, skipping over the rocks to merge with silver edges of the sea- loch which rippled in reds and golds, silvers and golds, reds and silver-whites where the waves burst and lapped along the broken rugged base of the causeway. The causeway led out from the shore to a castle built on an island of straight-faced rock. Castle Crab was dark. Even in the bright reflected hues of the late evening sunlight, the castle was dark. J.L.'s mouth fell open. "Crab Castle. At last. And it's too much. Never seen anything like this in all my travels. Can we get down there? Can we? Gildarn it, John, you've done a grand job. No wonder no-one else wanted to take me on. John, when I buy this place you can be my willie. It . . .

"You mean your ghillie."

" Sure, that too."

Adam shouted at them from his seat at the rear. "Before you go doing anything, mate, I think you should take a dekko across there to your left."

Everyone looked out the left-hand side of the bus. There was only the undulation of the hills and the dark silhouettes of the gorse bushes. Nothing was moving. But it was gloaming. Simon looked at J.L. Martha looked, pulling spectacles from her bag, wiped the window as she looked, and looked again. "Mr. Blue I don't see anything."

"Over there, just beyond that little hump."

John strained his eyes and peered. " The place is full of little humps. Scotland is well known for her little humpies."

"Look mate, count three humps from that pointed boulder over there and keep your eye on it."

They all watched. Simon watched J.L. Silent. Watching. Martha opened her mouth but Adam said "Shoosh, you stupid sheila." They watched.

Something was appearing. Slowly. Hair. Spikes of hair, coming up, slowly, above the edge of the little knoll. Then a broad forehead. Then a pair of round eyes, staring wild and white in the dusk. Two eyes staring, watching the bus. Martha drew back in fright. Mary hugged her in close "There, there, it's all right. What is it, Mr. Blue?"

"Bloody don't know, do I? But I'll find out pretty damn quick. C'mon, all of you, off the bus." Adam's eyes had taken on that look they had all seen back at the glen. John opened the door. One by one they all filed from the bus to stand around aimlessly. Adam was waving his hands up and down like a primary school teacher. "Whistle. C'mon. Whistle. Whistle, bloody whistle. "

"Whistle?" asked J .L. "What d 'you mean, whistle?"

"Bloody just whistle. Any bloody thing. Just whistle." He made his hands into fists and drew them into himself, frustrated. "God don't you civvies know anything? Just pretend. Pretend we don't know he's there. Seventeenth Rule of Guerrilla Warfare. Christ, it was never like this in Vietnam. Whistle. Please, will you all just whistle? In case there's more of them things out there."

J.L. began to whistle Tea for Two. So did Simon. Martha looked at them, wet her lips, and tried to whistle a happy tune. Mary was laughing; in between laughs she attempted Waltzing Matilda. John shook his head, but decided upon an up-tempo version of Over the Sea to Skye. Adam was still not happy. "Bloody hell. Will you try and look casual about it?"

Mary turned her head this way and that. Martha followed suit, but changed her tune to I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair. She pretended to wash it, for added effect. J.L clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace along beside the bus, changing his tune to the St. Louis Blues March. Simon clasped his hands behind his back and also marched beside the bus and behind J.L., changing his tune to the St. Louis Blues March as he did so, trying hard not to inwardly smirk at the thought of a disdainful Cultural Integration Tutor. Adam Blue put his back to the side of the bus, sidled along it, to the end, then finally disappeared behind it.

Mary fell in behind Simon, clasping her hands behind back, but skipping along as she took to the St. Louis Blues March. John could not whistle his Scottish air any-more. His whistle became a series of collapsing whoo whew whoos.

J.L. led them up the side of the bus, marked time for four beats, then whirled around to march back up before marking time next to John. "Burnett. How come you let this nut on my bus?" John looked at Simon. "No, not him, the other one. Who the hell is this guy?"

John shrugged. "Sorry, J.L., the bus is mine, but it's your hire. You didn't say put him off."

"You're right. It is my hire I say: let's go. Leave him here. I want to get to Castle Crab before nightfall."

"I don't think that would be wise. He looks like a man that would bear a grudge. Not unless you want to play at being Gary Cooper."

A grotesque scream screamed out of the dusk. They stood, staring at each other. The wild-eyed man with the spiky hair was running down the hillside on his tip-toes - screaming. Behind him came Adam.

The man had red hair, a large red beard and his eyes were now even wider. He wore a black rubber coat which lay open to show underneath a green sweater with two expanding vents on the front, open, displaying his chest. His kilt was a dark tartan. He had no sporran and no hose. His bare feet were tied into broad brogue shoes. And Adam Blue had one hand up his kilt from behind. Adam's other hand was held victoriously high above his head, waving a set of bagpipes. Together, with Adam propelling, they hurtled down the hillside to stop at the group of interested spectators. The man's eyes were widening even further now and filling with water. "Shut your whingeing." said Adam.

Martha huddled closer to Mary. Adam noticed and addressed them over the man's shoulder. "You sheilas had better go on the bus. This could be nasty."

"Why?" asked Mary, "What's he done? More to the point, what are you going to do?"

"I aim to find out why this here crazy fella was slinking around out there like a

bloody dingo. That's what. I reckon he's maybe some kind of Highlandman bushranger. I saw him watching us from way clear before the bus stopped." Adam flexed an arm. The man turned his head instinctively. Without a sound.

John flinched, looking pained. "Listen you can't go around assaulting people just because they like to lurk about in the long grass."

"You listen. I was in Vietnam, mate. I know the look, there's lurkers an there's lurkers. This one was lurkin for a reason. Wasn't ya?" The squeeze was put on. The man screamed. Louder. "We'll I'll take that as a too right. Now that's ripper. Just keep talking: who are you?" "Aaah. I . . . I am the piper of the Signal Rock. That is all. Aaaaah I've got to watch and signal danger to the clan. That's all. That is all." He tried to gain more height on his tip-toes, leaning forward on the points of his brogues.

"Signal? Signal who? Who to? Where to?"

"The Castle. My job is to signal the Castle."

The man's face was creasing with pain. John crossed his hands over his own crutch. J.L. turned away, as did Simon. Adam was smiling into the man's ear. "Is that what is this all about, mate?"

" Aaaaaaa . . . if if if if aaaah you look like trouble I play a certain tune, if you are friends, I play another."

J.L. came forward. "Who pays you buddy?"

"Yes. Please. Who pays you sir? Please." asked Simon.

"Answer the man."

"Ah. Leave me something. The Crab . . . the Crab of McCrab the Crab of McCrab"

"Why do you have to signal him?" asked John.

"I can't tell you I don't know" The scream screamed again. Longer, even louder.

Adam hissed in his ear. "Well my little highland chook you are going to play up and tell Mr. McCrab we're on our way down and we're prepared to be his friends. Or the otherwise, if he prefers it. Play it."

"That's an odd title for a pipe tune." said Mary.

J.L. spoke. "That's no use. How would we know one tune from another? This guy could play anything."

" I can play a bit." said John.

"Ripper. Now my little poison dwarf what's your tunes? Or do I have to pull your balls off?"

The Highlander could not stretch one further millimetre higher on his toes. "The Battle of the Birds The Battle of the Birds play the Battle of the Birds and all will be well. I promisssssssss. . .

J.L. turned to John. "Do you know it?"

John nodded, came over, and took the bagpipes from Adam. He set the three drones on his left shoulder, patted the bag with his right as he held the pipe chanter in his left. He patted and pushed the air into all the bag's crannies as he blew into the blowstick. The two tenor drones made little squealing noises as he patted. He blew in a controlled way and patted, then held steady with no sound coming. He seemed about to give a push up to the bag but instead let the blowstick fall from his mouth. He turned to the captured piper, waving the pinkie of his right hand up and down."Do you play with a closed 'C' or an open 'C'?"

"Open"

"Traditionalist, eh?"

John filled the bag until it was full, placed his hand under it and gently pushed it up under his left arm. The two tenors came on but were struggling to be heard under the sound of the bass drone which was booming: out of harmony. John let the chanter pipe reed sound. It was strong and loud. A loud sound, filling the air around, splitting the air, bouncing off the rocks, skiting over the waters of the loch. John ran his fingers through a preliminary exercise.

The Highlander wrenched free from Adam. He ran over beside John and placed his hands upon the drones. Adam moved for him. The Highlander glared. "Leave me be. These drones are out of tune." Adam, sensing the seriousness, left him, and the piper began to slide the sections of the bass drone up, up a little, down a touch, until the bass drone came into harmony with the two tenors. He gave one of the tenors the slightest turn, listened, nodded, patted John on the back and stepped away, head down listening intently. John held one note for a long time before beginning the piece. He began.

As the notes came free and carved their space in the night, John stepped around, slowly: stepping; stopping; then stepping around again, not moving to any discernible beat. The notes were split into tiny pieces of sound by the quick urgent movements of his fingers and cleaved the night air. The angry high notes of the anger of the Birds suited the cloudy red anger of the darkening sky. Faster playing now as birds swirled, fought and cried; faster as they flew and faster, faster as they dived to their deaths and then slow, slower, as a peace returned to the mountains of the glen. John stopped.

He took down the pipe and returned it to the lookout. The Signal Piper took them, and saluted. For a moment there was only the silence, then, drifting up to them from below came the sound of another pipe. The Highlander pointed.

There on the battlement of Crab Castle, silhouetted against the sinking sun and the reflected light from the loch was another Piper. The Highlandman spoke. "That is the piper to the Crab himself."

"John" said J.L., "I appreciate this all really something, but I'm itching to get down there. Can we set down there? If so can we get going?"

"I am cold. I am cold." said Simon, boarding the bus even before J.L.

The Highlandman stepped away to return to his post. Adam made to go after him. John pulled at his elbow. "C'mon Adam, lets just go and meet his boss."

"But he could've been a hostage."

"A hostage? To what? For what? Listen he would have been more dangerous on the bus. Have you ever tried to throw a mad Scotsman off a bus?"

"No"

"Well that's something they wouldn't teach you in Vietnam."

They all boarded the bus. Adam Blue stayed in the well made by the steps of the bus. He crouched down until only the brim of his hat and his eyes were above the edge of the window.

John set the bus into its stumbling motion. Down the slope was easier, but by the time they reached the bottom where the mountain path met the causeway, John's calf muscle was sore from pushing with all his weight upon the brake pedal. For most of the slide down John had kept the brake fully depressed. Out here on the causeway the night did not seem just as bright.

The way was narrow. No saving walls along the side~. The road surface was traditional: an impacted mosaic of dry-stane. The dry-stanes had been well put together. Though the stanes were all shapes and sizes they had all been made to fit together tightly. J.L. felt the difference in his backside. "This is better John. Amazes me how these olden time people built roads away up here."

"Probably redcoats, J.L. Most of the bridges and roads up here were built

by the English soldiers. Maybe Crab of McCrab was a supporter of the Union."

"John, don't let me hear you speak like that."

The bus trundled over the bridge-cum-road. John stopped it outside the two big solid doors of the castle, with their two huge rings of iron set

halfway-up on a line of large rivet heads. There was no pipe being played now. John stuck his head out of his cab. There was no piper on the battlements. John pumped the horn. John pumped the horn again. Nothing. No-one. The red sun had slunk further down into the loch, throwing the front turrets of the castle into a darker relief. John pumped again. A cormorant flew up out of a turret. No answer came.

Adam tapped John on the shoulder. He was frantically gesturing, signalling John to open the door of the bus. John leaned over and pulled them over and across. Adam sat down on the steps of the bus and bounced on his bum off outside onto the wet ground and into the dark once more. John pumped the horn again. Adam's hat and face appeared at the bottom step. "Christ, mate, are you trying to get me to shit meself?"

Adam slipped away again into the silence.

J. L. came down the aisle. Simon followed. "What do you think, John?"

"It's a puzzle J.L. There must be somebody in. Unless that piper we heard earlier has dived off into the loch."

"Please. Perhaps he is using his dood1esac as some kind of raft?"

"No, no, I don't think so Simon."

Mary was putting on her blue plastic coat. "I'm for off outside. We'll achieve nothing just sitting here. C'mon Martha, lets go."

Martha shrugged her shoulders but got up, fixed herself up with a pat from a pad from her compact and followed Mary off the bus, squeezing past J.L. and Simon to get off. She swung her hip at Simon. "Move your fanny and make way for a lady." She stepped down and flattened her clothes, set her creases and set her hat. The men followed: J.L., then Simon and John. It was dark. It was night beginning to blackening, pushing at the last of the silver blue dusk. The doors of the castle were black. Out here on the first rampart, they were higher, broader, and darker. J.L. reached up for one of the rings but it was beyond his height. He cursed. Mary stepped forward. "Cup your hands."

J.L. looked confused for a second then nodded and linked his fingers to form the cup. Mary stepped into his hands. "UP" she commanded. J.L. lifted, lifted. Mary reached the ring by a hand. She banged it on the door, banging and banging bang bang on the door until J.L.'s strength gave out and he had to let her down. John turned to Simon. "Havoc, did you say you were expected here?"

"Please? Yes. I am expected. I am here for the rats. There are rats in Crabular Castle."

A voice boomed from the dark above them. "Rats? Who said rats to the Crab of McCrab? Who said rats to the Crab of McCrab, Lord of the Castle of Crab, the Policies, Prawns and Lobsters of the Loch of the Crabs?"

Simon stepped behind J.L., slipping and nearly falling over the edge into the water. They all looked up. From the turret on the right a tall broad man was leaning over. On cue the moon came out to light him: long white hair flowed out from his head, emphasising the blackness of the patch that covered one eye. On his shoulder the silhouette of a parrot could be made out, pecking at the ring which dangled from the man's earlobe. "Well? Who have we here? Friend or foe? Sportsman or taxman? What have you come here for? To play or have pay?"

Martha bent her head back further, holding on to her hat. "Listen Mr. Crab of McCrab no-one is saying RATS to anyone, but I'll have a damn sight more than that to say if you don't send some stupid flunkey down here to let us in." The Crab of McCrab laughed.

J. L. took strength from his wife. "Yeh. How about it Crabby, are you going to let us in? It's perishing damp out here. Where's your Highland hospitality?"

"With that accent what would you know of Highland hospitality?"

Martha shook her fist. "Nothing too much right now mister, and as far as I'm concerned you can stick it where it hurts." The Crab of McCrab straightened up and laughed again, open-mouthed and loud.

"What's he laughin at?" asked Martha.

John pointed up the way they had come down. "There, look. We'll never be able to reverse up there, especially in this wet; we have to be able to get into the Castle to turn the bus. We're stuck Martha. Unless you want to go for another night climb."

When they had all finished shaking their heads at one another they gazed upwards again. Crab of McCrab had swung his legs over and was sitting in the battlement space. They could see the man: silver- white hair, black eye patch, caressing his parrot, while speaking into space. Now he spoke directly to the parrot, never taking his eyes off the parrot. His voice was softer now: Scots but with more than a trace of an English public school accent. "What shall we do, Miranda? Shall we take them in, feed them, allow them the run of our home? Shall we Miranda? Are we ready up here for such an intrusion? Perhaps they come here with wicked ways. Miranda. What shall we do? Shall we obey the old laws of Hospitality, or play safe? Tell me, Miranda."

The parrot's wings stretched, the beak opened, a screech came out: Whose Afraid of Virginia Wolfe? Whose Afraid of Virginia Wolfe?"

Crab of McCrab kicked his heels against the turret wall. "Ah, Miranda. Correct as usual. Who indeed?" He looked below. "There we are then. Never let it be said that Crab of McCrab, Lord of the Crab, the Lobster and the Loch ever let a damsel in distress leave his door without seeing to her problem. Give the command, Miranda."

"Open locks, friendship knocks." the parrot screeched.

The two doors opened. Hesitantly they bunched themselves together. Their mixed up jumble of feet and legs and arms and heads edged, shuffled, walked, stepped into the castle as the vanquished sun finally gave up its fight with the conquering moon. Beyond the doors a courtyard opened out to them: square and cobbled. The cobbles were still wet with rain and reflected the light of a full moon which appeared, disappeared, among the impassive clouds.

There was no-one by the doors. There was no one in the courtyard that they could see. They shuffled on, and in, and stopped. A vacational instinct made them huddle and formed a tight bunch in the centre of the square. But there was no-one there with a pink ribbon tied to a brolly to give comfort. The large doors closed to creaking closure. "The bus." said Mary, "John, your bus?"

"Mary Stirling I have a funny feeling this is not the time to be worrying about the bus. I have a funny feeling the bus is going to be here for a while and so are we"

"That's nice. Thanks a lot."

J.L. was looking around. "Where's the nut? Where is the koala nut-cracker?"

Everyone looked at each other. Simon was making faces and shrugging his shoulders. John put his finger to his mouth. "Sh. Don't mention him. Just don't say he's here. There's just something not right about this place, so just let's leave Adam out of it."

"I think your Celtic imagination is running away with you." said Mary.

"Lets hope that's all it is then."

A door creaked somewhere over in a corner of the square. Steps sounded sharply, distinctly, on cobbles. A figure emerged from the dark of a small door at the base of a turret into the clear of the moonlight. The figure of the Crab of McCrab and his parrot stepped over.

He was broad. He was tall. His shirt had a large ruffle at the neck and ruffles paraded on his chest. A plaid hung from his left shoulder, made in the same tartan as the mad signaller had worn. A broad leather belt with a large silver buckle was slung across his chest. The thumbs of both hands were thrust into a broad buckled belt which spanned the top of a kilt made of the same tartan as the plaid. Hose of blue and yellow diamonds decorated his legs above silver buckled shoes. He approached, adjusting the Glengarry which had one long feather stuck in either end, making the cap look as if it was a ship, with two oversized funnels sailing over the head. The parrot was naturally red and yellow and blue. The master of the castle removed the Glengarry with a flourish. "Welcome to Castle Crab. It is not often people pay this old castle a visit, we're so far out of the way. Though I must say when they do come, they tend to stay awhile." He laughed. "Highland hospitality. Who is your Leader? Or guide, or what?"

" Well . . .

" Well . . .

"Please I . . .

"He is." said Martha.

J. L. grimaced into her finger. "Yeh, well, sure, I am. James Lomond McCrabberty at your service" He extended a hand.

A larger hand engulfed it. ''McCrabberty, eh? A clansman? One of my clansmen then? And is this all your branch of the clan?"

J.L. laughed, stretching lips that were drawn tight over tighter teeth. Simon laughed falsely. The Crab hugged J.L. to him. "Welcome clansman. Dr. Crab, Chieftain of all the Clan Crabs, the Crabs, Crabbers, Crabbits, Crabbitys, with a Y or an – i e s, and all derivatives thereof, and all their macsons and their macdaughters, welcomes you. Crab welcomes you."

Martha stepped forward and pulled at the hands that held her husband in. "Yeah? O.K. Crustaceous, that's enough of the welcoming, let's have just a little less of the bonhomie, huh?"

"And who is this?" Dr. Crab let J .L. go.

J .L. bent, grasping his thighs and gasping for breath. Martha pulled at her hat and patted at the back of her hair. "Martha McCrabberty. You just seemed to be just overdoing it a little with my husband."

Dr. Crab came forward. He lifted both of Martha's hands by the fingertips. "Ah, madame, pardonnez-moi. Et tu, je suis enchante. Le plaisir? Tout a moi." Martha giggled; but saw Mary frowning, so pulled away. Gently. Dr. Crab repeated his action with Mary. "Belle. Tu es belle. Vraiment." " Je suis le Mary Stirling, and 1'd like my hands back please, if you don't mind."

The rather-inclined head raised up from the kissing of the hands. Round black eyes with pink edges squinted at John. "Clansman McCrabberty, James, please introduce me to your fellow travellers."

J.L. introduced John. The Doctor inclined his head. They turned to Simon. "And this is your new rat-catcher."

"My what? My?"

"Ratcatcher. Your new ratcatcher from Edinburgh." Simon tried to step behind J.L. but J.L. kept edging around.

The Doctor shot out a hand and held Simon's. "My ratcatcher. The ratcatcher general. Is that you? Miranda, we have a ratcatcher. Well. This does explain all this talk of rats. Unfortunately, we seem to have a ratcatcher with no rats. That we know of."

Simon tried to pull his hand away but could not free it. He began to buckle at the knees, pulling at the hands that held him in their grip. "Please. Stop. I can explain. I, you, I am, I am her lover, yes please. I am her lover." His eyes were pleading with Mary.

John looked at Mary. Mary looked at John. John reddened. Mary took off her shoe and hit Simon a clout over the head. "I've never seen this man before today. I don't know who he is but I'm fussy as to who is my lover." She struck him a few lovely blows.

"Please. I mean from afar. From afar. I love you from afar, until today, I could not bear it any-more. I had to be with you."

"Miranda. This gentleman doesn't seem to be who he says he is. That is naughty Miranda, isn't it? Well Miranda, what shall we do? Shall we put him in the other quarters away from normal people who know who they are? Shall we?"

The parrot screeched: Off with his head Off with his head.

From out of the gloom of the corners of the square several kilted men appeared, each of them clasping a hand on the round basket handles of the claymores, which hung threateningly from their sides. To their head came a dwarf of some four feet in height. The Doctor let go Simon's hand and nodded. The mini-kilted highlander collected the loose material of Simon's coat in one hand, pulling it tight. He swung Simon up into the air and held him aloft at the end of a short but extremely muscular arm. Simon was held up horizontally and carried away into the dark. Over in a corner a door opened. And closed.

Dr. Crab smiled. "He has worshipped you from afar: a beautiful, untouchable evening star. Perhaps your admirer is a romantic, Miss Stirling. But come, all of you. We must dine." The Doctor picked up Martha's hand, tucking it under his arm. "Come Martha."

"Lead me to it. Doctor."

"Oh come now, you may call me Crustaceous."

Martha turned red as a lobster, making her even more attractive.

In the Hall of the Mountain Crab

A long rectangular building lay to one side of the courtyard. As they approached it the parrot screeched: I've come to cut your gas off I've come to cut your gas off. Two doors opened in an end wall to his commanding call.

They entered the castle hall and the two kilted attendants pushed the large doors tight shut behind them. In each corner of the room two Highlanders stood with their hands ready at their claymores. One wall was a range of thin high-arched windows overlooking the Castle yard. At the far end of the hall a thick table squatted on a raised dais, with a small Ionian Cross set in the centre between two goblets. One third of the other long wall was taken up by the fire nest and the fireplace. Logs lay criss-crossed in the grate: burning, spitting, and releasing flame, which sought freedom up the chimney as sad embers sunk to the bottom of the hearth. Above the fireplace a green banner with dusty golden tassles hung. Patches of grey showed the weave where the material had faded over the years. In the centre of the banner was a crab rampant with pincers extended. Below the crab came the inscription 'Wha Checks A Crab Gets Nippit'.

"Is that the family motto?" asked Mary.

"It is, my dear." answered J.L. "No-one meddles with us Crabs."

Various muskets; targes; spears; sabres; claymores; flintlock pistol; boars' heads, deers' antlers and a long line of parrots' heads were stuck on wooden shields to impress visitors from other Clans. Martha hesitated at the fireplace. "Crustaceous, I mean Dr. Crustaceous, are those real parrots up there?"

"Stuffed, my dear, stuffed. A very important emblem to the Crabs is the parrot, you know. In 1687 the Earl of Crab ~as fighting for his king, or rather the King's money, in Holland. The standard-bearer was down, his best friend lay dying and his left knee was trickling blood. There was no-one

but himself and his trusty piper to protect the banner. Just then, along comes Le Comte de Berras, the best swordsman in all of Europe. My ancestor's leg could not hold him, he tried, but could not do it: down he tumbled at the Count's feet. The Comte was not a man to show mercy. "But," he held up a finger, pausing with the story, "just as the Comte was about to deal the death blow, a parrot flew right under his nose. Le Comte was so taken aback he hesitated; just long enough to allow the Earl's trusty bagpiper to strangle him with his bagpipes."

"That's a beautiful story."

"Beautiful and true, my dear. Ever since then parrots have always ridden on the shoulders of the warrior Crabs."

"Yeah," said J.L. "I remember seeing that movie about D-Day, didn't one of the Lord Crabs lead his men into a nest of Nazi machine gunners with his parrot on his shoulder? I think it was that guy Peter Bonty played the part. He never flinched."

''Who played the parrot?" asked Mary.

Crustaceous led Martha over to a seat at the long table which ran down the centre of the hall. "And that explains all of this reverence here, Martha. Mind you, legend has it that the devil will come up from down under and take away the last parrot of the Crabs, and so our house will fall. But, please, be seated." The table was long. John counted. It was set for seven. The Doctor waved them into a seat. "We seem to be two guests short. But never mind. Perhaps I shall catch up with them later." He laughed at their quizzical looks. They sat around the top end of the table with the Doctor at the head. He clapped his hands.

An elderly man and a young woman appeared. The man crouched low, as though in pain at his stomach, his beard touching his plain leather sporran. He shuffled forward slowly, his hand on his back. The woman had long long legs set into yellow high high heels. Her kilt was barely touching the beginnings of her bare thighs. A pheasant broach decorated her plain white blouse and a small Glengarry sat dead centre on her long red hair. The girl moved from leg to leg as she waited for the man to totter up and lean on the edge of the table. The Doctor introduced them. "This is our cook, Hamish J. McCrabbie, and his wife Amelia. What will you be serving tonight, Hamish?"

Hamish straightened his head up but could raise no more than his chin. Two fingers wavered up to touch his forelock. Several guttural sounds left his mouth before words finally came forth. "We will be for having the Cream of Crab soup, sir, and you, guests, followed by the Curried Crab of Khartoum with Crab Apple sauce and and and to finish: the Whipped Crab Delight as my mother used to make it."

"Ah. Sounds excellent, excellent. We await with consolatory anticipation." The pair walked, stumbled away.

Mary jerked her head at the girl. "Shouldn't she be up on the wall? Where did he get her? Off an airline?"

John placed his face in his hands. The Doctor smiled, but showed no teeth. He clapped his hands. "The wine." he commanded. "I am bringing up my special bin of Chateau de la Directrice, 1969. 1969 It is in a class of its own. Like you, Madame Martha." Martha lowered her head, flushing a little. J.L put both hands to his breast pockets, and had a comforting clutch at his wallet.

The waiters scurried this way and that, finding white cloths, delving into crates, until the wine was brought forth , tasted and accepted by the Doctor, and poured. More bottles were placed upon the table. Now the men scurried to the kitchen, returning with little fingers of toast and green lettuce with triangular slices of Pate du Crab. As they ate and these men tended table the Doctor conversed easily with everyone. Over pate and through the soup he smiled and asked questions, nodded and asked questions, shook his head and asked questions. Little questions, little pleasant questions, but always probing questions. A piper began to play. The sound increased as he came marching through the kitchen door. Amelia followed, carrying a silver platter high. Her husband followed behind, hobbling along and twirling a bottle of whisky through his hands. The salver was presented on the table in front of the Doctor. The Doctor stood. The piper stopped playing. The Doctor stood. From inside the leg of his stocking he withdrew a little bone handled Skean Dubh which he flourished high in the air. The Doctor addressed the Curried Crab of Khartoum.

"Great Crab, the Chief o' all sea-food,

I ken richt weel ye dae me good.

So if I boast, I'm no bein rude:

Soft ye are an tasty.

So sit. Take Crab, as aw men should:

Wi slitherin gulp, but ne'er ower hasty.

On the last line the Doctor raised up his Skean Dhubh in one hand, and the large crab from the platter. Uproariously he cut and tore and ripped under the shell until, finally, he broke the ruptured shell free. The Doctor turned the shell upside down and scooped it into the pool of gravy at the bottom of the platter. He lifted the shell high, slowly, tipping his head back, allowing the dark red mixture to slide into his mouth until some streaks ran down on to his chin. The mouth was wiped with the back of his hands and a smack of the lips. "Uisge-beatha." he shouted.

Two men ran around filling everyone's whisky glass. "I don't like whisky." said Martha.

"But this whisky is a special recipe. Known only to we Crabs. And you must drink it for your own sake. He moved his eyes a nose length from Martha. "If you refuse to drink to the Crab a great curse will fall on all who bear the name of the Crabs."

"Drink it, Martha." said James Lomond McCrabberty. "It smells kinda mild."

The Clan Chief waved them all to their feet. "To the Clan Crab" he toasted.

"To the Clan Crab." they chorused.

Martha sipped the whisky. "Mmm. That is quite nice. In fact it tastes just like our Ferrocola, before we put the gas in."

Their host's eyebrows went up. His eyes flitted from Martha to J.L., from J.L. to Martha. He was about to say something when the piper at his side began to play, making this idea redundant.

They were all hungry and ate.

The piper marched round the table, playing quick marches as they ate. The sound cracked off the flagstones, echoing high into the timbered trusses of the ceiling. Conversation was difficult. Whispering advice and concern was even more difficult. So they ate. The Curried Crab of Khartoum was followed quickly by the whipped Crab Delight.

As Amelia was presenting it to the Doctor another Highlandman entered. He approached the Doctor, trying to speak to him, but the piper had just come round once more and was playing by the Doctor's chair. The piper's eyes were rolling to the rafters, borne away on the beauty of his own playing. The Doctor signalled the piper to stop; but the piper was borne away on the Orphean notes of his playing. The Doctor waved. The piper nodded and squeezed his bag harder. The Doctor rose from his chair, and, taking down a spear from the wall, he rammed it through the piper's bag. The piper and his pipes crumpled, wheezing to a stop on the floor. The piper staggered to his feet, holding the pipes steady at his side where they swung from the blade of the spear. He attempted a salute and tripped sideways off through the kitchen door. Martha said "Oooh" and clapped her hands together. This was a real Scotch night.

Mary looked at John. John looked at Mary. J.L. just looked. The Doctor walked with the messenger to the door and stood talking. He returned to the table. "I must apologise for that. However, my fiancée has sent down a message that she wishes to join us. Since we rarely have company here, I have agreed. However I must ask your forbearance if you find that she acts a little strange. She has not been at herself recently. But, pray, come, enjoy yourselves." He clapped his hands again.

Five of the watching, waiting Highlanders moved to a corner of the hall. Two took up accordions, strapping them on with much ado; one snapped his fingers on a snare drum before sitting behind it, one began plunking on a double bass and the last sat and plinked at a fiddle. Through the kitchen door six young women and six young men came into the grand hall. The gentlemen held the ladies' hands high as they all stepped lightly on the balls of their feet to the space at the far side of the hall. The men were dressed neatly in black polystyrene jackets and white shirts with winged collars and black dicky-bow ties. The silver of the buttons was highly polished like the silver on the buckles of their belts and the buckles on their shoes. Their kilts were neat and tightly pleated: each one fitted its wearer perfectly. The ladies wore long pale blue dresses with flounced petticoats, while over their upper bodies they wore a broad sash of the Crab of McCrab tartan. The band struck a chord. The dancers bowed to each other. They danced: skipping lightly around for six paces and back again for six paces; forming wheels and forming straight lines, arching hands for couples to pass under and down the serried ranks and always smiling sweetly. The band played and the dancers danced. Doctor Crustaceous clapped his hands, stamped his feet and smiled. He stopped, turning to converse with his dinner companions. "So Mr. McCrabberty, you have traced your ancestors back to the Scottish McCrabs. How delightful for you. Perhaps I can help you find out some more."

"Yeah. Thank you. To be honest, I thought of buying this place but you don't

look as if you're short of a dollar or two. Anyway I was just thinking: maybe

we are related. My old grandpa in the States was always known as Crusty, round the family anyhow. I never heard him called anything else, Crusty by name and crusty by nature. Why he never told my Daddy about the recipe until he was on his death bed."

"His secret then, Mr. McCrabberty?"

"Family thing. Just a little formula he brought over from Scotland. For an old brew they used to drink. The Clan used to brew it here in Scotland for hangovers, as the legend has it."

The Doctor's face had gone white. "You mean, your father, from his father, had the secret of the Crabby Waters?"

"Never heard it called by that name, but he sure had some secret, God rest his soul. We just popped in some fizzy gas and there we are. We call it Ferrocola; Ferrocola: Picks you up and never lets you down."

"You say? Is your father still alive?"

J.L. sipped at the whisky. "Yes." he said. "No." said Martha.

The Doctor laughed. "Mr. McCrabberty, you are a man after my own heart."

"Just so long as you ain't a man after mine." J.L. patted his wallet pocket.

The gentlemen dancers had removed their jackets and their dicky-bows, opened their shirt necks and rolled up their sleeves. The men skipped forward. to take hold of the ladies' sashes. Ladies spun, skipping out of them, into them, until they allowed the gentlemen to wind and haul them in until lips and cheeks met in a decorous kiss. And they danced on. "They really are so graceful." said Martha. Do you do these dances Mary?"

"Oh, yes, certainly. I, we all learn these from the cradle up." The doors were being swung open wide by the attendants. They opened, opened, opened to their fullest extent. A woman stood, framed in the centre. A black woman. Dr. Crustaceous Crab's fiancée and she is a black woman. A large dumpy black woman who wore a white scarf knotted into a turban at the front. Her blue cloth dress was short-sleeved displaying her big biceps. The dress splayed out; it was torn and rent into rips at the bottom, giving jagged views of her petticoats underneath. Over her front and tied around her she had a broad white apron. The Doctor stood up and extended an arm and a hand to her. "Betsy my dear. So good of you to join us. Come and meet these travelling folks."

Betsy looked toward the band. Her lip curled disdain and she shook her head. She extended her arms to Crustaceous as she came forward. Her feet began to move: tap tap tapping taps tap tap on the stone floor. She tapped her way over to the table on a variation of ankle, heel and toe movements, giving a flourish and a clap and a little bow as she reached the table. She curled her lip at the band again. "Them jigs and things sure got difficult timing."

The dancers danced on. The gentlemen dancers had removed their shoes. On a cry of eeeeyuch' they swung the lady dancers up, and they too, kicked off their shoes. J.L. stood up to greet the Doctor's fiancée. John pushed himself up. The Doctor began the introductions. "J.L. I'd like you to meet my fiancée: Miss Betsy Heavens. Betsy, this is James Lomond McCrabberty. We've found that he might even be a crab-smackin cousin of mine."

J.L. nodded and shook hands. Crustaceous continued. "And this is John Burnett, pathfinder extraordinaire, and his friend, Miss Mary Stirling." John nodded as Mary exaggerated a curtsy. "No need to curtsy for me honey, I ain't the Lady Crab around here just yet."

The gentlemen dancers had removed their shirts. The music was speeding up. They danced around the ladies. They gave little tugs on the zippers of the ladies dresses. One lady was dancing in her pink petticoats.

Betsy sat down and snapped her fingers. A bottle of whisky was placed in front of her. She filled her glass and knocked one back and filled the glass again. "How long you folks here for? Or hasn't he told you yet?"

Crustaceous laughed. Nervously. Mary sipped at her glass. Nervously. They all studied the smile on the face of Crustaceous. "Ah Betsy my dear, Martha and James want to visit the old homestead. Find out about their roots. You know about that don't you?"

"Sure. Maybe someday I'll write a book about it."

"Well now Martha and James are here, I thought it might be nice to show them the estate."

"All of it?"

The Doctor smiled, sipping at his whisky. "All of it."

Betsy guffawed and slapped her hands on the table. John's glass jumped, re-settled.

The music was playing faster. The gentlemen dancers were now dancing with bare feet and bare chests. Reeling faster their kilts were rising and showing off the bare buttocks underneath and Martha was saying ooooh. The lady dancers were whirling and bobbling in an assortment of pants and brassieres. The deep bunka bunka bunka bunk of the bunking base was insistent. They were reeling. John shook his head. Mary shook hers, blinking her eyes. The Doctor kept time on Betsy's hands. "Oh dear Betsy, it seems I may have been remiss. Perhaps I have kept our visitors awake too long."

A kilt skited over the bottom end of the table, hanging on a corner edge then, slowly, slipping down, and off. A pair of briefs flew up and over, impaling themselves on the point of a spear at the wall. Betsy picked up her fiancée's metronomic fingers. "Crustaceous. Can I sing a song? Just one? Can I ? Please? Before this audience goes to sleep? Can I?"

J. L. forced his back straight into his chair. "Yeh. Let the lady sing." he drawled. Martha said "Uhuh" but got no further. Mary and John sat squeezing their eyelids closed and forcing them open again. "Let her sing." drawled out J. L.

Crustaceous, holding up a finger, gave permission. "One only."

Betsy kissed his forehead and climbed on the table. She shouted to the band. "O.K. O.K., you sheep dippers over there, give me a note." They fumbled in their pockets. One produced a wallet. "Oh yeah . Wise guys, huh? Give me an intro you potato picking plunkers and no more of the visuals, O.K.?"

The band stopped the dance music. The dancers stopped dancing. The naked gentlemen dancers stopped dancing with their naked partners. They all fell into a eurhythmics heap on a bed of kilts and pants and bras for their final highland fling of the evening. Some rolled under the table. The band struck up. Betsy listened, nodded, flung her arms into the air dramatically. "Oh, they say some people long ago," and so she began the Birth of the Blues.

The voice was drifting downwards to the travellers, sounds entering their

ears. As only they can. All faces looked up to her, past her. Past her, past the grumpy parrot heads on the wall, past the over-emphasised gargoyles, and past and around the reeling and twisting of the trusses above the thin high-arched window - and there was another gargoyle. Never noticed that one before. An upside down face, horrible, with a hat that was defying gravity. A face at the window. Upside down and the windows were buckling. A black woman. Singing the blues, and stomping down a long table. And people under it all making grunting noises. Gave out the news. Somebody was laughing. Gave birth to the Blues. The singer was asking somebody. One more. But no-one had clapped the last one. That face at the window. Familiar. The next one was faster. Too fast. And now these taps vibrating right along the table. Whose asking? Somebody 's asking. "Are you tired?" Are you tired? Tired people under the table, but not drunk. Tired tired. Martha's head, on her shoulder. J.L. his head on the table. Maybe he had spilled some whisky. John Burnett is nodding. This is sleep. Mary is nodding. Two who understood and they could only nod to sleep as that black woman jumped off the table and slugged the bass player. Everybody tired. The Doctor . He's smiling. His face is stretching. He's calling the black woman. "Betsy. Come. To bed, perchance to dream." That parrot. Screeching: Flights of angels, flights of angels, flights of angels . . .

The North and South of It

Simon Hacov sat, leaning his back against the curving wall of his little round cell, pushing his legs straight out in front, turning his feet up until the toes of his shoes pointed upwards, to the roof high above him. Exercise was needed. The first rule of incarceration was exercise. He stretched forward touching the toes of his shoes. He stretched and sat up, stretched and sat up. He stopped. Exercise could start tomorrow. For today he had done enough; climbing up and down wet hills; marching up and down whistling like a fool; this was enough.

Simon wondered if his cover had been broken. The man with the parrot had treated him suspiciously almost immediately. Perhaps the Customs people had not believed him after all. That little one with the spectacles had looked at Simon Havoc strangely when he had told him he was the President of the Silesian Bird Watchers Society and that he was over here to study the mating habits of the great British Grebe. No. The man had looked at him strangely but he had continued drinking his tea. The binoculars round the neck had probably been the touch that clinched it. But this was Past. The situation was Now. The past could not be altered, it is only by tackling the Now we can alter the future. The Principal of the

University of Tashkine had said that in his speech to the graduates of the class of '79. and here was come those words, through the spaces of time and distance and the darkening night, to sustain him, and point the way forward. Simon considered the Now situation. 'Here' was in an unlit cell, probably part of a turret. The men who had put him here looked unstable. Especially the little little one. This was a place to be out of. But these walls looked to be made of thick stone. Probably too thick to warrant picking at the joints between them with the corner of the white coupon. That might be an option if his captors intended leaving him here for a while; that is some weeks, some months, or years. This was a place to be out of. Perhaps they would feed him on tin plates. That might be better for working on the stone. But even if a stone was removed, then what? If this was a turret it was highly unlikely that there would be some old bearded man through the wall. And from the direction they had taken him in last night this turret was perched over the sea. There certainly would be no old man of the sea here. No. No. Stone removal was probably a waste of time. But at least he had thought about it logically. The Admiral would be pleased. If he only knew.

Perhaps the guards could be overcome. Perhaps not. They were all big, broad men, except for the little one and he was broader than anyone. Even if they brought meals they would probably push them through a flap in the door - wherever the door was. Probably the most he could heroically manage there would be to bite the meal-bringer's hand off. Not wise. More hands would come. Logically this was not a good path to travel. But the door. There must be a door. Simon stood up. The floor was wet.

Simon stood up and ran his fingers along the dark wall until the feel of 'the material changed. Here was the door. It was made of wood. A door. At least eight feet high, for this was as far as a normal average man could stretch. And Simon Hacov was quite a normal average man. There were no hinges to be felt. They must have been hidden. But even if this door was only half as thick as the wall looked to be, it was thick. And Simon Hacov did not smoke. If he had been a smoker he could have placed his clothes and shoes in a bundle and lit them all up over by the door and maybe the flames would have burned a hole in the door. Or maybe choked Simon Hacov to death. Anyway there were probably guards outside, and one would probably pee on the burning bundle while the other went for more water. Logically thinking, escape involving the door involved too many contingencies.

It looked as if there was some kind of small barred window set high in the wall. maybe some ten or eleven feet up. Just a window too far as Grandmother Hacov used to say. The touch of moonlight was lighting up the wet. The wind and the wet were whistling in down the wall. There were no grips on the wall and the wet made it all slippery. And he had no belt. The Republics had phased out belts to be upsides with the West, and now all the people's trousers had elasticated waistbands. But in Edinburgh all the young men had fancy belts on. The designers of the capitalist west being sly again. It was a window too far.

Simon paced around. Once he stopped and yelled 'SHAZAM', but nothing happened. Once he stopped in the centre and mimed the act of taking of his jacket while running on the spot and throwing off a pair of glasses. He threw a pretend punch at the wall. The wall never pretended to move. Simon scratched his head.

Simon Hacov wondered why Superbaby had landed in the United States and not the wheatlands of the Republics. If the State had made a hero out of Stakhanov, what would they have done for a Supertoiler? Perhaps Supermum and Superdad had pre-programmed the capsule to land there. If this was so then it was a deliberate choice. So Superman and Superdad had been mis-guided.

Perhaps their own planet was capitalist. Perhaps deep space was full of them: all in revolution and counter-revolution. Perhaps when a Superplanet blew up this was that planet's final working out of the dialectic between man and nature. But this was fantasy. The real situation was here and Now.

Simon stood. Relaxed arms to the side, he stood. He stood still, allowing the senses to become as one with the dark, as one with the draught from the window, the running of the wet, the very cold and damp of the air. He sneezed and pulled his coat tighter around himself. This was no use. There was nothing else for it. The man he had been sent to find was here, perhaps also a prisoner. Even if not, he might be off in the morning, to Chairperson knows where. Or perhaps these wild men would kill them all. Perhaps they were going to kill Simon Hacov. And nothing at all would be achieved if that happened.

Simon leaned against the wall. He reached up and back and tugged in under his collar, pulling in a long slow movement. The aerial emerged, and he stretched and pulled and pushed until it was stuck up high over his head. He removed his left shoe, and cupped it in his right hand. With his left index finger he pressed out the code number on the eyelets of the shoe. 54311569213. He pressed the toe of the shoe in his ear. Nothing. He tried again. 5431156921. Maybe it should be a seven there at the end. He listened again. Still nothing. He moved to another part of the cell and tried again. This time there was a slight crackle. Simon yelled, "HALLO HALLO" No answer came. But that was an encouraging crackle. He bent backwards to alter the position of the aerial, and tried again. Not even a crackle this time. He placed his legs apart, bent low and sideways at the same time and pressed very deliberately. 7. A crackle crackled and a tinny voice said, "Hello Baby. Hello Baby 3. Hello Baby 3. This is Baby 2. Do you have a message?"

"Yevta? Yevta? Is that you? Yevta, Yevta."

"Baby 3. I am Baby 3. Do you have a message?"

"Yevta this is Baby 3. I am held prisoner. Somewhere in the West of Scotland.

At a Castle: the Castle of the Crabs. It can be approached by sea. Tell Daddy our

Quarry is here. Our quarry is here. And he too may be a prisoner."

"Baby 3, Baby 3, what is your exact location?"

"I am prisoner in a turret on the seaside of the Castle. Yevta, just tell Daddy our

Singlebody man is here. Yevta do you understand? He is here and I am a prisoner."

"Rogerski. You're breaking up. Baby 3 if you get to Edinburgh will you get me some books? If you can get me Love in the Heather I would be most gratefu1, I . . .

There was only a crackling and the sound of the waves. Simon threw his shoe at the wall, then thought logically, hopped over to retrieve it, and replaced it on his foot. A broken wire jagged into his heel. Love in the Heather. Love in the Heather. Love in the Heather was a wild bushman crying over a dead parrot while Scottish rain poured down Simon Hacov' s neck. Simon pushed the aerial back down into the raised seam of his coat.

At least he had reported to Daddy. If this Singlebody secrets man was allowed to slip away it would not be the fault of Simon Hacov. Perhaps none of them would be going anywhere. The Lord with the parrot had looked just a little suspicious. Perhaps this was the British end of an operation. Perhaps they had placed this substance in the famous Scottish whisky. Perhaps not. Admiral

Ashka drank whisky on his bad days. Usually he fell asleep at his desk and did not increase his productivity. And according to his farewell briefing at the airport this substance was supposed to increase productivity. Perhaps yes. When Admiral Ashka learned from Yevta that one of his best agents had been taken he would drink whisky. For it would be a bad day. Especially when he learned Simon Hacov was now incommunicado.

Very, very, faintly, Simon heard bagpipes play, followed by a plaintive cry. That cry made him think of Admiral Ashka and made him feel lonely. Perhaps he could be exchanged. Perhaps he would be fired or sent on holiday when he returned. If he returned. His head fell to his chest, jerked up, fell down and stayed down in sleep. "Hey, mate, wake up, mate. How y'going? Wakey, wakey."

The voice was a loud whisper. Simon looked up. The crazy face was pressing at the bars of the window above. Two large calloused hands took the two centre bars and pulled them apart. Simon's mouth fell open. "C'mon mate, don't stand there like a mashed meringue, cop hold of this." Four broad black leather belts, strapped together, were lowered down. Simon took hold of the bottom of the belts. He flexed to begin the climb. The voice rasped. "Aw geez mate, this ain't no fancy dress ball we're going to. Get shot of that coat or there's no way you'll ever get through these bars."

"But I have to return it to Mski."

"Bugger Mski. Buy him a new one. Its either the coat or yisself, mate."

Simon discarded the coat. Grasping the belts he jumped up and set his hands

to pulling up: first hand, be as one with belts, then hand over hand, climb. He swung a little but the person at the top was holding steady. The feet were of little use as they slipped and slipped on the watery wall. He reached the bars. Adam Blue reached in and pulled at Simon's shirt. Simon's head was through. He looked around and down. Adam was perched on the angled roof of some outbuilding, which sloped down and touched the turret. Below lay the sea. Far below. The little round cell had some appeal. "C'mon mate, out you get."

Simon twisted his shoulders around until he could scrape his body through the space. Adam Blue retreated up the roof, pulling Simon out by the armpits. Simon slithered through and lay at length on the wet slates of the roof. "Good on ya son."

Simon gulped the night air. The wind was cold. From below he could hear the waves on the rocks. Now he noticed Adam Blue was wearing a kilt which looked too long and ended in mid-calf somewhere. His desert boots stuck out of this ballooning tartan tent: good quality, but there was a hole in one of the soles.

"Listen, mate, this is no time to be looking up my kilt, we gotta lot of work to do. This place is crawling with Crabby people, and they look a right shonky mob to me. So let's go. I gotcha a kilt stashed away." Simon knew when he was dominated. There was something about the man. Perhaps it was his positivity. He just looked mad.

On their fronts they edged along the roof to its far end. Large blocks of stone criss-crossed and interlocked at the edges, forming a series of alternating steps on the front and the side of the building. Adam waved Simon on. Adam was off and climbing down the blocks to the rampart below. Simon swallowed and followed, but much slower. He dropped down to join Adam at the rampart which ran behind the parapets all around the castle.

Adam kicked over three kilts which lay on the rampart. "There y'go. Try one of these for size." Simon hesitated. "Aw, Come on mate, it's the second law of guerrilla warfare: you gotta look like the natives. So get one on ya."

Simon picked one up, trying it to his hip. "What is the first rule of guerrilla warfare?"

"Kill the bastards."

The first kilt was obviously too large. He tried another. Where are the owners?" Adam pointed a finger over and down to the sea. Simon found the smal1est, which was still too big. Leather straps pushed through holes in the material and slipped into small buckles. Adam guessed correctly. He pulled the straps tight. Simon folded over the material at his middle till the hem rose.

Adam spat. "Look me old son, you ain't going on a John Martin's bloody parade. Anyway, you're back to front." Simon pulled and hauled the heavy kilt round while Adam spun the sporrans on their chains and slung them out to sea.

Adam knelt down, signalling Simon to do the same. On a flagstone he fingered out a drawing of the layout of the Castle. Simon saw nothing, but nodded. He failed to penetrate the accent but he nodded anyway.

"So there y'are." Adam nodded, putting on a wise face. "Just you stick close to me and she'll be right." Adam straightened up to go somewhere, hesitated, but turned back to Simon. "Ah, don't piss about mate, get the bloody strides off."

Simon felt the cold gust of the wind as he undid his fly, slipped his trousers down and stepped out of them. Adam jerked a thumb over the side. Simon fumbled in the pockets of the trousers then cast them to the winds, watching them hang-glide down toward the rocks, to the sea. He stuffed the white coupon into his underpants. Adam had not mentioned them.

They moved out of the lee of the building, ducking low, the wind tugging at their shirts. Simon tapped Adam on the back. Adam turned, jerking an enquiring chin up. "Excuse me, Mr. Blue, what about your hat?"

"There's no way I take this hat off for anyone. No way." Simon remembered. Aussie. And that was that about the hat.

They came to a hole in the flagstones of the rampart, above stairs that wound down and took them to a corner of the courtyard. Everything was quiet. Dark. Dark except for a little square of light from a window at the side of the large rectangular building. Crouching and keeping to the walls, they scampered around and took up a place: one at each side of the window. They looked in.

An old man was inside, on the floor, on his knees, grasping and kissing at

one pale thigh of a long-legged girl in high heeled shoes. The woman was unconcernedly drying glasses: wiping them, stretching up, holding them to the light, watching them sparkle. The man was mumbling, almost sobbing, as he slobbered over the thigh. "Oh very well then," the woman said clearly, "I'll see what I can do for you." The man moaned and pulled on her thigh, inching himself to a half-erect position. The pair began to slide plates, glasses into cupboards and rattling knives, forks, spoons, into drawers. Adam Blue was signalling his mate. He was pointing excitedly to something down by his side. Simon ducked down and crossed over to him. "'What is it?"

"Tucker, mate. Bloody good grub, by the looks of it." Adam was holding up the lid of a dustbin. He placed the lid quietly on the ground. "Ripper son, bloody ripper. C'mon eat" His eyes were glowing in the dark. "Eat. Stoke the bloody engine."

Adam dived in with both hands, pulling out a double handful of slosh and mashed up nosh. Simon shook his head. Adam stopped chewing. He spat slosh as he hissed. "Listen you wanker, Rule four of guerrilla warfare says you got to bloody well take your tucker where you can, when you can. So bloody eat."

His eyes were bright on the dark. Simon dipped his hand into this mess of porrage, or porridge. He was glad it was dark. The hand was pulled out quickly and the handful splashed and spread around his mouth. Adam's chomping and slurping was loud. "Good, eh?" Simon nodded while making agreeing sounds. The light went out from the window. A door was opening.

The woman with the pale thighs stepped out and waited. The man locked the door, pocketing the keys. He came to her side, his face at her waist. One arm was placed around her waist and the other slapped on to her left breast. In that way they moved on, her heels click-clacking on the cobbles of the courtyard as they crossed over, away to the other side. Halfway across the woman stopped and waved up at the ramparts. On the rampart some kind of guard stood and waved back. The old man had fallen on his knees again hugging her thigh. She pulled him to his feet and pulled him across the yard. She rapped on a door on an opposite building. Three distinct knocks. The door opened and they passed on through.

Simon looked at Adam. Adam jerked the brim of his hat in the direction of the doorway that the couple had used. "Sleeping quarters. That's what they are. Even money our folks are in there somewhere." Adam watched the guard on the rampart. When the guard had sauntered into the junction of the rampart and the house, he waved a finger. They both ran.

Outside of this door Adam, stopped, waited, nodded to Adam, and knocked. Three distinct knocks. The door opened. A bearded face stuck out to look. A sun-burned hand gripped his windpipe and pushed him back in again. Simon slipped in behind the strugglers. There was no-one else there. The man folded to the floor. Adam pulled off the man's sporran and tied his hands with the chains. He pulled the parrot's head decoration from the sporran and stuffed into the man's mouth. He rolled the man into a corner helping him the last little bit with a caress from his desert boot.

Adam surveyed the scene. The man had been alone. A chair was there. He had been sitting: sitting at an upturned half-barrel. Cards were spread out. Simon studied them. "C'mon, mate, let's be off." Simon hesitated, then turned back to place a red eight on a black nine.

Adam was listening at a door. He tried it. Opened it slowly. A long passage lay in front, with some stairs running up to the left. "'The bosses always sleep upstairs." said Simon, "That is something I have learned." Adam Blue was impressed by his chum's new rule of guerrilla warfare.

They moved up the stairs. They moved along a corridor, listening at the doors. They heard snores, the pinging of springs and the giggling of the guilty. They padded on; turning; twisting up more stairs, till they encountered another corridor. Adam peeked around. At three doors sat three giant Highlandmen sat with their swords out across their knees. Adam shook his head and pointed on, up. Adam took a long quiet stride over and continued on up the flights of narrowing stairs. Simon followed. The stairs finished on another corridor. This one was carpeted. Soft yellow lights lit up the walls. Curtains were draped over the far end. From the far end voices came to them. A male voice and a female voice.

They tip-toed along. The last door was ajar. Adam took a giant step across the doorway. He looked in. He could see the man who had been at the head of the table, standing in front of a mirror. He was wearing a black jacket and doing something to his face. And talking to someone at his back. There, reflected in the mirror, was the fat black woman in the blue frock, sitting on the edge of the bed, running her finger around the rim of a glass. "'Gracious Crustaceous, are you saying that that Yankee might be the main Crabman instead of you? Are you sure?"

"Betsy, his father knew the secret of the Crabby Waters, and he knew this from his father. It follows: Bonnie Prince Charlie only gave that secret to the head of the House of Crab to be passed on to the first-born son. His grandfather must be the one that disappeared in America fighting the natives, or Mexicans, or something of that ilk. Just say this J.L. fellow learns all this, he might put two and two together and decide he has a claim on the old homestead."

"So, what are we, or you, going to do?"

''There's only one thing I have to do: use him. I need liquid moveab1e cash. He can supply it. There's money in that fizzy drink of theirs, honey, that would be good for the cause. Quite simply, if I can persuade him to part with some cash I can push on more quickly with the final stages of my dream to fulfil the Crab destiny."

Feet were pounding up the stairs. Men shouting. Doors being banged. The man turned from the mirror. He was. He was blacked up; all blacked up, with great red lips. Adam pulled Simon across the doorway and along the few steps to the curtains, pushing him in behind them. Adam squeezed in. "Keep your toes in." Simon wondered how Adam remembered all these rules of guerrilla warfare. He rolled back on his heels.

Through a hole in the curtain Adam saw the blacked-up man come out of the door. The man obviously hadn't had time to put his strides on for the jacket was all he had on. It only came down and covered half of his buttocks. A guard rushed up and garbled out a tale. Lordy Crab stomped his foot, his white hair rose up and settled down again. A white-gloved hand was punching the air. He was angry. The parrot flew out of the room and landed, settled, on the man's shoulder. The woman came out. They all hurried along the corridor and down the stairs.

Adam pulled Simon out. He pulled him into the bedroom. The wardrobe was big, but not big enough for a double. The obvious place was the only place for it. Adam and Simon scuttled under the bed. Someone was returning. From outside the door the Crab chief was yelling. "Find them. Find them. Just find them. And double the guards on the others." The man came in and slammed the door. The woman opened the door, hesitated, but came in. The Crab's feet were stomping at Simon's nose. "Fools. Incompetents. Fools. Sometimes I wonder if they are worth saving. Ah. The pain of it all. To suffer for fools." He moaned. "The pain. The pain. Who knows the pain of this burden?"

Simon saw the feet and legs pace across the bedroom floor. Adam saw the feet and legs pace across the bedroom floor. The bed lowered in one corner. The woman was sitting down. "Now, now, Crustaceous. Relax. Remember. You remember now. It's just as important to relax as it is to exercise. Especially when you're under strain. C'mon. Leave your worries till morning. Let's start where we left off. And double the guards on the others."

Adam saw one knee go down on the floor. Adam and Simon heard the white gloves being slapped together. Adam and Simon listened to the gloves slapping, a throat catching, and a bad impersonation of Al Jolson singing Mammy.

When the poor impersonator of the poor impersonator was finished the woman was clapping and squealing with delight. The white legs straightened up. The woman spoke. "Why, honey chile, I do believe that's just the bestest piece of Southern country music I ever did hear. I is a-gonna give you a honey-tasting big kiss on your honey-sucking big little mouth."

Adam saw two truly black legs come together with two truly fair legs. There was a smack of lips. "Oh my gosh and Lord a-mighty. Why you ain't no black chile. You been foolin me. I do believe that's some kind of lipstick you have on there. And what is that there blackening all over your face? Why you is a white chile. You is one whole naughty white chile. Why you want to be like the man who wants to be like the black folks? Assa gonna. tell your Mother."

"Oh , no, not my Mummy? Please, Nurse Betsy, please. Please don't tell my Mummy. She will be so really really very angry with me."

"Well, honey-chile, you know ah loves ya like one of ma own, but you has been such a bad bad boy and ah just got to tell your Ma."

"Oh please. Miss Betsy please. Can't you punish me instead? For Mummy will tell Daddy and he will thrash me with his crop. I don't want to go hungry again."

"Oh chile, chile, do you know what it is you're sayin? Ah can't punish you. You is a white chile."

"Oh Betsy please, please. Please pretend I'm a black child. All I wanted to do was to be a black child so that I could play my banjo and dance and sing and work in the fields outdoors and just be happy. Please Miss Betsy. Can't you pretend I'm one of your own? Can't we pretend I'm your boy Crastus?"

"Oh ah just don't know. You have some winnin ways sho nuf."

"Please Miss Betsy, please."

"Oh all right. Bring that chair over here you naughty boy. This instant."

Adam moved his head out until he could see some of the action. As Adam's eyes widened, Simon's closed up tight. The woman had stripped to an old-fashioned bone corset. It was tied so tight that her breasts threatened to pop out and roll under the bed. His Lordship was bringing a straight-backed chair into the centre of the room. This Betsy was pulling something out from a corner of the room. She turned with it. It was a round pole with a square flap of thick black rubber riveted to the end of it. The kind of thing a ranger might fight bushfires with. Crustaceous-called-Crastus was standing by the chair, making his knees knock, to-gether and covering his privates with the tails of the jacket. She was pointing to the chair. "Now Crastus, just you done get over that chair. On with you. Go on, you naughty, naughty chile."

The man-boy bent over the chair, revealing his bare bum. The lady stood back, winding the pole behind her like a baseball bat, winding up until she let fly. Adam winced. Simon winced as the slapthwack sound came to his ears and to his mind. "Please Miss Betsy, do it once more, I deserve it." The rubber skelped on the bare skin. The man screamed. The parrot took off on a flight around the room screeching "Mercy. Mercy." The rubber swung down again. And again. The woman was sweating, but still smiling. Forgiving rubber skelped naughty skin again. The woman stopped, out of puff, leaning on the pole. "You consider yoself lucky this time, Crastus. Next time ahsa really gonna tell Missy."

Crustaceous the man, and Crastus the boy, hung over the chair, sobbing and laughing at the same time. His buttocks were red. A raw red. The woman let the pole drop. She came over and picked him up in her arms and turned toward the bed.

Adam slithered under. The woman was tucking the man into one side of the bed.

Pausing, looking down at the child in the bed she softly sang 'Sonny Boy.' Finished, she kissed him on the forehead and climbed into bed, putting out the light. She was shooshing him, hushing him, crooning to him. Adam and Simon lay and heard the shooshing and the cuddling, the hushing and the kissing, and the crooning. Adam's face was curled in a silent snarl. Before he fell asleep Simon recognised the tune of 'Summertime'.

Meanwhile, Back at the Nest . . .

Yevta looked at the microphone, then the speaker, raised his eyebrows and pulled his mouth down. Our little Simple Simon Hacov was angry. But Hacov always had been an elitist. Just because his family of egalitarians had positions in high places. Thought he was somebody that Hacov: leaving his Chekov lying around for the Admiral to see it. Elitists the pair of them. They disapproved of the reading material of anyone who tried to take a different route to learning. They did not understand that a close analysis of books like 'Parrots of Paradise' told him everything he wanted to know about the class system of the West, and the struggles of its workers; the struggle of the slaves against the blood lusty landowners, the grind of the orphaned workers in the poorhouses; the travails of the women against drunkard husbands; single parent women against avaricious landlords; and the long struggle of peasant women against the sadistic demanding aristocrats. And though the endings were nice and happy, Yevta the cool computer man did not believe a word of them these endings. These books only read as a quick way to grasp and de-construct the dialectical history of the capitalist West. It was all there. In plain simple language. Purple gallant phrases eschewing the unclear waters of literary symbolism. What you read was what was. These books pulled the plug on the West's history, revealing it in all its stark unprotected nakedness, its raw animal vitality and even moments of tender love between the passion and the intrigue. This Yevta knew. Hacov could rot.

Scotland was not such a big country. Edinburgh could not be too much out

of his way. Hacov being elitist again just showing off. Ho yes. Intellectual Hacov getting angry just because a comrade had asked him to get a couple of gooks. Very Important Mission. For Nest leader, no less. To Edinburgh. Scotland was not such a big country. Edinburgh could not be too much out of his way.

Hacov being elitist again just showing off. Ho yes. Intellectual Hacov getting angry just because a comrade had asked him to get a couple of gooks. Very Important Mission. For Nest leader, no less. To Edinburgh. Edinburgh, no less: the Athens of the North, no less. Edinburgh. Edinburgh, piff. According to 'Love's

Blood on the Thistle' people living less than fifty miles away would not be seen dead in Edinburgh. So much for Edinburgh. But it surely must have a bookshop. There was no need for Hacov to get so angry just because a better-read comrade had asked him to get some books on his travels. Should have told him to purchase McDiarmaid or this Burns man. Oh, different story then likely.

Yevta stretched. Perhaps Podroyin should be told. Hacov had sounded upset about something. Maybe he wasn't simply trying to impress. Yevta looked at the clock, pulled out a pen and logged the call. He rose from his chair, crossed over and kicked at the blue sleeping bag on the floor. Podroyin snorted, grunted, farted, rolled over and pulled the bag up over his ear. Yevta kicked him again. Podroyin never moved. Yevta knelt, shook him by the shoulder. Podroyin shrugged him off his dream and pulled the bag higher. Yevta returned to the desk and twiddled with the paperweight. He switched on the radio. Martial music played. Yevta turned the volume up until it blared. No movement. Yevta brought the radio over and placed it by his comrade's ear. Podroyin rolled over. Yevta was encouraged; he shook the shoulder again.

Podroyin slumbered on. An announcer was shouting out the news. Yevta turned the dial quickly. Podroyin did not need any help to remain asleep. Beeps, whistles, Slavic and English voices with jammy accents intermingled with traditional jazz and Glenn Miller music. Yevta's fingers slipped as the voice intoned: "This is America speaking." Podroyin sat up clutching his ears. Yevta turned the voice off, wheeled quickly and clasped his comrade by the shoulder. "Podroyin, it's only me, .Yevta. Your comrade. Sorry, Podroyin, my comrade, but I had to wake you, I had to. I need advice."

Podroyin brought his wide eyes round to face Yevta, looked, and brought his hands down. He shook his head free of the the nightmare and left his dream sister being taken away clutching her Captain Marvel comic. "Advice? You want advice from me? I was dreaming."

"Hacov reported in."

"Ah, the dilettante. What does he say? Regard it suspiciously anyhow. We must be watchful in these times. We must ask: why was he sent to Britain? Where does he learn to make tea in that way? And Admiral Ashka. Why did he pick him? Two

Indian-tea drinkers. Notice also how our Admiral sticks his pinkie out when he drinks, or rather, sips. Another dilettante."

"When you have finished dreaming I will tell you his message."

"You know the dream I had was interesting – maybe a warning."

Yevta knew better than to take up the cue. Podroyin describing his paranoiac dreams was only marginally less sufferable than Podroyin explaining how his researches showed that the Supreme Bureau was being swamped by C.I.A. agents. Most often dream and factual research mirrored each other.

"Podroyin. Later you can tell me of your dream. I'll de-construct it for you. Right now you must listen"

Podroyin stood up and stepped out of the sleeping hag, allowing it to slide from his shoulders. "Coffee first." He lifted the lid from the kettle on his desk, looked in, replaced the lid and pulled out a plug from the wall and inserted the plug for the kettle. Yevta opened a grey filing cabinet drawer and brought out a jar of instant coffee, a jar of sugar, a sticky teaspoon

and two mugs with brown rings on their bottoms. Podroyin brought over the boiled kettle. The coffee was made and they sipped it. And Yevta waited to unburden himself of the message. Podroyin liked his coffee. He smacked his lips. And Yevta waited to release the message Podroyin put down his cup, to pick his

nose. This was the sign. Podroyin was ready. And Yevta rushed out the message.

"Hacov says he is a prisoner."

"What? Of the CIA?" Already? They have him?"

"No. I mean I don't know."

"Ah. So he might be?"

"Well he might be. But if you listen, I'll tell you what he told me - as far as I recall it."

Podroyin crossed his arms, pulled down his brows between thumb and finger and tried to look serious. Yevta looked at the floor and wagged his index finger.

"I was sitting reading my book, it's a good one – you should try it - Pawnshop to Penthouse – anyhow, Hacov came on. He said he was a prisoner."

"A prisoner? Where?"

"The West of Scotland somewhere."

"Are you saying Hacov is in a British jail?"

"Well I think so. He said it was an island. I don't remember, it was all so quick. I hardly had time to ask him to get me some books. He cut off rather sharply." Yevta pawed his finger up and down his chin as he looked over at Podroyin. "I forgot to ask him to get Haggis for your Burns' Night." Podroyin sighed. Yevta continued. "Should we waken the Admiral?"

"We? We?" Podroyin shook himself free of the sleeping bag, grabbing it and holding it and flourishing it at Yevta. "We? I was sleeping remember? This is your stint." Podroyin scratched at his cheekbone and sat on the edge of his desk. Yevta sat down heavily into his chair. Podroyin looked at Yevta. Yevta looked at Podroyin. The question had to be thought about. Yevta had set it out. Out of his head via his mouth and back in again via the ears: should I/we waken Admiral Ashka? One question but now Yevta had made it a question for two. Podroyin knew and Yevta knew. Yevta had only wanted to bounce the question off someone. And share the responsibility. And share any bouncing the Admiral might do. Yevta knew. Podroyin knew. Each knew the other was scared of Admiral Ashka. And now he had to be wakened with a half-remembered garbled message. Hacov the clown was in trouble. Hacov the clown with relations was in trouble. The Admiral would definitely not be happy. Someone would have to take the wrath that was really Hacov's to take. Someone would have to telephone the Admiral in bed. Podroyin came to a decision. "I think you should contact the Admiral."

"Ah. You want me to phone him. me to phone him? You're senior here. Very clever, Podroyin. But not quite clever enough." Yevta looked at the clock. "It is now three- thirty six, comrade. It is your watch." He tapped the face of his wristwatch. "This is now your watch, comrade."

"Fine. Even if it was a Rolex I wouldn't take it. You took the message. You phone him."

"I mean it really was your stint. I logged the call at three-fifteen. Technically I was off duty."

Podroyin rubbed at his nose with an exaggerated knuckle. "You were always the bureaucrat, comrade." Podroyin came over and lifted the telephone, stopped and clattered it back it into its cradle. "Hold, comrade Yevta, how do I know you did not take the call at two o'clock and wait until now before telling me? Eh? How do I not know that, eh?"

"Podroyin, I am your comrade. I wakened you as soon as I got the message."

"Let me see the log." H e grabbed the logbook. "I still don't believe you."

Yevta looked at Podroyin, straight in the eyes. Podroyin looked at Yevta,

straight in the nose. Podroyin grinned. "I shall telephone the Admiral."

Yevta scratched his head; from the top, round to the nape of his neck. Something was wrong here. A bluff perhaps. "So. Phone."

Podroyin, still grinning, lifted the phone. He stopped. "What is his number?"

" Hold on. It's on the computer." Yevta pulled out the plug of the electric kettle from the wall and banged in the plug of his terminal. He took his seat over his magic keys and clicked away. Little yellow lines of numbers and letters came up, erased themselves, dropping and rolling down. Yevta punched the keys hard. Yevta punched the keys harder. "It refuses to be here." Different letters and different numbers scrolled down filling the screen. "It is not here, Podroyin, it is not here."

Podroyin looked over his shoulder. He saw numbers and letters without coherence. He stood up, a thoughtful face resting on a cupped hand. He crossed over to his own desk and jabbed a finger on a little red and gold book. The book sprung open at A. He ran his finger down to Ashka. The phone was taken up and dialled. The burps burped: burp burp burping in his ear. Podroyin spoke. "Admiral? Yevta has a message for you, from Hacov."

Yevta's face turned white. He took the telephone from his comrade's outstretched arm and hand. He babbled the message into the mouthpiece. Ashka's voice came clearly, loudly. "Shut up, Yevta. Shut up. Not on the phone, Yevta; not on the phone. I'll be in Yevta, I'll be in. Wait there." Yevta replaced the telephone. He sunk and slouched as deep as he was able to, sinking into his chair, but not far enough.

'He is coming along, Podroyin. It . . .

Podroyin moved quickly. He gathered up the sleeping bag, opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. He struggled to stuff the bag into it, but managed it. Yevta remained slouched in the chair. Podroyin gathered up the coffee cups and put them back on file. Yevta slouched in the chair. Podroyin spat on his handerkerchief and wiped away the wet stains on the desk, rubbing at the coagulating sugary bits. Yevta slouched. Podroyin took out his electric razor from the drawer, plugged it in and shaved, using his fingers and early-morning memory as a mirror. Yevta was a heap. Podroyin finished shaving, spat on his finger and rubbed it into the bags under his eyes. Yevta remained motionless. Podroyin took out his comb, flicked it through his hair, ran an index finger along ran an index finger along his gums before spitting into the waste basket.

Finished, he sat himself behind his own desk and squared up some papers. he pulled a pencil from his jar and laid down, then moved around carefully haphazard to 36 Degrees to make it look as if he had just put it down. A car was drawing up and Yevta remained in the chair hoping that some magic would make him disappear. "Yevta. Sit up. I advise you. Sit up. He is come." Admiral Ashka surveyed the scene. Podroyin with a pencil in hand, and one on the desk. And he was smiling. Something was wrong. Yevta, sitting, no, crouched, half-bent, studying that screen like an old man seeing his past. Something was wrong. They were too quiet. Maybe, hopefully, the radiation from these screens had got through to them. No. What was wrong was they should never have been left here alone with each other. These arthritic bones should have been ignored.

The tweaking bones should have been ignored; these two should not have been left alone. The bones could have suffered the wait for Hacov to report. In Cambodia he had waited two weeks with the Englishman for news of some Tests which had been set some of his agents in the field. And one old Ashka was better than two such as this. The gloves were pulled off. Yevta looked overtired. It might be best to be gentle. For as long as it was possible. "Yevta, why are you sitting that way? Yevta, if you have a message for me, will you tell me please? Take your time."

Yevta stood up. The back of his knees caught the chair and over it went. Yevta began a salute, but decided not to finish it. Admiral Ashka was not shouting. Not being sarcastic. He was being nice. This was worse than Yevta had expected. "I was at my post admiral, reading a book - on military wars of the Caribbean – when I thought, oh, I need a pee, but something made me not go." He paused there, looking for loyalty points, None came. "I decided not to go, just to see my stint out, although actually it was over it, I wanted to make sure that I did not miss anything."

"Yevta. Listen to me please. I want the message; I want the sender; I want the time of the message, I want the place from which it was sent and I want any other relevant that is an order."

"Single body. A single body. The message was about a single body. I remember a single body."

"It is a name. Singlebody is a name."

Admiral Ashka stepped over beside Yevta, bending over, picking up and replacing the chair. "Sit down Yevta. Please. Sit down. I know this is difficult for you since you have only been given corps communications, but do try. Try."

Podroyin's head was down at the tip of his pencil, tip of his nose nearly on a most important paper he had had found. Admiral Ashka looked over. One problem at a time was enough.

"Now, Yevta, speak to me, speak to me."

"3.15, Admiral. The message came at three-fifteen because Podroyin and

I argued about the change of shift."

"So. Because you and Podroyin have an argument at three-fifteen over the

change of shift, Hacov sends you a message. Ever the peacemaker."

"Please, I'm sorry, you know what I mean . . .

"I do not know what you mean, Yevta. And neither will the natives of wherever you are most surely headed." Ashka kicked himself up for forgetting his strategy of positivity and support. "Still you are doing well. I have the time, three fifteen. I shal1 presume three-fifteen this morning."

"Yes. Yes. Three-fifteen and it was Comrade Hacov."

"Good. Good. Now we know from whom. Now the message?"

"Hacov is a prisoner. And I cannot raise him on the radio."

Admiral Ashka sat on the corner of Yevta's desk, fished out a cigarette, lit it and swallowed smoke. He coughed. Podroyin's pencil was trembling. Admiral Ashka waited. This was going to be more difficult than anticipated. Perhaps he should ask Yevta to put it all on a punch card, or a disc, a demented card or whatever. Or were all of these out of date? Anyway, Hacov a prisoner. This is only a surprise inasmuch as he appears to be still alive. "Go on."

"He is a prisoner on some island on the West coast of Scotland, Admiral. he appears to have been captured by .. . Yevta hesitated. He did not want to say wild mountain men - the Admiral might get ideas – " . . . by some native crab fishermen comrade Admiral."

"Crab fishermen?"

"Exactly, I heard that clearly. He said he was a prisoner in a house full of crabs."

Admiral Ashka's eye was caught by Podroyin who was leaning back in his chair twiddling his pencil and looking like the class swot all ready with the answer for teacher. Podroyin could not wait to be asked. "Smells like CIA to me Admiral Ashka."

The Admiral simply looked. Podroyin went back to his pencil point. But perhaps Podroyin did have something this time . There certainly was more to this than was meeting the ear. Torturing prisoners by crabs. This did have the hallmark of Intelligence groups the world over, when they had all been under the influence of the Zoological School of Truth Extraction and Elimination during the sixties and seventies. Certainly there was limited success with snakes and spiders. But crabs? Poor Hacov.

Yevta was encouraged by the smile on the Admiral's mouth. "There was more, Comrade Admiral. He instructed me to tell you that the Singlebody Papers man was also a prisoner in the same p1ace.

So. J. L. McCrabberty. He is also a prisoner. This might be the work of some Scottish private enterprise. Or MISEX. The British balance of payments was always a problem. Maybe they wished this formula for themselves. Maybe the rusty old bastion of capitalism wanted the Ferrocola formula for itself. Perfidious Albion. More likely to be the freebooters. Emerging democratic Third World dictatorships could make excellent use of such a formula. The Ferrocola formula to the highest bidder. Winner take all. Pashinov was correct. This was like old times. A fight against the forces of capitalism and men who owed loyalty to no country and no system and whose only god was money.

The face was flushing. The old arthritic bones were once more supple. This was a big one. This could be Ashka's last big one. Once again the international intelligence cogniscenti would whisper the name in dark corners, by the glow of a cigarette lighter flame; Ashka. This was one for Ashka to win. The mighty Pashinov would have to look out for his job. "Yevta. As slow as you like repeat for me the message. As you remember it, at least."

Yevta's eyes went left and right and back and forth. "He is a prisoner. He

is a prisoner in Scotland. The west of Scotland. In a house full of crabs. And, and, the house is on an island stuck out to the sea." Yevta was pleased with himself.

Podroyin wanted top billing again. "Can it be the crabs are connected with the sea, Admiral?"

"Sometimes I believe you surpass yourself, Podroyin. Fetch me a map of the British Isles. Yevta, make me some coffee. Your tea is lousy."

A loud thud followed by a crack and a splintering came from the corridor. Podroyin came back with a large map half-rolled up in his arms. "I took this one from Mikael's wall. He never uses it. Just thought I would use some initiative, Admiral."

"You are excelling yourself tonight, my young comrade. But please replace that round of plaster before Mikael returns in the morning."

Yevta was jealous of the compliments being bandied around. "Mikael never locks his door, Podroyin."

"Enough," said Admiral Ashka, "Hang up the map, Podroyin." Podroyin looked around, saw some hooks in the wall and hung the map up.

"Upside down." said Yevta.

"Clever bastard you aren't you?" retorted his comrade.

He hung it right end up, knocking Yevta's Barbara Heartland calendar off the wall as he did so. Ashka perused it, grimaced, and turned to the map. "That name again Yevta what was it?"

"There was no name Admiral."

So there really was no name; well, the trick was worth a shot. The island was on the west coast of Scotland: a jagged coast, full of litt1e inlets, little lochs that joined the sea. An island with a house full of crabs. But Scotland was known to be full of crabs. It was something to do with their religion. The cigarette lighter was taken out and the bottom of it given a tap. A small magnifying glass sprung out. Admiral Ashka examined the map. He began with the blue circle which denoted the NATO submarine base and moved up: Loch Long; Loch Striven; Loch Fyne; Sunart; Moidart - and Crabart. Crabart. The art of Crabs. Crabs crabs crabs. And there was a dot in the bay that could be the island. The island of Crabs. Perhaps Hacov had not said an island full of crabs, Yevta was unreliable. It was too much of a coincidence. "Here." He tapped the map with the cigarette lighter. Here we have an island and we have a mention of Crabs. Here we will begin."

Yevta and Podroyin did not like the sound of the non-royalist 'we'. "Yevta, can you link your thing into Naval Intelligence? I want to know who is on in the Atlantic. Particularly submarines." The map burst into flames. Podroyin jumped up, flailing his arms at the flames. Yevta felt the urgency, the buzz. He leapt to his feet. There could be no more criticism. Now his skill with his machine could be put on show. Now they would know Yevta was an important part of the team. He leapt over to his computer, jabbed keys, lifted the receiver off the hook, and became lost in the free flow of the little figures, boxes and words that demanded more words. Admiral Ashka decided to leave. "I shall be in my office."

Podroyin leapt up. "Do you want the map, Admiral?" Admiral Ashka closed the door.

In his office Admiral Ashka took off his coat and threw it in a corner. He opened his filing cabinet and took out the bottle of whisky he had bought with the white coupon, took a glass, and poured himself a whisky. He sat in his chair spinning it half-left, half-right. The whisky was nursed, sniffed, sipped and nursed again. With each half-spin he felt the excitement rising. With each sip he felt the heat rising to his cheeks. There was something on here. Pashinov was a fox. He was trying to transfer a difficult one to the one man whose reputation daunted him. But we would see. But Hacov. He was in Scotland. Oh to be in Scotland now that Hacov's there. Comrade Burns said that. Probably. Someone would have to get to Hacov and this Ferrocola man quickly. It was too far from Moscow. A decision would have to wait until Yevta found out who was where and nearest to the west Scottish coast. And to the old Naval School tie. If possible. The door opened and there stood Yevta, the inevitable white square of paper in his hands. The Admiral took a gulp at the whisky to prepare. "What have you got?"

"Atlantic. Extreme edge of Susout block 8, submarine number 212. There are others but this is the nearest to Scotland."

"You have done well, Yevta. Now, would you lift that telephone and dial 357 for me? Tell whoever answers Admiral Ashka wishes to speak to Admiral Bodoz."

Yevta did as he was bid. A voice spoke on the line. Yevta spoke the message as he had been told. But his face fell. "This person wants to know: who is Admiral Ashka?"

Admiral Ashka took the phone. "That will be all, Yevta." Yevta left. Ashka spoke. "Listen, little person, this is Admiral Ashka, if you wish to spend your next leave at the Antarctic carry on the way you are doing. If not, fetch me Admiral Bodoz."

Admiral Bodoz was put on the line. "Bodoz? This is Ashka. I will come straight to the point, I want a radio telephone link to your 212 the next time she surfaces. I want to speak to her Commander. Who is her Commander? Do I know him?"

Bodoz gave him the name of the Commander. Neptavalich. This was getting better .But there could be no radio link. Not even for Admiral Ashka of the class of '46. "Listen, Bodoz, this is top level. I must speak to Neptavalich. Please. Look. I will give you two weeks with the white coupon if you can let me have two minutes." Bodoz agreed. And it just so happened 212 was on surface now for her radio check.

Admiral Ashka waited. This was indeed fortunate. They were on surface and it was Neptavalich. Neptavalich owed him a favour. For Brazil and the Amazon. Only the young Ashka had volunteered to dive with him to guard him while he burned away the nets that trapped their submarine. Neptavalich had burned the nets away while the young Ashka had swum around and under him, scaring and scooping the piranha fish into the empty kitbags of the sailors. Neptavalich and Ashka were bonded. The line pinged and then became clear.

"Hey, Ashka, Ashka, my old comrade of the fish farm. How are you? What can I do for you?"

"Can you rescue an agent for me and kidnap a class enemy of the peoples of the

world?" "Probably, yes. But I thought we were all friends now?"

There was no time for political discourse. "My agent is under the disguised name of Simon Havoc. He is a prisoner on an island in the west coast of Scotland, latitude and longitude - ready? - 55 30n and 6 18W. Imperative we take another man. James Lomond McCrabberty and bring him here alive. Agent expendable. Can you do it?"

"Hey, Ashka, can a piranha bite? What force are we against?"

"Unclear. You would be as well to send a reasonable size party."

"Ashka. I shall lead them myself. This is like old times. It is better than sitting on the ocean floor listening to submarines listening to me listening to them ad pingfinitum. Ashka, I thank you."

"No need, comrade. Incidentally, if you succeed, there will be four weeks with the white coupon for you. If not successful, I shall take responsibility."

"Comrade. My time is up. I must sink. Till I see you"

Bodoz came on the line. "I want nothing to do with this comrade, but can

I have the use of the white coupon before Lenin's birthday?"

"Of course.' But being loyal to whoever pays my salary, you may have to tell me when it is."

There was nothing left to do but to wait. Another whisky required.

Perhaps he should have told Neptavalich that Hacov had the white coupon.

It Takes a Worried Man

The last man in closed the door and bit his lip to show that he was sorry. He raised his eyebrows and the skin of his face until it all looked like the mask of a clown. Here was the amiable fool. He left the door and crossed the room to take up his place at the table. His grey track suit had damp dark patches of sweat. "Sorry if I kept you waiting. Jogging. I got your message. I ran all the way." The serious man in the dining suit angrily lifted a finger to his lips. They all sat silently.

Six men sat around the highly polished wooden table, each with a set of papers stacked neatly in front of him. The man in the dining suit sniffed a white powder from the back of his hand but did not sneeze. Another twirled a tennis racket in the air in front of himself. All of them shifted, lounged, shuffled, as a group of dungareed workers tapped at the walls, shifted the painting of George Washington crossing the Potomac, and looked behind the painting of George Washington Chopping Down The Cherry Tree. They knocked on walls and listened for something, eyes moving this way and that way. One man walked around feeling at the carpet on the floor with his bare feet. The sniffing diner spoke. "This is no use; we have to talk. Let's hit the john."

Six men arose from the table. Five men followed the leader across and through to the lavatory. The precursor pulled at the round gold door handle; he door opened and they all pushed in. The lavatory was small, with barely enough room for the bowl and the basin. Five huddled around the stool. The smal1est man climbed up onto the cistern, straddling his legs around it like a horseman of the apocalypse. The leader lifted the pan lid. He looked around Once more. "O.K. Cover the voices."

Five unzipped and fished out five penises. Four proceeded to pee. The fifth took longer, but, red-faced, took the plunge, and caught up strongly

with the rest. On the cistern the straddler stared straight ahead into a peeing colleague's face, grinning foolishly, looking out of it.. Over the sounds of the splarges, tinkles and splatters their prefect spoke. "We have a situation. Type Emergency. We shall have to come to some sort of decision on a parallel punitive projection in terms of what we can make our synchronised reciprocal actions." All nodded, but kept their heads down. The nods were accompanied by serious looks, all praying and playing for time and peace. The tinkling was becoming less loud. A rap came at the door.

The man in the tennis gear fumbled and yelled and tried to wipe and shake his legs at the same time. "Oh Christ look at this. What the hell do you want?" The Foreman of Security was at the door. Five men immediately leaned forward, stuck bums out behind, all instinctively trying to push their penises into the folds of their trousers while trying to waggle them drip- dry. Spray spread over eight trouser legs sprinkling dark dots on the legs. "I just wanna tell you its all clear in here now. That's 8.11 man."

The leader zipped up with a flourish and took control once more. He held his palms up for calm. "Let's go. Sound effects away."

Five wheeled and jammed themselves into a queue at the washbasin. When the five had all washed and dried and left, the small man on the cistern closed the lid slowly with his foot, slid down, washed his hands and followed his relieved colleagues through. The door. The tall foreman in the blue dungarees stood aside to let him pass, shaking his head. "Couldn't none of you wait?" The small man drew him a look, brushed at his trousers and sat down with the others.

The leader of the group knocked on the table until the foreman of the Security Check squad looked up. A stiff-cuffed arm came out of the dining jacket and the hand pointed up. The hand pointed up. A finger stretched and pointed up. The foreman looked up. "Ah shit. The lights."

He tried to reach the lights with his detecting rod, leaning over between a grey pin-stripe suit and another in midnight blue. The lights were too high up. The Foreman called out. "Hey guys, do we have a step ladder?"

The checking workers checked themselves in their work but shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads. "O.K. then. We'll just have to use our standby method." moved without instruction. They knew what to do.

The foreman dropped his rod, ran forward, clapped his hands and somersaulted between the grey pin-stripe and the midnight blue, up and over onto the table. Two others did likewise from different ends of the room. The three filled the table. With a cry of heyaahhuuup one climbed on the shoulders of the Foreman. Another was helped, up and up, up onto the shoulders of the other. At the bottom of the column the base man teetered a little. It seemed as if the whole column should fall. He teetered, tottered, and regained his composure. The column stood still. Settled, the base man let out a long whistle.

The round handle on the door of the room turned, slipped back, turned again and the door opened: a tan and white sharp-nosed English collie ran into the room, followed by a freckle-faced little boy in patched dungarees and a broken straw hat who ran after the dog, reaching for it but failing. "Here, girl, here. Where are you going? Girl, come back."

The dog bounded onto the table without stopping. Without instruction, the dog clambered and scrambled up the backs of the men in the column, until, finally, she hauled herself up to balance on the shoulders of this column of men.

She sniffed, sniffing her sniffs at the cluster of spotlights above the table. She sniffed and sniffed. She barked woof woof. The boy smiled. He stopped. Fishing out a piece of black paper from his overall pocket, he placed it over his front teeth. He smiled again. "Atta boy, Girlie. You done it. Aw, good Girlie. O.K. you can come down now. Good job. Good job, girl. Come on Girl, can't keep Grandma waitin an she's got some of your very favorite pie."

Woof woof." The dog scampered down the way he/she had come, jumped over the head of the headman and ran off through the door followed by the boy.

All around the table faces broke into smiles and chuckles and little laughs. "Yeah," said the baseman, "Let's all go home. The strong men vaulted their back somersaults off the table. They clapped and yelled. They held out pairs of hands to each other, slapped them together two at a time, one at a time, turned around, hands to the back, slapped them again, all turned around, shook hands, shook thumbs, shook pinkies. Finally, bending at the knees, they put their hands together and rose, rose together, flexing their fingers like a bird's coxcomb. The men at the table looked insecure. The security team hustled for the door. Their foreman turned and bowed his way out. "Speak loud an clear, no-one gonna hear. Far or near. Except me, of course." He left.

Those seated looked at their chairman, waiting for George Gurglelotz to say something. He fixed his bow-tie, then began. He indicated the papers in front of each of them. "Gentlemen. what you have before you represents a systemised monitoring contingency which we must react to in a responsive organisational time-phase."

One man, all in midnight blue, broke in. "Gurgelotz, don't you think we should phone the Chief?"

" No. I don't think that would be wise, Marboil. It's gone eight-thirty. The

Chief will have finished his coca and T-bone by now, and may even be in bed."

Five murmured "Oh." Individually. The man in midnight blue was not put off. "Well, as long as you take responsibility."

Around the table each man gasped at the sound of the big R word. He had said it here, in the open. Best just to nod wisely when that word was being bandied around. They all nodded. Except the Chairman. "Listen guys. Don't

be that way. We all work together, don't we? We're a team. Remember? We're the Executive Intelligence of this Administration, right?

All for one end all for well, whatever, you know what I mean."

They nodded. The man in the grey pin-stripe spoke. "Sure, Gurgelotz. We're a team, unless any shit is hitting any fan. Then we all duck. One at a time and fast as we can."

"O.K. O.K. But look, a decision has to be made here. Tonight. If you guys want me to carry the can, so be it. George Gurgelotz never was a man to duck from any flak."

"I didn't say flak, I said shit."

"O.K. O.K O.K. Just tell me what you all think. In front of you have reports from NATO Intelligence, (Intelligence Section). Earlier this evening they picked up a signal from the edge of SUSOUT Block 8 in the Atlantic. The message was faint, but from what we can piece together this looks a biggy." He paused for effect, leaned forward and whispered. "They distinctly picked up the name Ashka." The five were impressed into silence. A whispered name. Ashka. "Ashka?" "Who's Ashka?" "Ask her what" "Ashcan? You want an ashcan?" "I think we should tell the Chief."

Best to keep cool. He continued. "You will see that our friends over there are carrying out a functional logistical projection that appears to involve the kidnapping of an American citizen by systematic incremental undersea activities. We can only guess at the transitional projections made by them to warrant picking up this man."

"Guess? Guess?" said the man in midnight blue.

"Yeah. Guess? Guess?" said the other four. Individually, one, after him.

"Can it. The message is to an alien submarine, Number 212. Our citizen is to be lifted from an island off the west coast of Scotland."

"Scotland?" "Where's Scotland?" "Och aye." "Who the Scot what?" "I think we should phone the Chief."

"Look. Read it. Let's see if we even agree with the SUSOUT intelligence

framework breakdown. They reckon our man may even be a double agent, who's gone sour." He paused again, letting the pause settle into a complete silence. Going sour they knew about. "Gentlemen. Apparently he has knowledge of the Singlebody Papers."

Collectively they had a Eureka experience: "Aaaah." This they understood. Papers. A man could get a grip on Papers. Secret Papers. Classified Secret Papers. The Singlebody Papers. Classified. Aren't they? Probably. This was an area they knew something about.. The colleague in the tennis clothes picked at the strings on his racket and asked the question without looking up. "Singlebody. Wasn't he the guy that . . .

"Exactly. So you see why we have to have a third-generational response in terms of positives and negatives." The tennis player nodded wisely, glad to see that his contribution was so vital to the understanding - clarification-wise. The Chairman stood. He leaned forward onto hairy fingers. "Boys. Read this stuff as quickly as you can. And remember it's ideas we want. New, up-to-date third generational ideas." He sat down and smiled at the man in the midnight blue.

All the heads bowed to the task: lips sometimes moving, sometimes muttering, glasses being adjusted, nostrils inflating, deflating. George Gurgelotz rose and crossed the room to the window" He pulled aside the curtain and looked out. Across the way he could see the yellow lights of the CIA (Intelligence Section) spilling out onto their large square lawn. He smiled to see the man in the silk-backed waistcoat trimming the grass around the base of the trees. CIA must think Executive Intelligence are fools. Trimming trees at this time of night? The night looked warm and dark blue. A night to be foot- falling, padwise, over the lawn and under the moon with a friend of sufficient endowment all-wise. A face appeared at the CIA window. He turned back into the room. One could not be too careful. Face-wise.

That tennis player was holding his racket like a. guitar. Not searching the papers with the Team. He was singing a song. Singing. Gurgelotz remembered that song from his younger days. A hippy song. Pinker Shades of Red Velvet Flushing. This one would have to be watched. Maybe that was why this guy played so much tennis. The bastard wanted to wear that floral headband without arousing suspicion. He would have to be watched. There could be no love in this game. The Security men had not checked behind this piece of florally cloth. Let's go see. He ripped it off. Nothing. Clever bastard. But he would have to be watched. The puzzled tennis-player accepted his headband back with a puzzled look.

"Are you all finished?" shouted Gurglelotz.

They all nodded except for the man in the track-suit who was holding his heart with one hand and studying a stop-watch, which he held in the other. The tennis player nodded but continued singing to himself. Gurgelotz stared at him but gave up. "Well?" There were shrugs and lips were pursed. "Well? Where are we?"

"I think we should phone the Chief."

A voice came from the doorway. "No need. No need damn need at all." The Chief stood at the door, his long headdress of black, red and white feathers flowing out behind him. They all stood up to hail him, right hand over left 1eft breast. The Chief took a hitch at his buckskin pyjamas to make sure they did not catch in his woolly slippers, before crossing the room to the table. Gurgelotz made a space. His Chief passed, obviously annoyed. "I forgot my dadblam teeth." He reached his desk, leaned over and removed his teeth from the top drawer. He dipped them in a glass of water that lay on the desk, dried them on the flag in the corner and slid them into his mouth. "Heap big pow-wow here. What's going on? Why wasn't I told about this? Who called this dadblam meeting anyhow?"

They all stiffened and straightened. Five looked at the paintings of George Washington. "I cannot tell a lie: It was him." they chorused, with pointing fingers.

The face of George Gurgelotz reddened and saddened. "You? George? You? Hell, George, well, well, tell me about it. What's all this in aid of?"

The Chief walked over to his brightly-painted rocking horse in the centre of the room, mounted it, unhitched the tomahawk, waved it, and made silent whooping gestures at his mouth as the horse rocked one way and then another. As it rocked back and forth George explained. The Chief listened. When the tale was told the Executive Intelligence all stood silent, waiting, watching the horse bucking, to and fro, back and forth, back and forth. The tomahawk was being used to slash the air at each side. The Chief sat up straight. He moved his hand at his mouth quicker. "Oooh. Wah wah wah ooh. Wah Wah Ooh. Sink the submarine, says the great Manitou. Sink it. Sink it" The Chief stood up on the rump of the horse. He leaned forward placing his hands on the edge of the saddle. Kicking a leg up behind himself, he made to dismount. He fell off. His tribesmen rushed to his aid. The Chief struggled bravely to his feet. "Gurgelotz. I don't care what you see or take as the right course, but you'd better not let these fellas get hold of this Mac whatever. And don't let the Press get hold of this, or you're out for many, many, moons." He whooped and danced some revolutions to the door. Before leaving he stopped and turned to the tennis player. "You. I mean you. When you want to sing don't keep time with your feet. It keeps the squaw awake and shifts her mudpack." He left. Five others left. All clapped Gurgelotz on the back and the shoulder as they made their way off into the welcoming night. George Gurgelotz was left alone to make his third- generational multi-faceted response to avoid a North Atlantic balls-up.

George studied the map on the wall. He removed the three feather- flighted darts from the pockmarks around Moscow and Paris. He studied the star- spangled flags dotted around Britain, letting his eyes wander over and around them: down them; up them; across them, until he came to one on the middle of the West coast of Scotland. He considered it for a moment then sat behind the Chief's telephone. "Hello, operations? This is George Gurgelotz. I'll be bringing my son round in the morning to have his adenoids removed. Now can you put me on to International Closed Lines please?"

The phone buzzed and crackled. He heard a snatch of Glenn Miller. A voice came. "International. Do you have clearance?"

George flicked his wallet open to show his photograph, but replaced it into

his pocket. "This is George Gurgelotz, bracket, Intelligence, bracket, Executive."

"Sorry sir, have you clearance? Who are you bracketed with?"

"I'm giving me clearance."

"Sorry, sir. Won't do. You could be the Chief. Do you have clearance?"

"Cats in Hell, big Chief Wallah Wallah Wooski gives me clearance. Now can I have a closed Line?"

"Oh. The Chief knows you. Certainly, sir. Whom do you wish to speak to?"

"I want a NATO line to our Commander at the Loch of the Angels, Scotland. That's in Britain. Fast as you can. Thanks."

There were more crackles and buzzes interspersed with Hank Williams, Andy Williams, Glenn Miller an advert for cars and two women discussing the price of aubergines. The line cleared and a phone was ringing "Hello. Commander Perry here."

"Commander this is George Gurgelotz."

"Well, hello George. What can I do for the Executive? You want some more lucky white heather?" George did not want some more lucky white heather. He told the scenario of the Singlebody Papers. Commander Perry expressed concern. "But George, all the subs are gone. We're packing this base up. Finished. All I've got down here is a squad of Marines waiting to be picked up for home."

"Home my arse. Unwait them. Get them up there. Anyway you can. Get this guy. If you can't manage this for me Perry, I'll see to it that your next posting is Tennessee."

"I'll get right to it, George, sir. I'll see what I've got. I'll even go myself."

"I recommend you do. That's the spirit. I'll recommend you to Big Chief SpittingBull."

Commander Perry put the phone down. It takes a worried man to sing a worried song . . .

Escape to McCapture

Adam was a veteran. Binh Ba. Nui Dat. The night moves of Operation Sydney. Adam Blue had been there. And more. Once Adam Blue had gone without sleep for four nights and five days. That was in Darwin at the big penny-up game. But sleepless nights are sleepless nights anywhere. They all counted. Even this one. Stuck with some Pommy wanker and hiding out under a bed like some dingo knee-padder. And this one yabbered in his sleep. Just as well Dame Nel1ie up there did as well, you couldn't tell the two apart. As for the short-arse he just sung snatches of Al Jolson during his dreamtime.

The room was lightening. Morning was here. Shortly this boot-polish freak with the sore bum would be rising. Adam Blue had no wish to hear or see it. He did not fancy looking at this geezer's crack-corn breakfast routine. He turned to the Simon fella and shook him by the shoulder.

"Matushka." murmured Simon.

"Jesus." Adam clamped a hand over Simon's mouth and nose. Simon's eyes opened wide. Adam jerked his head a little. Simon's eyes opened wider. Adam jerked his head again and just managed to hold back a curse as his hair got caught in the springs of the bed. He released Simon to free his hair all tied up in a tangle around an overstretched spring. Finally, he pulled his head away leaving a little bush of hair stranded in the spring. Adam settled down and they lay again nose to nose. Adam hissed in his best English. " Time to go, mate. You just follow me when I wave. Capice?"

Simon was unsure what capeeji meant but he nodded his nose forward. Adam slithered out from under the bed, mouthing curses as he pulled the heavy kilt along with him. He tugged himself free, raised himself up on one arm, cranking his neck around to look at the sleeping beauties. The randy Rastus-Crustaceous lay with his head snuggled between the breasts of his night – nurse. "Streuth."

Adam shook his head and crawled forward, flat, across to the door. He stopped, hesitating. He slid his arm up the door. Slowly. He gripped the handle. A man's voice came over to him. "Swaneeee, how I love ya, how I love ya, my dear old . . .

''Hush, hush now, you is ma Sonny Boy. You is all right now."

The bed creaked and made springing noises. A chunk of hair fell onto Simon' s nose. The pair snuggled in. Adam gripped the door handle. He turned it. Slowly. The door came, and opened. Slowly. Adam crawled until his head stuck out onto the landing. There were no guards. Nearly free. A wave to the mate under the bed.

Simon slithered out, and over, and in file they both slithered out, and along the landing. Adam stopped, holding up a hand. Simon stopped. Adam peeked round the corner and pulled his head back. He crawled backwards, only stopping when his kilt covered Simon's face. Simon retreated quickly to fresher air.

Adam was waving his hand in a circle. Simon waved one in a circle too. He did not wish to appear unknowing or ignorant. Adam crawled over him, crawling back up the corridor the way that they had come. He waved for Simon to follow. Simon followed. They arrived at the curtained window. Adam stood up. Simon stood up. They went behind the curtain. Adam examined the window. It was a window of glass: little panes of joined up glass. They were in luck. It was a simple lever handle and latch. The window opened inwards. It was raining. Simon shivered. Adam leaned out of the window to peer down. His hat did not fall off. Adam twisted around and looked up. Simon studied the thin legs that appeared with the stretching. Up from rolled-over socks Adam' legs were thin and brown but the knees were sharp, pointed and white. Yet this Adam man did not look like a Man who crawled. Adam came back in. "The only way is up, mate."

"I have heard that before. It is a particularly cruel capitalist deception"

"Eh? Listen you toffee-ball chompin camel we can only get out of here by going up on the roof. When I climb out, you hold my feet as long's you can to help me get a decent grip." Simon nodded; it was time to look wise and unafraid. Adam sat on the window sill facing in. He reached up outside and pulled on the upper edge of the window. It seemed secure. He pulled and forced himself upwards away from the still-gripping hands of Simon, until he stood with his feet inside on the ledge and his upper body outside. Simon held on to the ankles, struggling to hold on to them. A heel in the face told him dam wished him to let go. The pain made him look up: this Adam man had professionally adopted the ways of the natives: he had no underwear on.

Adam stretched his arms further upwards. His fingers reached and gained a grip round the horn of a uniparrot. Straining, hard, he slung another big hand over a space in the decorative castellation that ran all around the roof. He pulled, scrambling, upwards, until he was up, and over, on to the roof. He called to Simon. "O.K., mate, on you come."

Simon thought of Admiral Ashka sipping the Earl Grey and wondered if even a cup of the old secret formula of Mr. Jackson of Piccadilly would soothe the nerves of anyone unlucky enough to work with such a man as this mad Aussie man. He felt sudden nostalgia for Podroyin looking under the carpets and beds for the agents of the CIA. Last night Podroyin should have been under such a bed, looking at such a sight as the Dr. Crab snuggled into the breasts of his momma.

And now here Simon looked up into the silly smile that rode the mouth of Adam Blue. Simon wished his higher-placed relatives were here. "C'mon, mate, move y'self. "Simon stretched up, and. grasping the stone bird's protuberance, with one hand, jumped. And failed with the other.

He swung. He swung above the water-slapped rocks of the Loch of the Crabs. He swung. He swung and wondered if those old war stories of Grandpa Hacov's were true. The ones about those kilted paratroopers who did not need parachutes. Simon swung, and swung, until, on one of the downswings, he stretched up with his free hand and connected, just gaining a grip on the horn. He blew to release the tension. Simon desperately hauled himself up to stand where Adam had stood. Adam had taken off his kilt and was dangling it down. An end of the kilt came down to Simon. Simon looked at it, and pressed close to the wall. Adam hissed. "For Pete sake grab it. It'll hold you. There's seven yards of material in these things, my uncle McMoses told me."

Simon looked at that face, and hesitated. Then he looked down - and he grabbed. He climbed his way up hand over head as Adam pulled on the kilt. Simon grabbed the edging on the roof, and was over. "Easy, eh?" said Adam, as he fastened the kilt back onto his thighs and body. Simon opened his eyes when he deemed it safe. "Now what?" he asked.

"Now we spy out the land. This Crab bloke looks a little mad to me. From the shenanigans going on there I reckon he's some kinda white slaver. He's more taken with the bloody sheilas than he is with the guys. I knew there was something goin on here when I clapped eyes on that peeping Jonah back there."

Simon had always suspected that Yevta should have been chosen. This was his milieu: Scottish Highlands, White slavers, Women-besotted mad aristocrats. Yevta knew all about these things from his books, although he had never mentioned lust-crazed Scottish sheiks before. And yet. Everyone knew about the Scottish oil to the North. Could it be possible? No matter now; what is actual, is Simon Hacov here listening to this shell-shocking lunatic.

"So me old son, we'll just have to recce the place: get their strength and positions, check the weather, all the usual stuff."

"Check the weather?"

"Too right. Never know when it might change in your favour. Or against ya. Even indoors."

"Indoors?"

"Yep. Now, remember the third rule of guerrilla warfare: Be patient."

"Please believe me I am."

Adam led Simon along the sloping roof. At the end of the building it dropped away, but just a few feet over the edge and immediately below was a flat roof with a double rank of chimney pots. "That'll do nicely." said Adam. Simon grabbed at his crotch. The white coupon was still there.

They took shelter behind the base of one of the dark chimneys. Adam peeped around. "I'll take first watch." said Adam.

There was no time for any watches; down in the cobbled yard there was movement. Highlanders came out of doors, went in other doors, crossed from corner to corner, looked in windows, looked in bins, all yelling and rushing around with claymores held high. From above the clamours of the searchers . Adam's smile was widening. Simon felt sweat on his palms . Adam spat. "Yep. Somethin goin on down there, mate. I can tell." Simon could tell too, and his palms grew clammier. Perhaps this Adam would have them leap from these warm and safe chimney pots to tackle them all. No. This was not the way of the guerrilla. Some rule would cover chimney pots. Perhaps he should learn about this rulebook. If he returned. There was a bellow from below. A door banged with a bang that shook the very roof that they were standing upon. Dr. Crustaceous was up and on the hunt.

The Doctor was dressed as he had been when they had first encountered him except for the addition of another tartan sash and another silver buckle at his chest. He looked like a man burdened down with care. Marching to the centre of the square he stood fidgeting with the basket of his claymore, nervously looking around himself. Even when the parrot landed on his head he did not alter his look. It was still the same parrot. Suddenly the Dr. lifted his claymore high and let out a roar: "Wha Checks a Crab Gets Nippit. Piper. Play for your Chief. Play."

Alone on his battlement a piper struck up and played a fast marching tune. Adam Blue moved from his left foot to his right foot, hopping in perfect time to the music, but kept his eyes on the square. From all the doors and all the lower windows as well as all the window that were not too high up and all through the Gate and from out of all of the bins the Highlanders came. They came to the piper's call. They assembled. They assembled and shuffled, filling up the square. They milled. They formed up ranks standing together: Scottish shoulder to Scottish shoulder, claymores to the fore. One man in the front rank was having an argument with a man in the rear rank.

Two giant Highlandmen strode forward. Dr. Crab was lifted on to their shoulders. Two others held his legs as he stood. "Brithers," he yelled, in a voice that was not as posh as before, "There are those abroad this day, in this very Castle, who would harm our cause. They have come from I know not where to interfere with our way of life." The Doctor fished out a list and held it where he could read it. "Freedom. Equality. Justice. Fair shares for all and a right to live in these Glens the way we have always lived. The come here to institute what they call regime change. That is, they want our crofts and our lands. But we will fight for our birthright. And our brithers all over the world will hear our call, and rally to the Cause. From over the seas they will return and help us regain all that has been taken from us. And we shall begin again to transform not only our ancient land, but the new lands that have lost their way." His oratory was building up. "But first: these two who are in our midst," he raised his sword, "They must be found."

"Aye."

"They must be caught."

"Aye."

"They must be taught."!

"Aye."

"Wha Checks a Crab Gets Nippit."

"Wha Checks a Crab Gets Nippit."

The morning air was ripped apart as the voices erupted, echoing from the buildings around the square and the rocks beyond. Dr. Crustaceous leaned forward, beckoning for the video camera to be focussed more on his face and signalling for the microphone to be raised. "Aye, my brithers, there are two amongst us, if the sea has not claimed or the crabs clammed them. Find them. They are a present danger. For he today, who sheds his blood with me . . . The Director of the video was signalling that he should finish at that . . . The good Doctor held out his claymore, its tip suspended like a conductor's baton. "For the Clan. For the Clan."

"Wha Checks a Crab Gets Nippit." they roared. They cheered mightily, the lusty Highland lungs of these upright men giving vent to centuries of oppression that had forced them to be a subjugated people, a landless people: landless in the land of their fathers and their father's father and Adam Blue watched and said "Bullshit."

Simon frowned. "They did look fierce."

But Adam Blue could only grin wider. "I think they're on to us, mate."

The main body had dispersed, but Dr. Crab remained, conferring with a group that gathered around him. Three peeled away and disappeared through a doorway. As the Doctor continued conferring, they returned; this time, between them, came John and J.L., Mary and Martha. They all looked sleepy. "You bloody bastard." seethed Adam. "This is it mate. Time for us to get down among it."

Simon did not respond. Adam crossed over to a trapdoor in the roof, pulling it open. A highlander's head popped through. "Nobody here mate." said Adam. The head disappeared. "Rule 16. Never be afraid to brazen it out."

Simon sighed. He would never be able to remember all these rules. Perhaps he could find them in a book somewhere. If they were in a military manual, Moscow would have them. Adam climbed onto the ladder inside the opening, which led down into the building below, waving for Simon to follow. Simon followed.

The building was some kind of a workshop. A generator was thumping on and bumping off. A single bare strip light struggled to survive, flickering on and off, in no regular pattern. Cables led out from a steel cabinet to a small square bus of some sort. The vehicle had smoked windows all around. Adam studied it.

From the primitive bench seating inside he concluded that it was a kind of

amphibious seek-and-destroy vehicle. The searching Highlander had gone through a small door set into the wooden double doors. Adam put out a hand to restrain Simon. Simon was doing nothing. They waited: crouched and hushed. When Adam was ready, they moved to the door, which allowed Adam to squint through a hole in the planking.

The small group was till in the middle of the courtyard. The good Doctor Crab was gesticulating, flinging his gesticules around like a man with three arms. One of his hands waved toward the garage door. Two men ran from the back of the group toward the garage. "O.K. me old son, these two are coming this way. Best to duck down here for a bit. Adam looked around, lifted an old rag, stretched up and removed the light bulb. "If you're gonna crook him, crook him in the dark."

Simon bent over, hurrying to the back of the bus where he hunkered down to wait.

The men came in through the small door. They edged between the bus and the wall and began to unscrew the couplings on the bus's umbilical cables. Adam

touched Simon, tapping him on the chest. He made a pointing revolving gesture. the

Adam was going around the bus. Adam crept off. Simon peeked around the edge. The Highlandman nearest to him was a small man. But broad. The faraway one that the guerrilla encyclopedia was going for was tall. But skinny.

Simon remained rooted, peering around, watching Adam. The face of Adam Blue guerrilla fighter was at the other end of the bus, nodding. Nodding vigorously. Nodding vigorously and pointing: shaking a finger jerkily. Simon Havoc was to do something. Do something to the huge solid Highlandman who was looming up short, but looming larger by the second. The Adam man was creeping up towards his target. Simon moved toward his. The man looked up. Simon smiled: Rule Twelve. He was beginning to remember.

The man frowned back at the smile, and jerked his head round just in time to see his Maccomrade fall into the arms of Adam Blue, who was now shouting at Simon "Ah Geeze, bloody hit him. Hit him." The Highlander lunged toward Adam. Adam never let go his own captive but somehow he managed to rise in a perfect arc and crack his head on to the head of the lunging Highlander. The Highlandman collapsed. Adam let the other fall on top of his mucker. Simon's

mouth fell open. Adam was already separating the couplings.

"Adam, just now, what rule was that?"

"Boy Scouts, mate. Be Bloody Prepared."

"Oh. What are we preparing for now?"

"Obvious to a blind koala in a monsoon ain't it? That fella out there wants the bus. So we're gonna give him it. You and me. We'll deliver it."

"Oh. I see. Who will drive please? I only have a learner person's."

"Aw shit, shut up and get in." Adam hitched up his kilt and pulled down the brim of his hat to hide his face. He turned and pushed the double doors apart before clambering into the driver's seat. Simon had taken the seat directly opposite, along one side. Adam looked at the pedals, trying to decide which was which. He tried to recall his days at the pineapple packing factory. Those bastards had fired him because they were too miserable to hire anybody to open the bloody doors in the place to let him drive the truck through. He depressed a pedal. It made a lovely familiar click. The black knob. F . or R. F. His luck was in. The bus moved. More confident now, he pressed harder.

The bus moved forward, off, and out into the morning light, bumping across the wet cobbles, towards the group, who waited. Nearing the group, Adam lifted his foot off one pedal and hit his other one on the stopping pedal. It was a stopping pedal. The bus slowed, and stopped.

The group moved to the back of the bus, the civilians being herded in the centre for loading. They all waited at the back of the bus behind . They waited, looked at each other, whispered and waited. Adam spoke to Simon. "Go on. Let your bloody passengers in."

"Me?"

"Yeh. You. I'm the driver of this heap. Haven't you ever been on one of these tour things? One drives, and one sits and yaps like a broken record. It's always the one that gives out the bullshit that opens the doors. And in this bus, that's you."

Simon stepped out the side door. He paused. He ruffled his hands through his hair to make himself look like a native – just as Adam's rulebook demanded. Tucking his chin into his chest, he moved to the rear of the vehicle, moving stiffly into the space made for him by the waiting herd. Dr. Crab shouted. "Come on, come on. Open the bus door. Tomorrow these travellers, may come no more." He cackled at his rhyme, and his parrot squawked.

Simon pulled at the lever marked 'HANDLE', in red. It refused to budge. He pulled at it, and pulled at it. It remained unmoved. Simon summoned up some inner tension strength. The handle came off in his hand. Dr. Crab's lips stretched to one side and quivered. A burly red-bearded guard stepped forward and gave the door a kick at its bottom right hand corner while simultaneously battering the top left hand corner with his palm. It sprung open.

The parrot flew in and rested on the seat by the side of Adam's head. Dr. Crab pushed in and took up his seat in the centre. They all followed on board. A guard stood up when he saw that Mary might be left without a seat. Mary hesitated, but relented and sat down. "Lets be off." ordered Dr. Crab.

The bus moved off to the Castle exit. The gates swung wide open. The way was clear ahead. John bounded out of his seat. "My bus. My bus. Where's my bus? It was here. Just at the end here. Where is it?"

Crab looked down his nose at John as he spoke. "Why so upset? Do you need some particulars for an insurance claim? It's probably worth more to you off the road than on it. But relax, and you may see it again"

John sat down, glaring at Crab. Crab grinned, enjoying the dislike. "Mr. Burnett, whether you drive that bus again, or any other bus fro that matter, depend s upon myself. Me. I will decide the fate of your bus – and its owner." He nodded to a guard and a Highland hand pushed John back into his seat. The Mcmini-bus trundled out and over the Causeway. The parrot was trying peek around Adam's head to his face. At length he made it. Adam gave the bird a quick look and a smile. The parrot screeched and beat its wings on a hasty flight back to the comforting shoulder of Dr. Crab.

Adam found the windscreen wipers after turning the inside lights on and off, the fog lamps on, and off. Dr. Crab was leaning forward, gripping Simon's shoulder hard, his one pink eye squinting. "You. Why is there no commentary on this bus? Our friends want to know to where they are being taken." He made the expansive gesture. "Don't you friends?" Reaching up to a black console above Simon's head, he flicked a switch before handing Simon a microphone. "Here you are. Commentate. Commentate. Simon tried to smile but could not, all he could do was stare at the black head of the microphone. He remembered the rule: Brazen it out. He shoved a finger into his mouth and moved it around in a circle while opening his eyes as wide as possibly could, while appealing with an upturned palm. "Aw." said the Doctor," You have no voice." Simon nodded nodded, nodded nodded. "Ah well never mind. We shall see if we can fetch you a cure at our destination." Simon bit his revolving finger.

The bus trundled on; now it was nearing the end of the causeway: there was only the steep road up the hill ahead. Even the pineapple canning factory didn't have a truck that could knock off that road. The truck trundled on. Adam kept the pedal to the floor. Rule 19. Don't show funk. Adam drove on. And blinked. The road was moving.

Sideways. It was moving sideways into itself .Opening up. Opening wide: wide enough to take two buses. One big round opening. A black hole of an entrance to some huge cave in the side of the hill. Adam did not stop. He kept the vehicle moving on and in, through darkening shadows chasing strands of pink light throughout the bus. The bus was in and the door was closing in again. The hum of a large generator could be heard as a drone behind every other sound. Smaller generators could be heard running, the clackering of road drills could be heard assaulting and kicking off solid ground. Strings of lights ran along the roof of the tunnel.

Not far in they passed John's bus: parked on the left-hand side of the road. John noticed, looked, but did not get excited. All the new tourists were quiet. There was nothing much to be said. They were all entering into something strange, a world of which they had no knowledge.

Adam pushed the bus on. They came to a cross-roads. He steered the bus. To the right. Or to the left. Maybe straight . Or even better straight back to hell out of it. But Rule 21 said: When in doubt go straight through. The Doctor bloke was speaking: "I think we'll go to the head office today, driver." Adam looked at the white direction boards tacked onto the walls above, below, beside and underneath each other with black arrows and red arrows pointing to every direction on the compass. There ain't no notices on the Birdsville Track. He slowed a little with the stopping pedal to allow more time for study. Adam ~Blue was not a great guy for the reading, but he knew that HEAD had a H in it. He looked for a H. Maybe the young Adam B1ue should've stayed in more and listened more to the Flying Teacher. Trouble was in that part of the Outback the Flying Truant Officer had nowhere to land his bloody plane to catch the Flying schoolkids playing with their mates the Flying Abos. Probably the Flying Truant Officer didn't give a stuff. There was an H. Follow it. Following it. There's no protest. Adam Blue was the best bespoke driver this side of the Black Stump. "Driver, I said the Head office." Calm enough, but maybe that was a protest.

The Tunnel was showing clearer light ahead. A much sharper light, growing bigger as the bus approached. Light hurt Adam's eyes as the tunnel gave way to a large brilliantly lit Plaza, the size and shape of a footie pitch. He drove the bus around and stopped it beside some official looking wood- panelled office. Luck was holding, there was still no protest as you'd notice. Adam leaned over and gave Simon's thigh a squeeze, jerking a thumb toward the back door. Simon punched Adam in the groin, but took the hint, slipping off and out to open the back door for the passengers. Simon reached for the door handle, but stopped and smiled. He palmed the top corner. He gave the door a kick. It sprung open and battered him square on the face.

The guards brought Mary, John and Martha out. J.L. lingered inside trying to adjust his coat and his dignity. A push landed him out with the rest. The plaza in the tunnel smelled of humid dampness. Scattered around, tropical plants grew under clusters of warming ultra-violet 1ight. Near the centre a long palm tree emerged from a pool of pale water and reached toward an ultra-violet moon. Shell fountains sprinkled over pools of floating lilies. From the offices, mosaic-paths ran out to surround a lush jungle area of trees and tropical subterranean shrubbery. And over everything was the constant hum of a large generator sounded over as constant deep background to all other sound. Martha considerd her new surroundings. "Well ain't this swell? All we need here is Hope and Crosby."

"I knew I knew it. Martha, you are a woman of taste." said Dr. Crab, pressing a button on a console that was attached to a particularly fine example of Ricinus communis set into a circle of Aloe arboriencis. Two men in floral shirts and a woman in a palm-leaf sarong floated into view. "Holograms, Martha, holograms. New technology, the road to freedom. Conjure up where you want to be, and who you want to be with. And hey presto. This one is my favourite - next to the Jazz Singer."

"Dr. Crusty-face," said J.L. "You'll be on the road to Sing-Sing if you keep this up."

"My dear J.L., keep what up? I have fed you. I have bedded you, as it were, and now I've brought you to the Crab family estate. And truly, I simply wish to discuss some business with you. There is nothing wrong with that surely? Surely not?"

"Don't give me any malarkey. We want out and you'd better get us out, pretty damn pronto. What's the business, by the way?"

"Eventually, J.L., there will be answers to all of your questions. Eventually. Come. To my office."

Martha glowered at J.L. "Don't go anywhere with that phoney. You stay here. Better still, do something."

"It's just a little business, honey. That's how we make our money."

"Yeah? Well I'll make it my business to see a lawyer when we get back. That'll do me for making money."

Dr. Crab blew Martha a kiss, taking J.L.'s arm and guiding him away. "Naughty, naughty Martha." Two Highland minders close up behind them. The Dr. turned and called back. "Take Our guests into the canteen and invite them to sample our Haggis Flambé." They stepped away a few steps. The Doctor turned again. "By the by, take our driver chappie with you, and our soundless little commentator. I rather fancy they are more reluctant than the others to stay."

The Highland brigade tightened around the 1ittle group. The Doctor and J.L. – and their associates - moved off through the palms and rubber plants. A coconut fell noiselessly through the head of the sarong weaver. Somebody somewhere was singing The Road to the Isles. The remaining Scots guards surrounded their charges and led them on a trip, up a flight of stairs, opened a steel door and ushered them in. One of them pricked Adam in the back with the point of his claymore. Adam turned around. The guard lifted his foot and kicked Adam inside behind the others.

They were in some sort of rest lounge, with soft chairs scattered around at the walls, tanks of tropical fish, and, at the far end,a long dining table set for six. On the walls were paintings of cockatoos, mynahs and parrots and small Miniatures of budgerigars. On one complete wall a mural depicted a battle: A man in armour was depicted standing with one foot on a vanquished foe, holding high a sword that dripped blood from its blade while he kissed a large red, yellow, blue with orange underbelly parrot perched on his mailed glove. Adam moved close up to the mural, studying its every detail.

The parrot reminded him of Polly. But he couldn't cry. Not here.

A Torturous Business
Everyone knew that James Lomond McCrabberty was a business-man. First and foremost a businessman. And this Crab man, he spoke like a business-man to business-man. Nothing straight about him. But James Lomond McCrabberty prided himself on his liberality: business could be done with damn-near anyone, whether Martha liked that person or no. Maybe even yet this man could be persuaded to sell the Castle. Even heritage has its price. If not – well, maybe there was some action that here the McCrabberty group could be cut into. Anyone who could organise and manufacture a layout like this from some hole-in-the -hill place must be shrewd, have backing and some helluva lot of collateral. Martha didn't understand business: credit must be given where credit is due. This Dr. Crab looked like a slick operator. Maybe it ran in the Crab blood. Maybe the Crab Clan were masters of the Bull, and the Bear, and the Stag as well.

J.L. stepped out of the elevator that had whooshed them up. Dr. Crab signalled two minders to stand either side of an elevator door. Each one stood to the side, posting himself under the shadows of a huge potted Australian Umbrella Tree. Dr. Crab opened an office door that had tow Crabs Rampant described up a brass plate, standing aside to let J.L. enter. Strip light flickered its way on to finally light up a long rectangular office; an office more plush even than J.L.'s own in New York.

Here was class. Martha could take lessons from this. The busts of Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh would have to go, as would the green velvet curtains with the gold fringes. This was modern. This was an office for a modern business-man: walls lined with tan-coloured suede material, except fro the large relief map of Scotland set left of the centre, a large relief map of the world set to the right; the Chesterfield in the centre of the room: pointed chromium arms pointing toward a plain glass desk; the usual laptop, three telephones: one pale blue, one green and one purple with little red stars. And behind the desk: white Venetian blinds running from one end of the wall to the other. At least these were the same as J.L.'s: sharp-edged slats: clean and cold light-stopping light-reflectors. A statue. On the left-hand side of the room a large black cover draped over some kind of figure-of-eight shape that looked as if it was set on some kind of stand. Behind the desk, here was mirror, set between the paintings of severe crusty-faced men. The Crab ancestors.

J.L. studied them. Not one of them looked like J.L. McCrabberty. Except maybe that one with the quill pen in his hand poised over some kind of contract with some kind of native. Dr. Crab was speaking: "Fascinating, are they not, J.L.? Your ancestors perhaps. And mine, of course."

"Guess we go back a long ways us Crabs."

"Oh yes. Very far." Doctor Crab laughed loudly, crossing over the room and pulling the black cover from over the stand. "Very far. Very far indeed."

Revealed from below the drape was a large aquarium of some sort. In the water nothing moved but the oxygen bubbles. There were only some largish rocks and seaweed to be seen. Doctor Crab rippled the water with his hand. "Crabs my dear boy, have been on the planet for two hundred million years. Perhaps in this part of the world even longer. Fascinating creatures they are, are they not?"

"Don't know much about them."

"Ah. I know. I'm afraid this is the way of the world. At least for the moment. Yes. Those who do most valuable work are invariably left unsung. Just like the Crab. Are you ware, J.L., that it is the Crab that keeps the bed of the sea clean? Hey are carnivores, my dear Lomond, carnivores. And so unfussy. They will eat all kinds of things. Living or dead."

Doctor Lord Crab smiled a tight smile at J.L. as his hand caressed the water. "And furthermore: they will allow nothing, no-one, to foul their territory. Observe." The Doctor picked up a long stick at the end of which was stuck what appeared to be a human big toe. J.L. could only stammer: "What the hell is that?"

"Regrettably, yes. One of our cooks. A nasty accident with the mincer." The stick with the toe was plunged into the water, brought to rest on the bottom at which point it was waggled gently, disturbing the sand. Dr. Crab held it there, its flesh and stringy bits of sinew wafting out behind its severed joint. J.L. watched, held spellbound by the wafting traces of blood and skin.

The sand moved at the base of one of the larger rocks. From under a large pie-crusty crab scuttled out sideways; two large black claws extended, reached, grabbed, and the toe was gone. Gone. The crab retreated back to its home. J.L. felt sick. His jaws clapped in and out. Uncontrolled jaw-clenching. Maybe this was a man not to do business with. Doctor Crab was studying J.L.'s discomfort while stroking his ubiquitous parrot. "Be calm, sir. This is only nature at work. This is only nature being put to work."

"What are you trying to tell me? That this is the nature of all us Crabs, including us human ones?"

The good Doctor laughed long and loud as he rippled and preened the parrot's feathers. "Not at all, dear boy. Not at all. Crabs can be very different, one to another. I, for instance, and you I dare-say, do not have the angry aggressive tendencies of the crab you have just witnessed. Instead, I prefer to think of myself as a hermit Crab. The hermit Crab lives in a shell, as I do in my empty mountain, and just as the Hermit Crab relies upon the sea-anemones it carries around on its back to repel enemies, so I rely upon my trusty Highlanders with their trusty claymores. In return, the Hermit Crab feeds the sea-anemones from his scavenges on the sea-floor, as I maintain my Highlanders from my excursions into the murky turbulent tides of commerce." The parrot seemed to be nodding agreement, but had the wisdom to remain silent. " We here live in our world drawn upon the world of the sea-crabs, J.L., a symbiotic world where each does what he or she is best at. And shares any spoils of course."

"No prizes for guessin who gets most, I bet."

Doctor Crab smiled without showing teeth. "You misunderstand; with us there is no 'most'; with us there is only The Cause."

"Oh yeah. And what might that be?"

The Doctor leaned up from the tank, stretching and flicking the wet from his fingers across the carpet. "Please sit down, J.L. Please."

J.L. sat down catching sight of himself in the mirror as he did so. Not looking too bad. The overnight stubble on the chin looked quite mach, actually. Not good, not bad, not ugly, but just the right side of rough. Hard-looking. Like flint. Like Clint. Now J.L. had to show that he was rough enough and tough enough to deal with this hombre. One night on the high plain floor of that turret cell hadn't done any harm. Not to this man. J.L. McCrabberty was ready to take this play and come out wining. Just follow the script.

The Doctor stood, twirling keys on a ring and smiling down at his guest. One of the keys nicked the parrot on the beak. It flew up, to rest on a swing that was suspended from the ceiling. The swing and the parrot swung back and forth, back and forth; sometimes it hopped on its left leg, sometimes on its right. The Doctor paid it no attention.

"Would you care for a drink, J.L.?"

"After last night? No thanks. I'll join the Temperance."

"Suit yourself. Can we do some business?"

"I'm listening."

"Ah. You Americans. You do not give much away. But when you do parley, it's straight to the point. I like that. Even if I may say that, at times, you all do have a tendency to obscure the point somewhat."

"Let's cut to the chase."

"You see? There you go: get to the live agenda; get it right up front here; get to where the heat is, run it up the flagpole and of course: cut to the chase. Such picturesque speech. I suppose that's what comes from a nation that gorges upon Reader's Digests."

"Never read it. Mind you Martha reckons we should fill the Library with the Condensed books for our retirement."

"Ah. Of course. Your wife. The lovely Martha. I suppose you love her deeply." A statement-cum-question.

J.L. has revealed a weak point. The Crab man was grinning, picking up the long pointed stick. "And I suppose that you would not like anything to happen to her?" The long stick was replaced in its corner, after being pointedly wiped clean of blood with a white, now red, handkerchief, but the face with the sly smile never left J.L.'s vision.

This Doc had started by trying to take the Mickey; now he was threatening. But this was no time to lose cool. This was time to remain poker-faced. This guy had all the aces. It was time to stay pat until Lady Luck dealt a warmer hand. Best just to let it ride. Keep the face a mask and the eyes nothing but squint slits. Watch him. He's pouring himself a shot of whisky: pouring like a man who knows his way around the inside of a whisky bottle. Lifting it, drinking it slowly like a man with thoughts moving around in his head. That eye above the rim of the glass looked plenty mean above the rim of the crystal, but James Lomond McCrabberty looked straight back at it, plumb in the centre. The Doc broke his eye away first.

Now he was crossing over to the map on the wall. His eye had broken away first. J.L. had outstared The Doc. Maybe time to press the initiative. "I think it's time you put your cards on the table, Doc."

Studying the map, Doctor Crab continued to sip at his whisky, slowly, before turning around. He studied this man opposite for a time, and then spoke. "J.L., you came all the way up here because you thought you were a Scotsman. You felt the call of the blood. The blood of the Scots. Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe that you consider yourself a Scotsman first and a Crab second; would that be correct?"

"I'm an American; but I get your drift. Sure, I know what it means to be a damned Scot. I'm proud of my roots, but a man belongs where he puts his bedroll down." J.L. had to make a spitting motion, but his lips stuck together. "Right now, I owe my loyalty to my country, my flag, the President my horse and my Martha."

The Doctor smiled, raising an eyebrow just a little. "Do you J.L.? Do you?" The voice was serious. "If you have ever considered yourself a Scot, then you know that the Scots are the Lost Tribe of Israel. The Thirteenth Tribe. The unlucky one. Since time immemorial Scots have wandered the globe, lost men, lost men seeking a home. Lost, but always spreading their supreme knowledge to all the other peoples of the world." Doctor Crab waved a hand in circle around the map of the world. "And what do they know of us? We make and drink whisky and wear skirts and are quite handy to have around if you want someone to be killed."

"What's your beef?"

"My beef? My beef? Simple. Our contribution has been lost. My dear cousin, not so long ago when we led the world in philosophy, poetry, literature, all kinds of invention in all sorts of fields, the world was a better place. It is time for the Scots to lead again. No more wallowing in nostalgia and having our photographs taken for a dollar or whatever, no more being couthy because that is what the world expects of us. No more. It is our time to lead again."

"Do you mean lead or rule?"

"Whatever fits. This is our Cause. I, Crustaceous Crab of the Ilk, will lead our people to glory once more. The Lost Tribe will bring forth the Messiah. There will be a Second Enlightenment: there will be a Second coming."" The excited Doc stared at J.L. by way of one mad eye. His voice had risen with his sermon, but it was now more serious in tone. "You can help me in this Cause J.L. You can help me lead."

"The Cause, huh? All sounds familiar. You and Highland honchos ruling the world; is that it?"

"Not at all. You are being wilful. I merely wish to place the Scots back in their rightful place as the dispensers of all that is wise and good – in al fields of life and learning." Excited again, the Doctor lifted the pointed stick and tapped it sharply on the map. "I want a computer in every croft, with an operator who can hack in to every other computer system in the world. I want to beam enlightened Scots television programmes by satellites to every home in the world. I want to bring the world our sagacity, our common-sense, our love of our fellow humans, our philosophy, wit, pottery and song, our fiscal prudence – all of it. And all of it made freely accessible through our Scots genius. Free enlightened wisdom for the masses that will bring freedom to brothers and sisters everywhere. That is our Cause."

Free. J.L. did not like the sound of that word. That word was decidedly: Unbusinesslike. A word decidedly at the blunt end, in fact. "So you're going to replace WorldNet, Voice of America and Al Jizeera? Not to mention the New Reds? Doc, you could just be saturating an already flooded market."

The Doc's eye wasn't pink any more. It was red. Red as a dying campfire. Red like a crazy man's. "No. The people are there. They are waiting. The people will know the Scottish voice as the voice of truth in an untruthful world. They will trust our voices. Think of it: advice from the ingle-nooks of Scotland: the rural hearths, the chimney corners of the wise folk of the glens. The philosophy and poetry of Burns, the morality of Sir Walter, the musings of Alistair Gray, the wit of Janice Galloway; against such a force the walls of hell could not prevail. We will begin with Africa. The Africans have always taken to us. Enough wealth and we can take over a small country, develop it with our knowledge and Scottish ways, and then spread out to evangelise and lead other States."

Doctor Crab poured himself another whisky, selected a finger from a bowl full of them, and studied it before putting it back and selecting another one. He threw it into the tank. The crab sallied forth, and then returned to its lair, leaving a ring behind. J.L. took his hand from over his eyes and cut to the sharp-edge of the agenda. "Let me guess: I become the paymaster."

"No. Well, not particularly. Money we have lots of thanks to Mother Nature. What we need is the means to foreshorten time. We have enough assets. They are here. Right under our feet. But it takes time to extract them: time that is time needed for the spreading of the word."

He turned. "In short, J.L., we need to be liquid. And the fates have sent you here. You have access to cash, while my assets are somewhat, how shall we say, landlocked."

"I was right. You do just love me for my money."

"Your money is as safe as this mountain is safe. I will give you a third of all we have here, if you decide to share our dream."

"Dream shares I've been offered a million of. Most of them turn out to be nightmares. Anyhow, what are these assets you're prattling about? So far all I've seen is an old castle with a nice line in parrot's heads and this big hole in the ground."

"Fair enough."

Doctor Crab stepped to the side of the map. With the stick he drew a long diagonal line down the centre of the north of Scotland: East to West. "We are here. Here, right t the edge of the Great Highland Fault Line. When these Highlands were formed, the Earth's plates rose up, pushed and slid against each other, they rose up, and fell where they did to await the next earthquake." Doctor Crab was angry, banging his fist on the map before turning, his eye red, and his forehead sweating as his fist rained down upon the map. "Not only did the falling plates trap the Loch Ness Monster in her lair, they crumpled over backwards and left us the Empty Mountain." The map fell.

J.L. stirred at the look on the face of his teacher. He felt he had to say something. "O.K., O.K., keep cool. You've got yourself a big cave, but what's a cave that's full of diddley-squat?"

Doc snapped the pointer over his thigh, at the second attempt, and threw the bits over the room. "This cave is, as you say sir, full of diddley-squat - and all the gold that you can imagine."

"Gold?"

"Gold."

Gold. Gold in this here hill. Go West young man and find a hill chock full of gold. "I think I'll take that drink now."

The Doc took two fingers from the bowl and made them lean side-on, one on top of the other, on the side of a crystal whisky glass. The drink was poured, and passed to a reluctant J.L. whose thirst had passed. But the drink was accepted -as a prop - time was needed for a think. The Doc here had stumbled on to this weather-proof Klondike. But just like the men in the Klondike, it had made him crazy. But crazy or no, this man held all the aces, and probably a few more. Including Martha. Maybe J.L. McCrabberty should have brought Martha along here after all: she would have outgunned this fingerfeeder. There was no-one this side of the Pecos any quicker at bringing a foot up into a man's balls – metaphorically and literally. Only thing to be done here was play for time and hope for John Wayne and the U.S. 7th. A sip. "So. Where exactly do I fit in to this business of the Great Cause?"

"You are a man of business, J.L." The tone was softer. "You know that I cannot release too much of my gold on to the market at once: if I do the price falls and so I earn less money for my trouble. What I propose is this: I will give you gold, lots of it, at today's price. You can sit on it. You can wait, but I cannot, I need my hardware now. There has never been a better time to have the Cause up and running. The voice of Scottish common sense must be heard before the next nuclear disarmament talks."

J.L. patted his shirt pocket for cheroots, but he didn't smoke. Don't be discombobulated, keep the poker face. "Doc, so far the only gold I've seen in this place is someone's ring in that there tank."

The Doctor laughed. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. It was not a very good laugh. He went behind his desk and seated himself, swinging his feet up on to the desk. Little crabs were embossed on the soles of his shoes and little parrot head spurs swung from the heels of his brogues.

"Oh there is gold my fiend. A mountain full of it. Tell me, if you can see it, touch it, bite it, - what do you say – will you join me?"

"Why, are you falling apart?"

"You are in the wrong film, my friend. Do not play silly games. I am serious." Another finger was tossed into the tank.

There was no use jumping out the window behind the man. Plastic blinds didn't break; they only bent; that's why they didn't have them in the Old West. Anyway, through the window was an unknown. And they had come up in a lift. Despite what people said, Butch Cassidy and Sundance had not come back from heir flight. No other doors in the room. And this one had two rough Mac hombres posted outside. Lady luck was dealing from a bum deck; but maybe a bluff could be tried, maybe the stakes should be raised. "What about the others? Will they be let go?"

The Crab's feet were swung down. Now he was adopting Business Pose Number Seven: hands clasped, leaning on elbows, serious face staring over the hands, eyes engaged. "J.L. I am surprised at you. Eventually they will be free, but you understand that I must keep Martha here, to ensure your compliance. As for the rest, well, maybes aye, maybes no. They are expendable - and replaceable."

J.L. jumped up, hands gripping the edge of the desk, ace touching the sharp-nose of the Doc. "You, you . . . you try anything, and . . .

"Relax, Mr. McCrabberty. Or else I might find that Martha is expendable also – although I do find her most charming, and a woman of taste." The Doc squinted his eye. "Or would you rather I turned her over to the natives? They have a particular way of treating their women."

"You bastard. You wouldn't dare."

"I am afraid I would Mr. McCrabberty. And all of the tales are true, I assure you. Now. Enough. Will you co-operate?"

"I don't have much choice do I - but I still ain't seen no gold."

Doc stood up, snapping his fingers. The parrot flew down on to his left shoulder. With a jerk on a tie-rope the Venetian blinds were raised, revealing a wall that was entirely made from glass. He slid a section over and open and beckoned to J.L. "This way. Allow me to show you some gold." J.L walked around ands stepped past him, out onto an iron fretwork balcony with double iron handrails running around it.

Far, far below, men and women stood chipping with chisels at the cavern wall. Chained together. Chained. One ankle held to another by an iron chain that ran from one person's right leg to the next person's right leg. As the chiselled they sang an old Scots spiritual in time to the chinks of their chipping. Some occasionally lifted a leg to shake the chains in rhythm. The bass drone of the generator was humming in harmony. There were men in pastel-pink shirts and cavalry-twill trousers, white –haired ladies with billowing floral blouses and slacks that only just made it up Andover their buttocks. There were men and women in black jerseys and black trousers wearing little black berets; there were Japanese men and women with all sorts of camera gear slung over their shoulders. At the near-end of the line there two happy chisellers in grey pin-stripe sits all set off by bowler hats. Two brollies and two briefcases were stacked against the wall.

At the far end of the line, standing free of it, an old grey-haired lady in a green overall was lifting the lid of some kind of steel urn sitting atop a trolley filled with sandwiches. A billow of steam fled to the cavern roof. She replaced the lid with a shake of her head.

"You can see, J.L., I do feed them well. Up and down the centre of the cavern an old man in a teacher's black cloak walked, stumbling, garumphing and muttering to himself while every so often cracking a large whip.

J.L. leaned on a handrail. "Who are these people?"

"Who knows? The overseer with the whip is an old family retainer. Loves his job down there, although he does get a little angry that he doesn't know how to sing. As for the rest? Who knows? Passing tourists, who, shall we say, were persuaded to stay on and help The Cause. Plus those two there: those pin-strippit things; someone had the temerity to send them up here to buy my home from me." J.L.'s face turned white. His guide patted his hand. "Don't be shocked. I will pay these folk you know. But for now, they work, they eat, and they have the Plaza to play in. Fortunate some would say: they have the best of both worlds: an old world environment to work in - no appraisals, no target-setting, no need for dubious self-development - they work in close comradeship with others to a common Cause while having the tropical sun of the Plaza and all the holograms they ask for. I do believe that they are quite, quite content."

Along the centre of the tunnel little bogies ran on tracks, being pushed by small stumpy women of around Martha's age, all dressed in shrinking grey cardigans and black flowing skirts. Other women, dressed in the same way, brushed up the chippings for others to shovel up and deposit into the bogies. A tear was in Doc's eye. "Wonderful, wonderful women. It is they who teach the others all the old songs you know." The tear was rolling. "Auld Scots Mithers. Every blessed one of them."

The tea-lady was bending over, checking her selection of goodies on the shelves of the trolley that carried her urn.

This mad Doctor Crab was suddenly squeezing J.L.'s elbow. Hard. Painful hard. "Come. That's enough of that." J.L. was led back into the office, where, freeing him, the Doctor poured two whiskies in the usual manner and handed one to him. J.L slumped heavily on to the Chesterfield, spilling whisky on to his lap. J.L. ignored it. It was time to take up the running here. "You're not exactly sane, Doc, are you?"

"You think this?"

"I think this. I don't reckon there's too many like you lying around: all the gold that you can handle and you want to set about ruling the world, and maybe lose it. You're not real. Why don't you learn how to relax? Come over to my ranch – have a holiday."

"Are you relaxed, J.L.? last night you said that you had just fitted Edinburgh in between New York and Tokyo. Is that what relaxes you?"

"That's my business."

"Agreed. Just as mine is mine. To the point: are you with me?"

There could be no more bluffing, no more stalling: the question was direct, the answer had to be direct. "Nope."

"May I ask why?"

"Because I reckon there has to be another way. I've probably not thought too much about about the way I live, but I as sure as hell don't want to live like you."

J.L. stretched over and placed the glass on the desk, heavily, defiantly. The man ignored him, simply crossing over to the aquarium and throwing in a finger. As the crab responded he stood back, silent, allowing J.L. a clear view of the feeding. When the crab had the digit in its pincer he spoke. "Don't be hasty. Perhaps I should explain. This crab is a pet. We have others. Down there, for instance we have one to encourage the workers. I do believe in the powers of motivation."

His eye was watching, his whole body language encouraging J.L. to watch also. "Now. How would you like to see your beautiful Martha without toes?"

"You bastard. You . . .

"Yes. If you do not co-operate then I shall feed Martha to Crab Major – my finest specimen."

J.L. collapsed, slumped, into the sofa. "Martha would not want me to give in to a nutcake like you."

"You are sure?"

"Sure."

The purple phone with the little red stars was lifted. He spoke into it in the Gaelic, and replaced it. He looked up, beckoning with an index finger."Come."

J.L. was led back once more on to the balustrade. The tea-lady was flicking tea-bags into the urn from a distance of ten feet, while behind the old overseer cracked his whip with each attempt. From the left, J.L. heard the sounds of more chains clanking and dragging. The scraping and clanking grew louder. Voices could be heard: one voice particularly clearly came rising up. "Get your paws of me you bloody big apology for a diseased wombat. Piss off the lotta ya." Adam Blue came into sight, chained to Martha chained to Mary chained to John chained to Simon. Six highlanders flanked them. Adam Blue had two to himself. Martha's voice echoed; she was shouting for a phone to call the President and demanding all of her human rights.

Two men unlocked and pulled the bawling Martha forward to hold her up in front of the overseer. He looked her over, as J.L. began to roar as loudly as he could. Martha managed to twist her head around and look up at J.L. "What are you doing up there you mug? Get down here and get these firerugs off me. You wimp."

The overseer signalled the two minders to Martha over to the wall. He turned a wheel on the wall. Two black steel shackles on chains came down from the cavern ceiling. Two steel claw grabs simultaneously came down, bringing down a large glass tank. The water moved in the tank, but did not slop over.

The tank was dropped down; the grabs were released, and disappeared back up from whence they had come. Two guards forced the steel cuffs on to Martha's wrists. One knelt and ripped the toe-end of her tights with his skean dubh. Martha threshed her legs as these two pushed and pulled at the soles of her stockings until her toes peeped through.

J.L. had a telescope thrust into his hands. Reluctantly, feeling terror, he focused it on the scene below. The guards were stepping to the wheel on the wall. They started to turn it. The wheel turned; the wheel turned and Martha was being pulled up from the ground, her legs straightening until her feet started to dangle, she was rising, rising until at length, she was suspended over the large glass tank.

Adam Blue was biting the wrist of a guard, but could not get free. The old man was gleefully rippling the water of the tank and disturbing the layer of sand on its bottom – just as the mad Doctor had done. The orchestrator on his balustrade was calm, sipping at his whisky. "You really must be calm, J.L. there is nothing you can do – except agree to help The Cause." J. L. raised the telescope to attack him, but the guards were too quick. Without looking down, the Doctor stretched out an arm and snapped his fingers. The wheel was turned in the opposite direction. Martha was being lowered toward the tank. "Well?"

J.L. gave no answer. The fingers signalled again. Martha was lowered, nearer, cursing and screaming at her captors.

The old man signalled a stop. He stepped forward and began wiping her big toe with the hem of his garment. "Perversion too?" shouted J.L.

"Acetone, J.L. Nail polish remover. Nail polish gives Crab Major tummy-ache. What do you say?"

James Lomond McCrabberty was in shock. Shock. But not in so deep not to realise that this man and his Cause could not be allowed to succeed. This Cause of his was about a Scotland he had never seen on the New York parades. "Never."

"Very well."

Martha was lowered, inching, slow. Now her feet were just inside the tank, dangling precariously over the water. Her individual toes could be seen clearly as her feet wriggled and jiggled in a vain attempt to stay above the waterline. "Well?" A shake of the head. The wheel turned. Martha's leading big toe was n the water. The wheel turned. Both big toes were now in the water. Cackling, the overseer was agitating the water. Suddenly an eruption of sand appeared, emanating from the bottom of the tank. " Ah. Here comes my scuttling Major: Macrocheira Kaempferi: the largest crab in the world my friend . And one with a voracious appetite."

J.L. shook his head, despairingly. The wheel turned another inch.

Crab Major was stretching, opening and closing its large shiny-black claws, trying to get a grip on what would be, for tonight, a juicy metarsal with sesamoids. But Martha's toes were just out of the reach of the pinching, grasping claws. Martha looked down. Martha screamed, but only once. Lifting her head she screamed up at J.L. "Don't do it. Whatever it is don't do it."

"Your wife has spirit. Have you?" The toes dangled down getting ever closer to the reaching claws as Martha's legs stretched. The toes dangled down, the claws snatched upward. "Do your worst." said J.L.

A single finger indicated: down. The overseer cackled and stepped back. The wheel was turned. Martha's big toes were so close now that the tips of the serrated claws touched the tips of her toes with their sharp points. Now the opening and closing of the claws were just failing to gain the prize. Martha was trying hard to turn her toes up from the joint. The next run of the wheel must be the last. The Chief was giving that questioning look.

J.L. had to do it. It wasn't the money, it was principle. He shook his head. The conducting finger was out. Eager hands were at the wheel. The old overseer was dribbling on to his grey beard. The tea-lady stopped flicking her tea-bags. Even the keenest miners were allowing their arms to droop. The transistor radio was turned off. Everyone was watching. Only the generator could be heard. J.L. screamed again: "I'll do it I'll do it."

The finger signalled Up as J.L.'s words echoed through the tunnel with the sound of music from the transistor radio. The old greybeard bit his lip and started to cry. Crab Major's eyes peered straight through the glass and on up to the Doctor. A plastic bag full of finished fingers was thrown down for him.

Martha was brought out and lowered to the ground. The guards took the shackles from her arms, before taking her back over to be shackled to Adam at the head of the mine's newest recruits. The newcomers were pushed and pulled and finally latched on to the other miners. They were given hammers and chisels and songsheets.

Doc was squeezing at J.L.'s elbow again. There was no need for this grabbing: J.L. stumbled back into the office, drained, in shock. There were things that had happened out there that even Davy Crockett had never seen. From below came the chinking and chiselling at the veins of gold and some new discordant voices as the new choir members struggled to find the tune, hit their pitch and read the words as they worked. Someone was singing everything to the tune of Waltzing Matilda.

Brief Encounter

The tea-lady in the green overall took another look inside the steaming urn, poured in two bottles of milk, replacing the lid with a final-sounding clatter and a clang. She moved behind her trolley, pushing it along the line of workers, yelling: Tea up Tea up, from between lips that never moved, but which instead clung grimly to a cigarette dangling down from the side of our mouth, as it puffed out grateful smoke which thanked her by obscuring her face. She approached the yellow-skinned people. They did not stop working simply turning their heads a little and shaking them violently. Most of the other workers stopped, laid down their hammers and chisels and dragged themselves as near to the lady and her trolley as they were able to. They dug into pockets and socks and hidden banks of brassieres, fished out money of all denominations and passed it over. Upon receipt of the money she flicked the black handle of the tea-urn and let loose the liquid into little polystyrene cups, which she passed over, perhaps with a smile, perhaps not. After holding up the paper money to the lights and biting the metal coil she would point to the shelves on the trolley all loaded up with various biscuits and cakes and tiny triangular sandwiches wrapped in polythene. Most people took the biscuits. One by one they took away their cups of mysterious liquid, to sit gingerly by the cavern wall: Except for those still chiselling and the two City gents who preferred to pick up their brollies, lean on them, crossed one unchained leg over a chained one, and enjoy a jolly good chat over elevenses. The trolley ratted and shook its way down to the new starts.

Martha was leaning her had back against the wall, her eyes staring straight ahead. Adam Blue put his arm around her waist and attempted to steer her toward the trolley. "C'mon Missus, your tucker is really what's what now: Even this stuff." Martha turned her head slowly. Her eyes were trying to focus on this man who was edging her forward. Adam helped her into a shuffle. The tea-lady put a long hand on a large hip. "I can't wait all blooming day, your majesty, do you want his tea or don't you?"

Adam secured an armful of Martha's chain. "Sure, we'll take some of your gear, just give the little lady a chance will ya?" Martha leaned on his shoulder and together they hobbled and shuffled to the trolley. "Give us two of your teas if you ain't got a bloody beer."

"Give us your money."

"Money? You don't expect us to pay cash for that cat's pish do you?"

"That's it exactly. Cash."

Martha's eyes were still staring but she managed to nod once, lower her head, open her handbag and begin a rummage in its depths. To Adam she passed over a lipstick, a compact, a bundle of keys, a handful of crushed paper handkerchiefs, assorted envelopes and postcards and address cards, a bottle of perfume and her copy of War and Peace and a copy of Good Housekeeping. Wordlessly, without changing her expression she passed over a crushed crumb-laden dollar bill to the lady of the trolley, and zombie-like began the repacking of the knick-knacks.

The lady shifted the cigarette sideways along streaky red lips and blew some ash sideways. "Just enough. You can take from the bottom shelf but no the top." Two teas were spluttered and splashed into two cups. Adam nudged Martha and indicated the gateau on the bottom shelf. Expressionless, Martha reached down and picked up two pinkish conical confections that might have been cakes. Adam struggled to help her, and hold the teas, but they made it back to the wall where they sat down.

Mary and John sat as close to each other as possible; foot to foot, knee to knee, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, but John's head was down. He was fumbling with the chain which bound them. Mary leaned back onto her hands and stuck out her tongue as the tea-lady passed. The cigarette flew from one

side of the mouth to the other, and back again. The tip glowed red. She by-passed Mary and John and arrived at Simon.

Simon liked his tea. Simon Hacov was noted for his tea. He had never tried this woman's particular way of making tea, but he was not such a dogmatist that he could not concede the West might be more efficient in some things. Simon Hacov smiled at this provider of the tea, for Simon Hacov knew the thanklessness others showed towards the tea-make. The lady smiled back. There were black gaps at her teeth. But to pass oneself off in Britain, one must always be a gentleman. Simon Hacov smiled wider. The lady smiled wider. The gaps were wider. She stopped the trolley and waited for Simon to approach. Simon lifted up some chain and shambled over. The lady was preening and patting her hair, looking at the man and pursing cracked lips. "Must be we're getting a better class of customer here. What's your name?"

"Havoc. Simon Havoc. At your service."

"Your service to me? Wrong way round., son. But let's not argue about it. Are you for wanting any of the tea?" She spat out the remains of the end of a cigarette, ran her hand down from an egg-shaped form of a breast to the general area of the thigh, and lowered her voice. "Or something sweeter?"

Simon missed this as he put his hand down to a pocket that was not there. "Oh. I am sorry, I have no money."

"Credit line is extended - for the like of you. I'm sure you'll pay me back. One way or another."

Something was making the cheeks of Simon Hacov redden. He lowered his head and remained silent as the tea was poured from the tap to the up. The liquid was a strange colour of brown. But he could not complain. He knew the difficulties, and the kindliness of the exploited working-class lady was above criticism. The tea was given over. Simon smiled into the eyes behind the large lilac-ringed black eyelashes which wee all a-flutter. Simon Hacov raised his eyebrow and combined a nod of thanks with a nod that expressed the solidarity of the exploited tea-makers of the world. Those lips were pursed again. "Are you for cake? Try these ones." She bent low to the bottom shelf of the trolley and made a reaching, stretching action which pulled the overall wide at the chest. Simon Hacov was overcome with her generosity. Such things as these he had avoided since had drawn that massive Mongolian girl in the Intelligence Officers' Field Test, (Part Four). When he had come to, in the intensive care ward, he had vowed to avoid such things as these, despite winning the Gold Award. They had said he passed with distinction, but all he remembered was that he had passed out. Now this kind woman was accidentally bringing back those memories.

Simon tried hard not to look, but his eyes and his memory caught in the cleavage. The dental gaps were showing in his direction. A sudden shout disturbed, saved him. The shout surprised the tea-lady. Her head came up and battered off the bottom trolley shelf. Adam Blue was on his feet and shouting at the oriental people. "Listen, you scabs. Scabs, that's what you are, scabs. Why don't you sit on your arse like everybody else? Its bloody smoke-o you bastards" The workforce from the East saw the look and sat down. They sat around in a circle around one of their number. Each member held up his/her hammer or chisel, pointing to them and discussing them heatedly.

Simon's hand reached out automatically in sympathy for the woman and her bruised head. His hand was caught in what felt like wire. A set of wrinkled, liver-spotted fingers were placed over his hand. The merest whisper of a thank you was spoken, from below eyelids that fluttered. Simon pulled his hand free, and waved it in the hope of a goodbye. A thrusting hip was tendered his way as she pushed the trolley on its way. Simon hirpled after her, calling for her to stop. "I can pay you." She stopped.

Simon placed his now half-empty tea-cup on the ground. Turning his back to her, he lifted his kilt and fumbled at his crotch. Wheeling around, he held out the white coupon to the vendor. The lady grabbed it, sniffed it, came forward and pulled Simon's head into her chest. "This will do so niceski." she said, pulling him tighter. "You know, when I seen you I knew it. There was something about you. And here you are: you are a little Cossack. My little Cossack. Again"

Simon realised he was in no position to demand the white coupon back - but there was little to worry about. "You must keep this, you silly beggar. Let me put it back for you." Dropping to a kneeling position she lifted up his kilt, pulled forward his briefs and slowly replaced the white coupon into its secure hideaway, while taking the opportunity to peek over the hem of his briefs. She looked up, rattling out a laugh from a mouth like a railway tunnel. Her fingers patted the coupon home. "Now don't you go away, you little light in a bushel you." Regaining the vertical with great difficulty she pushed the trolley away, looking back from moment to moment and winking.

Simon tried to smile, but felt his whole face tense, ready for a yell to release the tension. Bushels were an old-fashioned form of measurement; as to whether it was short or light, long or heavy he was not sure. He took a sip at the tea but spat and spluttered it over to the other side of the cavern. The face of the antipodean guerrilla fighter was leering down the line and laughing. "Better watch y'self there, sport. Reckon you'd be better off wi the bloody Crab."

Mary and John laughed a little, but Martha could only lean over and lay her head further into Adam's lap. Except for the hum of the generator, the jabbering of the quality circle, the far clanks of the air-hammers, the disc-jockey yabbbering on Crab Radio, the chatting loud voices of the superior City Gents, the tuneless whistling of Adam Blue and the hawking and the spitting and the coughing of the guards: there was silence. Until a whooping siren split it. The quality circle jumped to their feet and chipped chipped away before the last commanding echoes of the siren disappeared down the tunnel.

The crabby overseer with his black gown and the whip re-appeared, larruping and lashing the dust up from the tunnel floor as he muttered and garrumphed with every crack of the whip. The chain gang staggered and pulled itself up into some semblance of straightness, throwing their paper-cups, into the centre of the tunnel, for the sweeper-ups.

Turning themselves back to the task, they all individually tapped, chapped at the chisels, working on the seam from where they had left off. They took up the work song from where they had left off. The two City Gents sang base, turning to each other and smiling as they plumbed the vocal depths to reach particularly low notes.

Simon struggled to find a rhythm. For some reason he could not focus. There was something about the way that woman had replaced the white coupon. That must be it. It must be the white coupon that was the attraction. But if the white coupon was her aim, she would not have taken such care to put it back. Perhaps she did not want anything. To be doubted. That look was the same look that the Mongolian Mati Hari had worn just before she had – "Bloody hell Simon. Wakey, wakey. We need you here, mate, not five bloody thousand miles away. Supplementary rule of guerrilla warfare: keep your bloody wits aboutcha." Those eyes were blazing in the dull light from under the crazy-angled brim of the hat.

Simon rallied, taking up the swing, trying to fit his rhythm to the swinging, chinking of his work comrades. Mary hit her thumb and waved her hand about: tucking it under her armpit: cursing and refusing John's commiserations. John reddened with embarrassment. He looked around: his eyes checking that no-one had heard Mary's rejection of him.

Adam leaned over; picking up Martha's hand, with her chisel still grasped unconsciously in it; he set the point of the chisel on to the wall and balanced Martha precariously on it. She leaned over at an angle of forty-seven and a half degrees, her head on the handle. Down by her other side, the hammer swung loosely.

The old hands found their timing: chiselling and tapping in unison. A voice took up Song Number Four on the songsheet: 'Old Tartan Mac' Soon others took up the refrain until the chamber echoed to the harmonies of the bassists, the tenors, the sopranos and the wailing vocal explorations of a down-hearted frail who sang lead in perfect harmony with the deep deep hum of the generator.

Simon was losing himself in this digging for gold. This was work. At the Gymnasium that real work was to be avoided at all costs. The people were to be helped to work toward being freed from it. Simon Hacov had always accepted the truth of these teachings. Now here he was with real tools in his hands. Real tools. Probably the first kind of tools ever used by primitive working humans. Now not even Professors from the Gymnasium could argue with him; for Simon Hacov now had real work experience. Simon Hacov was experiencing real work to set against the theory. Simon Hacov would be an expert on real workers' work with real tools under real conditions. And it was not so bad.

The tea was terrible – that had to be said. And perhaps it should have been given free – but it was there for any worker. And those cakes were not so awful – a bit gluey and a bit gooey but, nonetheless, edible. The tools were supplied free – this was surprising. And the comradeship – mythological almost.

Simon Hacov had not known such comradeship since he had been on tour with the Red Folk's Army Choir. They had made him a Comrade Chorister even although he could not sing. When they had needed another body to balance up the ensemble for the publicity photograph - the one for their Greatest Hits Album - Uncle Vladimir had put a word in and all the choir had been his Comrades. But this was a different comradeship; this was a comradeship born out of being active in real work. Perhaps this was why people were so reluctant to give work up. Simon Hacov would argue this upon his return. If he returned. Nylon was rustling somewhere behind him and something was touching his ankle. Simon looked down. The tea-lady of the tunnel was inserting a long round key into the shackle at his feet. She looked up. The gaps grinned up. Simon frowned down. Her interference had caused him to miss the harmonising with the choir on the last note of 'Old Tartan Mac'. The woman put a finger to her lips. Folding open the shackle she stood up, pulling Simon close as she looked furtively around for the man in black. He was at the far end of the line with his back toward them, holding his arms and whip high in the air and shouting unintelligible noises to the tunnel roof. Stumbling, Simon allowed himself to be pulled along between the rail tracks. A voice followed: 'Keep your wits aboutcha.'

Simon followed the green flapping wellingtons, his wrist held in a tight desperate grip. They came to an arched doorway set into the cavern wall. A guard stepped out of the gloom, hand ready on the basket of his claymore. "Password?" The woman stuck a green bill under his dirty jabot. "Pass." he said, opening a door behind him.

"If you hear me call, you come running." she said.

Through the door, narrow carpeted aisles ran straight on, and off, to the left, and to the right. A series of doors indicated rooms all along each section. Someone came out of a door at the far end. Simon was hauled in to hug the wall. He huddled there between the wall and the woman. The reek of rising hot B.O. ran up his nostrils. His stomach pulled in without being asked. Perhaps now was the time to shout. The worst that could happen would be a return to work alongside the Adam Blue man. Or be shot. Or be claymored. In his head he heard the voice: 'Keep your wits aboutcha.". The stomach tensed even more. In his head he saw Admiral Ashka beaming as Simon Hacov handed over a paper dotted over with signs and obscure symbols. Simon Hacov was out here for this man James Lomond McCrabberty and James Lomond McCrabberty was out here somewhere. Whatever else, he could not face Admiral Ashka without that formula. Without that formula he might as well be an orphan. Simon held his mouth and his nose. Whoever had come out had moved off in another direction; again the woman pulled him along the narrow corridor. Suddenly she turned a handle on one of the doors, pushed it open, pulling Simon into the room before closing the door behind them. Wheeling on Simon, she flung her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers. She kissed him. Hard. Her lips were wet. Slobbery soaking wet. Simon's lips were soaked in her saliva. Stomach moving again. She closed her blue eye and looked at him with her brown. "Just you and me, my little Cossack."

"Pih. Twih. Eh?"

"Shoosh. We may be on different sides here, but there is no need for us to forego our pleasures. Sit down, please."

The room was bare except for a bed, and two brown square leather arm-chairs, each of which had strips of Elastoplast stuck across rips or holes and longer strips of blue plastic tape down each arm that proclaimed: 'Westminster Tools' in large print. The floor was covered in a waxcloth, with holes worn through it to display dirty grey planking underneath.

Simon sat down, immediately shifting to ease the pain from a sprung spring. But the spring followed his buttock around. As he attempted to settle, to concentrate, a mouse ran out from under the chair and scuttled under the bed. A patched and faded yellow candlewick bedspread served to accentuate the bumps and lumps, shallows and depressions of the bed. In the deepest sag and hollow in its centre, a slice of brown and black toast was imprisoned by some threads. Someone had torn a bite out of it. The headboard was a walnut board dipping and sloping off at an angle of sixty-two and half degrees. At the tail-end, brass and iron bars ran up like bars in a Moscow shop window.

The woman had walked over to a cabinet beside the bed. Removing a little piece of cardboard from the jamb of the door, she pulled it open, taking out a large mug. "A drink, my young Cossack." This was more of a command than a question. "Let me guess: Whisky and Dubonnet in equal measures, topped up with vodka and just a touch of lime, the merest dash of soda and all with the juice of three Catalonian cherries picked in September." She poured from the various bottles. "And the cowp de grass." Inserting a straw into the mix, she blew air bubbles through it. "Correct?" she asked, with a triumphant look.

Correct? Correct. No. But yes, correct. Correct. But not correct for Simon Hacov. That formula. Only one man known to the Intelligence Section drank this cocktail. Once a year: and always on the old Lenin's New Year. But he never let anyone blow his bubbles for him. This was always Admiral Ashka's treat to himself; one sip and he even smiled at Podroyin.

Simon was looking at these gaps and the yellowing teeth under the crinkling eyes and the wire-wool hair. Admiral Ashka. There were many tales of Admiral Ashka as a young man. Perhaps he really would do these things to his grandmother. Ashka had served in Europe during the luke-warm war. Had she known him? Surely she did not expect . . . Was Simon Hacov to follow in the ways of the great Admiral? Simon leaned over into another severe spring. "How did you know this?"

She halted in the screwing on of a bottle-top. She was staring into a film of memory. "Once before I met a young man with the white coupon. I was much younger then – well, a little younger then – white coupons had only just become known to us at Centurion House." She noticed a change in Simon's expression. "Oh, yes, I was an agent then, before this man lost me my post." She gave the bottle-top a last tight pent-up screw.

"My mission was to turn this man. I found him in Macclesfield. At first I thought I was fooling him: he wined me and dined me on this white coupon. We danced; we gambled at the greyhounds – although I seem to remember he lost every bet. When I went to his room for the first time, I thought that I was in control. More fool me. He showed me how to make his favourite drink; we took turns to blow bubbles through the straw. On the balcony we sipped and kissed and watched the moon over Macclesfield. Have you ever seen the moon over Macclesfield?" There was no waiting for an answer. "It was all too much for me. All night we loved in a way that I've never been loved, before or since." Her brown eye was filling up. "And in the morning he was gone. I had failed – but I didn't care. I knew I loved this operative. It wasn't his white coupon, the good times, no, my young Cossack, it was the man himself. I loved him. And all that he left me was a tube of Acid drops, the recipe for a new cocktail – and this card." From a drawer she lifted out a square piece of corn-flake packet. Crossing over she handed the card and the drink to Simon.

Simon read the printed scrawl on the card: Ashka Only Visits. The lady of the night was now rubbing her eye with a long index finger, screwing up her mouth and lips to almost reach her tear-filled itchy eye. "I found it hard to believe when you showed me your white coupon, but I knew right away. There is something about you. But you are even more handsome than Ashka." The glass was shaking in Simon's hand, liquid spilling over. "Oh pet. Watch your drink. You're not drinking. Maybe you prefer it stirred not blown." Two fingers were plunged into the glass and stirred around. A piece of grit fell from her blackened nails and sank to the bottom of the mug. "Better?" She stood watching, forcing Simon to drink.

Bending his head to the glass, he let his lips skim the rim. It was quite tasty really. Quite acceptable. The lady approved. That's right. Take your time. We have the night. Tonight I will show you all that my Ashka showed me in Macclesfield. Tonight you will be my young Ashka. But first you must kiss me and call me Gladys." Simon's face lifted in horror, but his lips could not avoid the descending mouth. He hung on, breathless, afraid, but unable to break the spell or the smell. The mouths popped free. "First we bathe. You enjoy your drink. I will prepare the bath."

Gladys dived under the high-standing bed and dragged out a grey tin bath that was dented and rusted; one handle dangled by a single rivet and hung down apologetically. From inside the bath she extracted a pile of yellowing newspapers and shoved them back under the bed. She made a half-hearted attempt to blow the dust out from the depths of the bath, but gave up in the face of a cloud of cobwebs. Positioning the bath in the middle of the floor, Gladys disappeared into another room. She returned, staggering, struggling to carry the steaming tea-urn. Grunting with her exertions, she lowered herself to the floor, and tipped it over at an angle. Steaming water poured into the bath.

Simon made to get up, but a spring had burst through and had him pinned by a pleat of his kilt. The urn empty, Gladys returned to he kitchen. Water resounded in the bottom of the urn. Her face was grinning over the top of the urn as she returned to pour cold water over the hot. Rolling up her overall sleeve, she dipped her elbow in the water. "Perfect."

Gladys straightened up, rolling down her sleeve in a business-like way, her face and eyes pink with steaming excitement. Simon was gripped; the spring was jagging through to his bum. Gladys once more disappeared. Simon struggled: to no avail. This time Gladys returned with a stringy cylindrical loofah and a long, long long-handled brush with stiff erect bristles. And two plastic bottles. From the bottles she poured a thick liquid. One bottle she held up. "This is Baby Bath." She indicated the other bottle. "That one is really floor scourer, but it does make a lot of bubbles." Gladys finished with the eau de toilettes and skited the bottles along the floor to the kitchen. Now she was standing: hands somewhere on her hips. "Bathtime, Simon."

Gladys began with the top button at her chest, peeling it through its buttonhole in an easy movement. The second followed as easily. The overall was slipping open, revealing plains of crinkly skin. She fumbled at the third. It refused to come through. She tugged at it and tugged at it until the button snapped free and flew across the room to hit Simon on the forehead. Gladys, the woman, was fluttering her eyelashes. Fourth button was free; the overall slipped further open to reveal folds of fleshy rings forming flaps of flesh running around the belly area. She had to bend a little to take out the fifth. She straightened, smiling. The overall still hid large parts of her body – overall – crushed and held tight by her armpits. "Now Simon, come and disrobe me" Simon Hacov ran through his mental Concise Oxford: Disrepute Disrespect Disrespectful Disrobe "Oh." he said.

"Don't be shy. Over here. Come on."

Simon was glad to lay down his glass, but that was about all. But if she was in the bath, just maybe . . . Ripping himself free of the spring, the kilt was left behind. Simon Hacov was very pleased that he was not a true Scottish man. Crossing over to the bath full of grey liquid, he stood behind Gladys: turning his head away. Gladys tapped her right shoulder with her left hand. She tapped again. Simon took hold of the nylon overall robe and tried to slide it past her shoulders. The robe stuck. Simon tugged. The stitching at the seam where her shoulders strained ripped, and the robe came down to set Gladys free.

Simon lifted the robe up in front of his eyes but not quickly enough to avoid seeing the buttocks that rolled out in a heavy mass to follow the law of gravity down to the back of the woman's knees just above the line where her wellingtons started. Gladys held a half-leg up behind her. Simon dropped the robe and removed the wellington boot. The other came up, and was removed. Gladys, re-living her life as super-spy, stepped daintily into her solution.

Gladys sat down and the water rose to the brim. She threw her arms about, splashing the water over herself, pushing her arms out in front of herself one at a time to knead the hairs under her armpits and work up a lather. "My back, Simon. My back." Simon took up the long-handled brush, applying it to the sagging expanse of fat and muscle. Her face showed pleasure. "Simon. I couldn't help but notice that you've been a little short-changed in the equipment stakes. It looks as if only one of your testicles has actually dropped. Maybe I'll be able to fix that for you." Simon scrubbed harder. At least her back would be clean. "You're awfully quiet, Simon."

"That is true. I find my feelings a little hard to express."

"Well, quiet ones are the worst. That'll do. Stand aside." Gladys leaned over out of the bath and half rolled half kicked her way to the vertical, splashing water all around. "Beggar. I knew those newspapers were for something. Right. Your turn."

"Sorry?"

"Your turn. Now. I will do your back for you."

"Please. It is fine. I am fine. Clean. I had a bath recently, at least a shower."

"Simon. Don't be shy. Personal hygiene is so important, so we might as well make it pleasurable." Grabbing his briefs, she yanked them down to his ankles, laughing. The white coupon flew, falling out to finally float on top of the grey greasy bathwater. "I am not sure which s the bigger bump: that white coupon or that thing of yours." His shirt came off over his head. Simon tried to cover his nipples, but was too late. Gladys pressed them in and ran her fingers down his rib-cage. "Could play a tune on them." Her head shook. "And I used to think that lean meant long. Shoes."

Simon fiddled as long as he could with his shoelaces and his shoes until Gladys stepped forward, and, taking him by the nipple, brought him to the business in hand. Simon stepped into the depleted bathwater and sat down quickly, pushing his knees to his chin while pressing his nipples into the security of his thigh. Socks. Simon felt his socks soak up the liquid.

Something was wrong here. Simon Hacov of the Gymnasium was losing control. Admiral Ashka would not have handled it like this. Perhaps even those potboilers were of use after all. If Simon Hacov made it back to Edinburgh he would buy 'Parrots of Paradise.' and study it. Even the crazy bushman would not lose control like this. Keep your bloody wits aboutcha. Blue in the brain. It was very difficult to keep one's wits aboutcha while stuck in a tin bath full of cooling grey water and towered over by one who was even broader than the Mongolian woman who had –

"Enough, Simon, you're getting excited. Bit early. Simon stepped out as Gladys held the rim. Water oozed from his socks and ran in streams to flow into the holes in the linoleum and down the cracks into the floorboards. "Please. Can I have a towel?"

Gladys was bending over the bath, laughing and splashing what water remained over her torso. "No towels for us Simon. Now we are all slippy and wet – we play." Two broad arms clasped themselves around the reluctant lover and pulled him into the wet, giving mass. Suction pad lips stuck themselves over his mouth. The body moved from side to side, pulling him to and fro, wrestling him toward the bed, until, with a last mighty heave he was thrown up and on, to land spread-eagled over the bedspread. A whoop came from time-travelling Gladys as she jumped on the bed after him and straddled herself over the body of Simon Hacov of the Gymnasium. One hand pushed on his chest, the other slipped – in what passed for a gentle way - up and down his inner thigh, occasionally reaching in and tickling him under the testicles.

Simon could only close his eyes at the sight of the great breasts, but could not stop his body responding to the fingers. He opened his eyes quickly. Keep your wits aboutcha. This weight was overpowering. Perhaps it was best to go through with this. Perhaps she had been beautiful. Perhaps there was still some beauty somewhere about her. Perhaps she was a beauty in action. Perhaps if one looked hard enough one could find it. Perhaps. Perhaps Admiral Ashka should be here. Perhaps Yevta should be here. Perhaps Podroyin with his superior technical knowledge should be here. Perhaps the crazy Australian should be here. Perhaps anybody should be here but not Simon Hacov. Perhaps this penis could not help itself.

Gladys was smiling down a smile that was parallel with the hang of her breasts. The black and yellow of the teeth were fully exposed between the gaps. The mouth was wide, the eyes wild, the grey hair dripping. Her hands held the shoulders of Simon Hacov. Her hips were raised – and coming down. Keep your wits aboutcha. Simon groaned. "You should be so bloody clever." The groan was heard. The lips came forward and vacuumed a tear from under his eye. "I haven't lost my touch, have I Ashka?"

How can Simon Hacov know? Ashka. Blue. The rules. The rules. What were the rules? Which one covered this situation? Seventeen was, no, four . . . that was, six, no, nine, no which one bloody Australian three two one NO NO there were no rules for this. No true guerrilla fighter had ever suffered this. This was worse than dripping water. Fingers. Digging in. Stomach out, quite far, back raised, face to the ceiling. This body of Simon Hacov had been taken over by the memory and imagination of Gladys of the Tea Ceremony.

The bed was creaking a protest. Springs were pinging and badoying. Two bodies were sinking lower and lower into the depression, one lower than the other. The iron rails of the bed-head were leaning forward as if to see what was going on. Gladys shifted to tweaking and twirling Simon's nipples. A nippleoid fetishist. Simon squealed. Gladys tweaked harder, bounced harder. Simon squealed louder. Gladys responded to his love moans. She tweaked harder and bounced harder and cried out and the bed collapsed.

Simon's burden was thrown off; she struck her head on the brass and iron rails of the bedstead. Her total body-weight collapsed almost flat on to Simon's chest. "Please Gladys. I can never take the place of your Ashka. Please. Enough." There was no answer. Gladys did not move. She lay undulatingly flat on top of Simon Hacov, nee Ashka. Simon tried to push her up and off from under her shoulders. He could not move her. Reaching out, he gripped the under-frame of the bed with his left hand. He pulled. He moved. Pulling and easing himself out, he fell onto the welcoming floor. Simon lay, and the ceiling looked lovely. Dragging himself up, he staggered toward the pile that was his clothes, but turned back to turn the cover over the form of Gladys on the bed.

At the bath Simon knelt to scoop and splash water over his private parts. Simon Hacov remembered the films. Drying himself as best he could with the nylon overall that slithered over his wet skin, he put on his shirt and pants, that were equally as wet. The kilt was struggled into. The socks were discarded. Two crinkly feet were stuck into two soggy shoes. Simon Hacov, Agent pro tem. was ready again.

There was no key in the overall pockets. Simon crossed over and looked among the cockroaches on the kitchen-tops. They scuttled; but there was no key. The overall was searched again; but then he saw it: dangling from a protruding ankle of his sleeping partner's foot, tied on with a thick piece of string. He knot was hard to untie. Simon bent and bit at the knot. The foot moved. The string was bitten through. Now he had the key.

The white coupon was fished from the tin bath and replaced in its private almost secure place. Two long steps took him to the door. He listened. Quiet. Opening the door a little, he listened. Quiet. He left, pausing only to turn and blow Gladys a kiss. Ashka would have done that. And now Simon Hacov had been her visitor too. But thank goodness the visit had been a short one.

St. Joshua Woman

Commander Finnias P. Perry was a man who knew his own reputation for honesty. Honesty and fair play. Everybody knew it was damned hard to hold on to such a reputation in to-day's world. Especially in the military. But Finnias P. Perry had managed such a thing - until George Gurgelotz had threatened with that one word: Alabama. Bingo: Honesty was overboard. Courage, truth and high principle had taken a nosedive. Commander Perry had lied. Well, not exactly lied, but not exactly told the truth either. Lied by omission. Lied to an old friend: George Gurgelotz; who was not only a friend, but a superior and an ex-scholar of the same alma mater. Why hadn't he told him? These guys were no more Marines than fly-in - the air. They had the same uniforms, but that was about all. These jokers were musicians: The 2nd. Infantry Corps Marching Military Band fresh from their smash tour of Europe. They had come to play for the last nuclear tinfish to leave the Loch for the States, and now they waited for whatever Uncle Sam might send to take them home.

Fresh. That was a laugh. These fellas were so out of training they would have to go back to basics. Fine overfed specimens with pot bellies and pot reefers; fat on German lager and Danish cheese, French wine and Austrian sausages, and now, since the Edinburgh Tattoo, afloat on Scotch malt whisky. But George hadn't asked, and so George hadn't been told. For Commander Finnias P. Perry it was time to practise a Southern accent. Or else get this J.L. guy. From this here stand-point it looked as though Alabama was the safer bet.

From inside the two lorries, all that could be heard was the sound of stamping feet and loud voices singing, laughing, shouting. Glass broke to a hoot. The noise made Finnias turn and attempt to hide himself in conversation with the driver. "Do you know this road?"

"Never been introduced man. I'm just heading for that little red dot you stuck on the map. Never seen roads like these all since I left Alabama though."

"Well that's as maybe. Just see if you can get us there."

"No sweat man. No sweat. Reckon it's just up over the next rise here."

The roadway up the next rise was a series of sensations hacked out in the grit and soil, slippery-wet in the rain. The lorry shuddered, pulled at it; the heavy tread held, and shoved the load on its way. The driver laughed.

"Man my feet ain't moved so much since I left Saigon." The lorry crunched on and up and reached the high plateau. Below lay the Castle of the Crabs. "Stop here, driver." Finnias jumped down. The singing from inside the truck continued: those choirboys hadn't even noticed that the lorries had stopped. From up on the hillside a strange wailing sound started.

Finnias trained his binoculars, spotting something, focused and there was man, red hair, scraggly, black rubber coat, wet and he was blowing some bagpipes. A local peasant possibly. Probably. Probably playing his sheep home, though wherever the sheep were they did not seem to be paying any attention. Probably deaf after years of this squeaking. Finnias let the binoculars fall to his chest. Time for some action. He ran along the convoy slapping the sides of the lorries. "Out. Everybody out. Out. Out. Out you get. Pronto. Out."

Three or four of the keener ones staggered to the tail-boards, fell down, jumped down and then fell down. Automatically they set up a form of humanity chain to unload the lorries. From inside, black leather, bronze-studded cases of all shapes and sizes were slid along, manoeuvred out, lifted down and lifted over to be stacked at the side of the road. Finnias grabbed an arm that had three stripes. "What the hell is this, Sergeant?"

"Our instruments. What did want us to bring, sir? With all due respect, sir, where we go, they generally do go. Even to here. Sir. This sure is the pit's end. Your top brass do get some loco notions. Who the hell out here is gonna appreciate the American way of music? Listen to that guy up there, sir, that is some painful music." The Sergeant turned to help stack a kettle drum case. "No disrespect sir, but your top brass is crazy man. Pure downright crazy."

Finnias pulled back the flap of canvas at the rear of the lead lorry. Men thanked him as they rolled off past him. Three stood at the opposite end of the tailgate, pulling at a long, long, round solid black leather case some eight inches in diameter. This cylinder edged out, inch by inch. Receiving hands gently took it, hoisted in unison to their shoulders, a big show was made by this party of spacing themselves out, coming to attention and marching the half-dozens steps to the side of the road where it was laid down, again with reverence, beside the other cases. It was almost military. Now the band of musical brothers was mumbling as they stomped and thrashed themselves to keep out the damp cold night air.

The Commander- turned-commissionaire took a final hopeful look inside the lorry. There was no-one left to fall out. The next lorry was the same. No-one left to come out. And no packs to come out. No rifles. Nothing. Empty. Empty as the pit in this Commander's stomach. Alabama would not be the worry. The worry would be how far down Commander Perry could go in the ranks. George Gurgelotz could be a nasty friend - revenge-wise. Finnias let it go. "You bums. You crazy bums. What did you think I was bringing you up here for? A picnic? This is a mission, a dadblam honest-to-God mission. Who, who is in charge of you overgrown street bums?"

The sergeant spoke. "Well. Sir. Since we were on our base, and since it was you that called us out and since it was you that ordered us to ship out, and you came with us, well, I guess, you are. Sir."

Finnias gritted and his upper and lower teeth together. That piping from the hill was cutting right through his ears and slicing right up into his brain. And the bastard was out of pistol range. He leaned on the bonnet of the lead truck and looked down the lonesome road from the plateau that led all the way to the sea and to Alabama. At the bottom some kind of elevated roadway led all the way out to the Castle, and inside this Castle was the McCrabberty guy, waiting to be picked up and made ready to spill his beans.

The binoculars were brought up and the bay scanned. Nothing. Nothing to be seen beyond the Castle. Not possible in this fine drizzle that was creating a grey blanket from sea to sky. One helluva Scotch mist. The soaring sound of an E-flat clarinet made Finnias turn around. A corporal was leaning back into his melody and blowing some tune through puffed-out cheeks. Another man strummed a guitar quietly, easily, smiling appreciation and nodding the clarinettist to his work. A muted corner made cooing noises to a wooing trombone. A saxophonist stood, snapping his fingers, mumbo-jumboing to himself as he waited to join in. "Sergeant. Sergeant. Get these guys in line."

The Sergeant put his triangle down. "Sure-a thing, sir, sure-a thing."

Commander Perry peered through his binoculars at the Castle. Anyone going across that causeway was a sitting duck. From landward there was no other way of approach. This J.L. guy, or whoever was calling his shots, knew what he was doing. Or could it be a she. Anyhow, they, or he or she, or he and she knew what they were doing when they picked this spot. Approach by the front door only. Especially with this bunch. Marching they could just about manage, swimming was inconceivable – unless . . . if the waters parted . . . doubtful. This was unfair. There was nothing in the manual about taking fortified positions with a platoon of half-stoned, half-drunk musicians. Nearest case study to this would be Jericho. And that had been tried only once. And this percussion section didn't look big enough. No way. But there was another one. One he had read about in one of these Scottish newspapers. Some cookie Scotch colonel had walked into a guerrilla barracks at the head of his crazy bagpipers and drummers and all the local heroes had surrendered. Just like that. And most people reckoned it was the shock of hearing the bagpipe band. Couldn't have been a much more shocking band than this. Shock and awe-for-cryin out loud tactics then. Not in the manuals, but it would do. To stay clear of Alabama anything was worth a shot. "Sergeant. Get your guys in band formation. At the toot."

"Sir? Here. You serious, sir?"

"You're a marching band aren't you? Well you are going to march. We're going to march down there and you're going to frighten the shit out of these natives the way you frighten the shit out of me. At the toot, Sergeant."

The sergeant hurried and harried the muttering band into some semblance of windblown order: trombones, cornets, trumpets, tuba, French horn, saxophones, flutes, drums and crash cymbals all formed into a somewhat squiggling version of their usual marching ranks. Commander Perry waited for that inevitable moment of silence. "Face up. Listen. We're going down there. I shall lead. I shall lead from the front." The pistol was pulled from its holster and pointed toward the Castle. "No matter what happens, just keep moving. We're going all the way. It is a far better... sorry . . . no matter what: your wives, your kids, your mommas and your poppas, the whole United States of America will be proud of you." From the rear a trombone blew a rasp. Commander turned, lifting his spy glasses once more to his eyes.

Not a thing at the castle was moving. They marched. They struck up the St. Louis Blues march. They played. They marched. They moved along and boogied on down. Arriving at the broader flat area in front of the castle gate they marched, counter-marched, blew melody and counter-point. The castle gate refused to open. Now, losing faith in the leader, they started to jam. And the walls stayed put. Finnias stomped up to the massive door and beat upon it with the butt of his pistol. "Is there anybody there?" said the Commander, while marching, the men tore the silence, of the highland sea and glen. And he beat upon the door a second time. "Is there anybody there?" he said. No answer came.

From behind him there came the sound of discordant notes as the band ceased to play collapsing in a jumble of flats and sharps and low curses as one by one they stopped; stopped in their playing and stopped in their marching, dropping their instruments to their sides in a shake of heads and spittle. Finnias turned, and then turned his head back to follow their gaze upwards.

There, on the battlements, above the door, stood a big broad black woman, her hair tied under a turban, her eyes closed and her body swaying ,while all along the leaf-fringed sill thronged a host of Highland listeners, leaning over, listening and looking, but not stirring. On this there was nothing in the manuals. She was waving and calling to them.

"Honey chile, why, you boys are blowin a blue gas flame. Why they stop? I was just gettin the feel of where they was comin from."

"Excuse me, ma'am, we're just, yeah, on a courtesy call, a common call

courtesy of Uncle Sam . Cultural, if you like. You liked the music?"

"Why I sure did. It's all my style. In fact, if you boys is aiming to visit here, you gets no hospitality unless you all plays an lets me sing along."

"What?"

"You heard me, soldier boy. Now play and stay; for no blow, you go."

A voice shouted from the rear of the band. "What's your poison, Delilah?"

"Key of E, soldier, an I means E."

Finnias moved his eyes along the battlements and up to the turrets. These did not look as if they had surrendered to anything in the last century. Maybe travelling bands didn't get this far. Under the sergeant's hand the band picked up an E. They began the same tune again, this time a little slower, just a little less tied to the beat. Eyes closed, hand on rolling hips, the blues singer of the Castle Crab let it rip. "I hate to see, that evenin sun go down, I hate to see, that eeevenin sun go down . . .

The gate swung open. The leading pistol was swung in the air. "O fo o or ward." The band marched in its own fashion into the empty courtyard. The listeners on the ramparts stayed put, content to watch the parade. The singer descended the steps, holding her dress and petticoats high. "St. Louis woman, with your diamond rings . . .

The Second Battalion Marine Corps marching band were in. Jericho. The three men with the long, long, leather case brought up the rear. The door closed behind them.

Entry into Crab Mountain

Twenty ropes and twenty grappling hooks were flung by twenty men at precisely the same second, and twenty hooks landed in twenty crevices and twenty ropes were jerked and tested. Twenty ropes were taut. Commander Neptavalich looked up the craggy rock face at the rear of the castle of Crabs. The castle face rose sheer, a smooth continuation of the very rock itself. The first part would be the rocky outcrop forming the base, then came the protective wall, which appeared to run all around the castle buildings and on to the rest of the castle, extending its directions. One hand was raised.

One hand fell. Twenty men climbed, forty feet moving: moving and pushing in response to the haul of the hands. Twenty men progressed; silent, none much quicker than another, they climbed against the wind and the wet, wet, rain. Halfway up the climb, the leader's arm was raised. Twenty men stopped. Twenty men listened. There was the sound of the sea, the sound of the wind and the wind-broken cry of an oyster-catcher. And borne intermittently on the wind - a brass band. Brass music of some sort. Leader Neptavalich decided the music was manufactured by a radio. The signal arm fell.

Twenty men climbed. Twenty men climbed and numberless chippings and loose stones released themselves and slid down, off, into the sea. One by one twenty men pulled themselves up on to the brief respite of the rock's top ledge, gathered in their ropes, and waited in the lee of the castle wall.

Twenty looked up and twenty men quizzed each other silently as the music grew louder. Neptavalich heard how unnaturally close the music was, but these troops had come too far. The decision was made, the arm was raised, made quickly fall, and twenty hooks on twenty ropes flew upward and over twenty spaces in the battlements overhead and were tested and tried until tight.

Twenty climbed again, until twenty drew level, each to a battlement,

where nineteen paused without order. Neptavalich carried on, to a point where he could peek over the castle wall. He signalled, went first, and twenty were up and over and safe on the inside of the ramparts, listening to a military kind of march and the sound of rushing feet. Neptavalich scurried along, bent over, hunched on thighs, stopping at the rooftop edge of a building. He peered around. The people in the castle were all running to its other end, along the parapet and up the stairs from the castle yard, all cramming to look over the wall at something on the outside. And whatever was on the outside was making the music.

The signal was given. Two peeled off; one to the right and one to the left. Again the arm dropped. Two others peeled away. The rest followed by signal. Around the balustrade, and on the slopes of roofs, they settled, lay and waited and fixed eyes on that arm: rifles to the front, heads tucked into the stocks, but slightly turned to ensure good sight of the Commander. Grey camouflage on grey wet stone. Neptavalich peered around: people in the castle, all running to its other end; all running up stairways to the parapets; running along the parapets, all cramming to look over that wall, which seemed to be over the gate, all foolishly eager to see something that was on the other side. And whatever was on the outside was creating the noise. Signal arm raised, and dropped.

Two men peeled off. One to the right, one to the left. Signal again. Two more peeled away. Silent signals, all acknowledging by silent action. Around the balustrade and on the slope of roofs they lay, merged in, silent, fixed on that arm.

The music was stopping with a discordant din. Someone at the front of the mob inside was speaking to someone on the outside in a strange accent. It sounded like a woman. A look. A peasant woman of some sort. The music was starting up again. The female was singing slightly off the key of E. Now the gate was opening, the strange music blasting through the space. A man, in front, conducting the band with a pistol. The band following: all playing in strange positions as they marched: pointing their instruments up, to the left, to the right, now downwards, to the left, to the right, all in semi-circles through the air. Their leader was in camouflage, but they could only be Americans. Now the woman was descending the stairs, in time, moving to the music and watching her dress did not get wet in the puddles. A black peasant woman. Here. Here where there was rarely any sun, singing in that deep strange way. Now the others were following her down the stairs, clapping heir hands, snapping their fingers and singing out backing noises. The band were all in, breaking ranks and surrounding the woman, blowing their instruments louder and louder, waving them into the air in an agitated way, higher and higher, until they finished on a long low note. B flat. And the woman falls into the arms of a man who in stretching for her reveals the stripes of an American Sergeant.

The officer with the gun looked familiar. His dress was naval. He looked like. It was. Well. Well. Total disorganisation was reigning in this forecourt. Time to move. One signal and the twenty arranged themselves in position: positions that ruled out cross-fire, positions that ensured total view, positions that gave access to some cover, positions that ensured superiority.

"Captain Perry. Please set down your arms. Please ask everyone to stay still. I shall join you if I may." Nineteen clicks on nineteen safety catches said 'please'.

There was no response beyond a puzzled look. It had been a long time.

Neptavalich found a set of stairs and descended. He crossed over the forecourt. Recognition was on the face of Captain Perry. "Neptavalich? Is that you? No. Surely? Here? You? You really have fallen out of favour."

Neptavalich grinned as he deliberately, exaggeratedly looked around "And you, young Captain? What of you?"

"Touché."

The two sons-of-the-sea embraced, laughing, as they looked each other over. Neptavalich spoke. "I have missed you. The Atlantic has not been the same without you. In fact, I believe our last game remains unfinished."

"It was your move. I'm sorry Neptavalich, they sent the Peace Flower to the Pacific and I landed a desk job. But before I left I remember hunting you out. I settled right over you, right on top, just off Sweden. I tapped out my move to you, I did, but you never replied. I listened a while for your tap. I thought you would offer the draw."

"A draw? No. My move was to win. But I ran out of time, the Swedes were on the move after me. I had to go. Later, I hunted the Atlantic high and low for you, but I could not find any submarine with the same rattle in her bearings as yours. I thought perhaps you had become a peace dividend. And for me, now no-one knows who my vessel even belongs to: Tashkinajan or Russia, but I still get paid. Our bureaucracy is wonderful. But. Anyway. You are a desk man now, eh? Perhaps I can e-mail my moves to you now. A desk man. I would never have thought this."

"Unfortunately, yes. Commander no less, but never a Commander like you."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my young friend. Congratulations. But I am here to take away a compatriot of yours. It would appear he is what used to be called a 'class enemy of the proletarian peoples of the world'. I'm afraid if you are guarding him I will have to put our friendship into check. I had not anticipated that this castle was a disguise for one of your supply depots." He nodded his head around the tableau. "I certainly had not anticipated this."

Commander Perry scratched the back of his neck. "Neither had I. This person you're after, would the name be James Lomond McCrabberty?"

"So you know the man?"

"Not really. But I, I too, have come to, let's say, spirit him away. My superiors tell me he is one of you. Which probably means he's British."

Neptavalich laughed. "One of us? No. One of you? No. Perhaps we should ask for a ruling."

The peasant singing lady burst through the circle of troops and Highlanders to be upsides with the two Commanders. "Listen here, you sons of the salty sea, that man you wants is a guest here. But for my money you can take him. Either of you. He's been nothing but bad news since he came here. I knew there was something wrong with him."

Perry looked at Neptavalich. Neptavalich looked at Perry. Perry broke the silence. "Play you for him?"

Neptavalich slung his rifle over his shoulder, uncomfortable with this, unsure, undecided. He was serious again. "Later, perhaps. First we have to locate him. Woman, you say he is in this castle? Which one is he? Where is he?"

The black woman stepped back. She wore the look of one who had said too much already. "I don't know nuthin."

Perry stepped in between her and Neptavalich, leaning around and whispering in her ear. Her face beamed. She hugged Perry to her, tight as tight till his face was red. "He's at the mine with them other folks. The Lord of the Crabs, he drugged him and taken him to the mine."

"This McCrabberty is one helluva popular guy. Now Pearl, - it is Pearl isn't it? - who, what, when and where? Take it real slow."

"This place belongs to my fiancé, the Lord of the Crabs is called. I came here with him 'cos I thought he was some kind of old-fashioned Scotch gentleman. Well, look what he done."

She whipped off a shoe. Part of the top joint of her big toe was clearly missing. She threw her arms up. "All of them people's toes. All of them round here, he just cut them all off. He told them it was so they could hang looser and catch more deer, but its really so they can't run too far. They gotta stay here and work at his mine, or he feeds more of their toes to the crabs." She addressed the onlooking Highlanders. "Show the man, show the man." Nobody did; but one or two tried to hide one embarrassed foot over another and fell down.

Perry took her by the shoulders. "Mine? What mine?"

"You see that hill you just come down? That's empty inside, full up to the roof with gold, real gold."

Neptavalich rubbed his nose with a bent finger. "Are you saying this McCrabberty man is a prisoner in this, excuse me, gold-mine? And what of a man called Havoc? Have you seen him up here?"

"I never met him, but as far as I know he done a bunk, he caused a real hullabaloo."

Perry was getting anxious: the toeless natives were moving amongst his men, pushing half-toes through holes in their sox, waggling their feet, trying to elicit sympathy, asking for gum and nylons. This place really was caught in a time-warp. "How do we get into the mine?"

A man limped forward, hand out. Perry fished a packet of Lucky Strike from his pocket and pressed them into the man's palm. The man pointed. "At half-past nine, the door in the hill opens to let the night-shift take over. If you hurry, you'll catch the starting horn." The man ran into the bandsmen, looking for more goodies.

Neptavalich led Perry away a little from the mad, maddening crowd. "My comrade of the board, if that hill is a mine, and if it has a door, perhaps we should not argue about the ownership of Mr. McCrabberty; perhaps rather, we should be in place for its opening. The time-clock is moving. Let us help each other. Inside, who knows what we may meet. Afterwards we can decide about this man."

The rain came on hard. Perry nodded and a stream of drips rolled from his flattened hair. Neptavalich could be trusted. "O.K., you're on."

Neptavalich held up his hands, displaying out six fingers. Six men stayed in the most strategic positions, overlooking the courtyard. The rest came down, jogging over, without instruction, to line up in three ranks: five; three, with two blank files, and five. They stood at ease, their rifles held diagonally across their chest. They appeared not to notice the rain.

Perry walked away to gather up his merry band. "Saddle-up."

Neptavalich called. "Old friend, how did you get that woman to tell you her story?"

"I promised to make her the resident singer with the band."

"The move of a master: a Grandmaster."

The band lined up in front of the ranks. In front of the band, the resident singer stood, carrying a broom in the fashion of a Drum-Major. Perry and Neptavalich, the two protagonists of the seaboard and the chess board, stood out at the front, one to the left, one to the right. The natives waved white greeting handkerchiefs, under the six riflemen's impassive watching. "Forward-ho."

The band struck up a Souza march, and they all stepped it out through the gate, across the causeway. Ahead the drum-majorette spun her broomstick, threw it up, and caught it upon its return. The rain fell harder; marching feet made stones slip and slide away from the edge and roll on down into the ravenous sea. The allied army marched on.

Neptavalich looked at his watch: 9.19. Rain: falling torrentially, in long, almost crystalline, drops; a bubble was forming at the bell of the tuba. This damp Scotland. 9.23. And up ahead something was moving. A part of the hill itself was sliding away. Sliding into itself. No-one missed a beat. The hill was sliding back: rocks were falling, rolling down the hillside with the vibrations of the movement. A draught of warm muggy air blew the music back. There was a tunnel. They were going through. They were in.

Neptavalich arrived in as rocks eased and oozed themselves out of the mud and the scree of the hillside to career through bracken and heather to the beach and the sea below. This wasn't Jericho, and it wasn't that cookie Colonel's Crater, but they were all in, and not a shot had been fired. And the music hadn't been too bad either, once you had heard it a couple of times.

Cometh the Hour . . .

Simon closed the door quietly behind him with a last peek which made him blow and gasp again in relief. Now he held himself flat against the wall, for this was the thing to do. There was no sound. He made to go. But. There was a sound. Up to the left. A door was opening, to the right. Another sound. This was sound of another door opening, which might mean the door to freedom closing. Simon had to walk down the corridor to the door he had come in. As he walked, his wet socks splattered footnotes on the concrete floor. These would leave a trail. Simon Hacov remembered the Marxist teachings of the University. He turned around, continuing to walk, backwards. He passed a door on his right-hand side. The outline of a Highlander was framed in the doorway. As the man stared at Simon's flapping socks, Simon felt a draught chill his back: Someone was coming in the main door; the one Simon Hacov was backing up to.

Quick as flash, Simon fell to his knees and began scrubbing motions with a clenched fist, keeping his head down as he did so, spreading his fist wide in an arc, linking up the wet splodges made by the splashes of his footprints. Footsteps sounded, echoing behind him in the passageway, coming nearer. Nearer. The footsteps stopped. A voice spoke. "Oh, excuse me. Is that me walking all over your nice clean floor?" Simon wiped his forehead on his forearm, nodding at the same time. A highland brogue tip-toed around him, before scliffing on up the passageway. The two Highlanders met. They spoke to each other, but Simon could not catch it. He scrubbed harder, faster, working his way backwards towards the main doorway. Simon cursed as he scraped at a piece of chewing gum stuck on the floor. He scraped and scrubbed his way back until he felt the soles of his feet upon the door. It was ajar. Simon pushed it open and scrubbed faster and faster until he realised he was outside, vainly scrubbing at the dirt floor of the mine. He looked up. The key was still in the lock of the door. Rising, first on one knee, holding his back as he straightened up, Simon rushed and closed the door over, locking it and withdrawing the key.

Time to look around, study the terrain. The main tunnel ran straight ahead. Light there, reflecting off the track. To the left was an overgrown rubberplant. The key was thrown behind it. From behind the plant a pipe-smoking gentleman in a silk-backed waistcoat stepped out. He lifted his spout in acknowledgement. Simon began a salute, but became undecided and rammed his forefinger in an ear. The man was only tending to his business.

Simon turned and tried to remember, to retrace. They had approached from the

right, that is if one was going, or the left, if one was coming. - he was unsure as to which. Simon decided he had to decide one way or another. He decided to keep to the left.

Bending down , and keeping in to the shadowy places at the Cavern wall, he tracked the road back. This time he noticed that it was colder here and the water slid in sheets down the wall into a system of gutters and drains set in the floor of the cavern. Simon edged along, splashing through the thin layer of dank, smelly water that gurgled up from the drains. Clinking and chinking could be heard: Just, but getting louder as he furtively progressed. The tunnel bent and dipped, sweeping around, the bogie tracks curving around and following the tunnel sweep through, bend after bend. The chinking and chiselling grew louder. Now singing voices could be heard. Simon stopped.

There they were in view. And within earshot. Simon remembered the song from an old Paul Robeson record. The crackling of a Tannoy interrupted the singers into silence. A voice came over. "Hi out there. This is your tartan king of the air saying it's all set fair for a hooch and a smooch and a shoogle of your eardrums. So get set to waggle your tootsies and we'll have a wee keek at our first request. This is from Reggie. All the way down the line from Reggie to Ronald. Ronald, Reggie says it's your birthday today. He doesn't say what age you are, but what does it matter as long as you're over twenty-one? And Reggie hasn't forgotten the rest of his work-mates, he sends a big Hi to all the rest of the gang -and especially you new people. And so say all of us." Simon could see that one of the City gents had dropped his hands and was sobbing. The man turned and flung his arms around his pin-striped work-mate. Music played by an accordion band came over the loudspeakers. The rate of hammering and chiselling increased. The siren blew before the end of the piece, causing Simon to jump.

The voice carried on, the workers sat down, the brush-up ladies disappeared, and the man in the long black gown stomped off, cursing. Adam Blue's voice was yelling. "Where's me bloody tea? If you can't give us a drop of beer, surely ya can give us a bloody droppa tea? Where's the bloody tea, sheila?"

Voices mumbled agreement. Hammers and chisels were thrown to the ground. Voices lifted, chanting the hymn of defiance: Where's the bloody tea? Where's the bloody tea? Where's the bloody tea?

The City gents picked up the chant and their brollies, singing and jumping and waving the brollies above their heads. Even the Oriental group joined in with an improved version of the chant: Where bloody tea? Where bloody tea? Where bloody tea?

But no-one came in answer to their tea pleas.

Simon moved quickly. He began with the legs in pin-stripe and moved on up the line, inserting the key in the shackles and flicking them open, while the chanting rebels, all crazed with senses stirred in tealess hysteria, did not notice or paid little attention to their Spartacus and the rebellion brewing.

The smooth young leg was Mary's, but there was no time for admiration, and John was looking down. Mary hugged Simon. John hugged Mary. Martha seemed to recognise him, and Adam Blue was grinning that grin. "Good on ya mate. I knew ya had it in ya. "

"Please. I have no time. You must take over. I have my duty. I must return for Mr. McCrabberty."

Martha's head lifted at the sound of the name. "McCrabberty. Tell him lovin Martha sends her regards. And she wants half." Martha was recovering. She squeezed Adam's hand, and Simon was off. Off before Adam could stop him. Adam surveyed this bawling band of new chums. They were walking around, no direction, milling aimlessly, free of the shackles, but unsure of the next bloody move, which way to go. Typical. Adam Blue had a real job on here. And not much time to do it in. This dinner-break wouldn't last long. The man in black and his tribe would be back shortly. Time for action.

Adam ran up and down the line waving his arms in the air like a demented choirmaster full of jungle-juice, shutting them up and shepherding them all together. When they were gathered and quiet, he addressed himself to one of the Orientals, bending himself over, waving his arms in a slicing motion and kicking a leg sideways out from under his kilt. "Karate, mate. You do Karate? You can do? C'mon, savvy, Ho ha. Ha. Ah ha ha. Deeah ha."

"Ah. Karate me. Now you wish karate me?"

"Aw Jesus, mate. No bloody way. Look, you me follow. Do with me. Like." Adam gave up. Grabbing the man by the arm he yelled, "You, your people, you come. Come."

The man waved to his compatriots to follow as Adam led them out to gather in front of the other released masses. Adam shouted, addressing himself to his entire flock, his voice scaring the bats into flight.

"Listen you mugs, these boofheads will be back pretty pronto, so listen to what I'm telling you." He pointed a finger into his chest, jabbing it. "Me the boss. Bossman. Bossman, me. Do as I say. Form yisselves into a square, women and wankers in the middle."

The blue-rinse ladies and the petite femmes of the black berets tried to form themselves into a square of some sort for the next part of their tour under this new guide, all buzzing with chatter, extolling the niceness and unusualness of the hands-on part of the tour. "O.K., O.K., settle down. You blokes. All round the edges." He pulled at the Karate man's hand. "Now, you, get your Oriental muggers in front with me. Here. John, you take the right-hand side." The Mary woman looked angry, but Adam Blue had no time for argumentative sheilas. "Right-hand side, you keep tucked against that wall. Now, all of you, whatever you bloody do, keep bloody movin."

An old woman in a green and cream cotton, but reversible, raincoat was spinning around in the centre of the circle, lips muttering: Where are we going now? Where are we going now? Who did you say slept here? She was forced to follow the pack as Adam led them all up the tunnel. Another old lady pointed to the roof and others nodded wisely as the party followed on.

Adam whooped as he saw and grabbed a rope which was lying on the floor of the cavern. He lashed it around the head and handle of his hammer to make a bullroarer. John made a shovel his weapon. Stumbling beside him, Mary picked up every loose stone, nut and bolt she could find along the way. The two cavalier gentlemen practised their swordstrokes with their brollies. And, there, in the front, was the inspiring rank of fit men and women who kicked, punched and shouted into the air as they practised to bring precision to their art. Adam

heard them all as he walked behind them, and was satisfied. This was the spirit of Gallipoli. He held a grudging respect for the Orientals, despite Darwin and the fact that their skins were almost the same colour as the guerrillas of 'nam, the Aussie army welcomes everybody. The siren blew. "Right. Keep together. These mugs will be comin back. But remember: Keep bloody movin."

As the sounds of the siren faded away the touring team could see the guards sauntering back to their duty. The guards saw the miners; some ran back to fetch others. Adam's pack kept movin. There was no sound now, no whisperings. There were no guards now. There was only the dim tunnel and the quiet background hum of the generator as theme music.

The hum was shattered by the tramping of feet ahead, a tramping that became a roar of feet in a rush and guards were running: running down the tunnel to meet them. At twenty yards distance the guards stopped, forming up in ranks to plug the tunnel. "Keep bloody movin." The rope was let out, the hammer swung, swung in a slow steady swing, slow, slowish, fastish, fast faster and up into its whistling spin that signalled the bulllroarer was shifting. And then some. "Keep bloody movin." The trekkers tramped on. The Highlanders looked. The claymores were lifted. A frightening roar came from their mouths, causing some of the women to pull at the skin on their necks nervously. "WHA CHECKS A CRAB GET NIPPIT." The guards roared, and charged.

They charged on a stampede of feet, a swipe and a swish of claymore - and they suffered the swish and swipe of Adam's bullroarer. Their leading group fell to Adam. Others skirted around him. They met the slicing, kicking, jumping and punching of his first rank karate choppers, who jumped above, below, through and past the claymores to deliver their blows. John jabbed the point of the shovel into a suspended belly overhanging a swinging sporran. Mary dug her heels into the fallen man's ear. From the side another grabbed the shaft of John's shovel. He yanked and pulled. John was losing his grip as his hands slid up the shaft. Mary flung her largest stone into the man's face. The man let go to clutch his nose. John's punch sent him down. Mary dug her heel into the man's ear. John clanked his spade off another's head. The man went down, but rolled clear of Mary's high heel.

Martha saw the results of Adam's work. She put her handbag into orbit around her head and downed two victims, each with an earful of War and Peace. "Keep bloody movin." shouted Martha.

So they progressed. Slower now, fighting for every inch of ground, stepping over the fallen guards of the mighty Crab. From somewhere behind the guards a bagpipe sounded and echoed along the tunnel. The guards fell back in disarray. "Keep bloody movin." Adam reeled in, looped up his bullroarer and limped on, blood coming from a cut on his leg. Martha ran to be by his side. "Your leg. Its- "Back in your bloody place, woman. Are you off your bloody pannikin?" Adam took her by the shoulder, turned her around and sent her back to the ranks. Adam Blue, guerrilla General, looked at his force, and was proud. This lot were Christmas. He raised his voice. "This mob is just regrouping. Just keep bloody movin, don't let nothin stop you. I can smell the jungle comin down this tunnel, I reckon we must be near that Plaza place. So just keep movin." Adam turned again, swinging his hammer down by his side just enough so that it could be swing into action quick as a flash and no worries. And there they were again, blocking the tunnel. In front of the Highlandmen a piper began to play, stepping out slowly along the front rank. The tune had begun slow, mournful, now it was faster, martial. And faster, maddening. The claymores were lifted up in a shake and a rattle until they pointed up and out in front, pointing to the oncoming freedom fighters. The pipe tune was faster, faster. The rattling claymores shook louder, faster, faster. "WHA CHECKS A CRAB GETS NIPPIT".

Down they tore. Down they fell as they met the bullroaring phalanx. Some ran right around the outside and tried to take the rear. The older ladies realised the fun Martha was having. Handbags rose, rising in revolutions that harvested in a crop of red-haired bleeding heads and blue cracked chins. Reggie and Ronald defended their rears. As one guard rushed in on them Reggie poked the brolly point into the stomach: as the victim bent over in pain, Ronald swung down and cracked the man's skull with the handle of his brolly. Adam could see light at the end of the tunnel. Real light from the Plaza. "Keep movin, we're there, we're there." Adam's bullroarer had wrapped around the hilt of a claymore. The claymore was whipped up into the air whizzing round and threatening to decapitate his own light infantry behind. More room was needed. Adam ran forward swinging as hard as he could "Remember Gallipoli. Charge, CHARGE . . .

The karate team watched their leader. They whipped off their cameras and spun and spun them, spinning them around their heads as they took up the charge. Mary shouted. "Right girls. Handbags, hup." Square, round, triangular, leather, brass and steel –ringed handbags rose in unison. The bags charged.

This was it. Now or never. The full charge was on. Up the tunnel. Adam's hammer-and-claymore bullroarer was skittling and slicing a way through for his troops. Adam swung and roared his mighty roar. And behind, the brave platoon of swingers followed on to take their part in the saga. The impetus was enough. They were there, through, out into the plaza. But now a new side of the phalanx was exposed. Both sides were open to attack. "Over there. The trees, make for the bloody trees." Adam waved in the direction of Lord Crab's jungle. If Adam Blue's lot were to fight to the death, at least it would be in familiar territory. A bright spark had grabbed the rope, stopping the bullroarer. Adam kicked him in the crotch. The man collapsed. "The trees. Here you lot by me, by me, over here."

With the jungle to their back, Adam and his bullroarer, John and his shovel, the Orientals with their flailing limbs and Reggie and Ronald with their umbrellas, Martha and her handbag, held off the guards in fierce individual combat as the others sought sanctuary in the thick, green, tropical forest. Mary guided and encouraged each member of the group into the shelter of the lush shrubbery. Gradually the fighting men and women retreated backwards to the safety of the jungle. The last person was through.

Adam signalled the fighting cohort. One by one they peeled off and disappeared into the greenery. Adam waited till last. He retreated slowly, pushing his back into the familiar safety of the jungle. A hand reached out and grabbed the brim of his hat. Adam cracked his forehead into the man's face. The man crumpled. "Teach you, you little bastard." No other Highlander followed after him. The touring team had stopped to wait for Adam in a clearing. Adam checked the tightness of his hat before addressing his troops. "Everybody here? If you ain't, say so." Nobody answered. Nobody laughed. "Well from now on it has to be dinkum guerrilla warfare. When this lot comes in we've got to make it real hard for them to find and engage us. Now it just so happens that I'm a little bit of an expert on this here guerrilla warfare, so -

"They won't come after us." John stepped forward.

'They won't come after us?" queried Adam. "Why not?"

"Because they won't. I know my people. They won't come in here."

"You can know your bloody people mate. but how do you know they won't come after us?

"Can't you read the signs? Haven't you seen the signs all around this jungle, this place is taboo to them".

"What bloody signs?"

John threw his shovel down in anger. "Those signs, millions of them, KEEP OFF THE GRASS PRIVATE PROPERTY NO RIGHT OF WAY BY APPOINTMENT ONLY STALKING IN PROGRESS NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY NO FISHING NO FOOD AFTER TWO-THIRTY. All the signs are there. They won't come in here."

"You sure?"

"I know my people. They will always go where they are ordered, but never where they are forbidden. We're safe here."

"Well, that's a bloody relief. Right then, smoke-o everybody." Everybody looked. "Bloody tea-break if you like, any kind of break, take a bloody break will ya? Sit on your arses, get your strength back, they'll be back." he said, refusing to believe John.

Adam crossed over and sat down beside John, who sat with his knees up, pulling at the grass between his feet. "John, me old mate, much as I respect your knowing your people, I've got to say that I reckon those bushwhackers will be back. So. I'm off on a recce. Information is what we need. Common and princely rule of guerrilla warfare: Know your enemy, and what the bastard is up to."

John crossed his hands over and leaned on his knees; he looked at the ground, shaking his head; he looked up at Adam Blue, guerrilla fighter and leader of this underground platoon. "Oh. A recce. I thought maybe you'd be popping out for fish suppers. Sure. Information is really what we need. Go to it."

"Right mate. Well that puts you in charge here until I return. Mums the word. Don't alarm the troops. No need to tell them I'm off. See you mate."

Adam was swallowed by the foliage, but his instincts took over, and he knew the feeling again, as he pushed on through, back to the jungle fringe ,where the greenery met the mosaic paths of the plaza. Adam sheltered behind an overgrown philodendron and a Norfolk Island Pine, peeking out. The Highland brigade were putting away their casualties. The touring team had done well. Dis-spirited looking guards stood around, sat around, in groups of threes and fours. No watch had been posted as far as Adam could make out. Some office-type Hector wearing a diced check on his field cap and an extra parrothead on his sporran was haranguing them all. Adam crept around to hear. Adam listened.

This Commisioned Officer donk was a real Lulu. He hadn't even told his Lord Crab what was going on. First rule of passing the buck: Communicate, send a Memo. Remember Gorge Washington: I cannot tell a lie: it was him. Now it was his fault and he was screaming at his men like a crazy man. A scared man. Scared by Adam Blue's fighting machine. But if the Boss hadn't been told yet then this meant he was still stuck up there somewhere. Adam counted the forces he could see. Odds were maybe two-to-one. But Adam Blue had the jungle. It was time to go while all these mac eyes and mac ears were on the donk at the yabber-yabber.

Simon stood hiding under the protruding parapet of the Lord of the Crabs hideaway eyrie. The parapet was high. Very high. Yet the Lord Crab and J. L. had stood there. They must have got there by some other route. But the conventional route would have guards, and would not have the element of surprise. Surprise. That must surely be a rule for a guerrilla warrior. This he would ask the Adam man. It was too late to ask him now. The last of the freed miners following the Antipodean Adam had just disappeared out of the mining area into the wider parts of the tunnel. Simon Hacov was alone. And now the guards must have come back, for he could hear shouting. Perhaps he should forget the mission for now and get help. No. This J.L. held the secret of the Singlebody Papers. And Admiral Ashka wanted this Knowledge.

Simon looked up again. It was a long way up. Simon searched among the diggings and found a hammer, chisel and a length of rope. He stuffed the tools into the waistband of his kilt and wound the rope diagonally across his shoulder. He had the tools for a climb. Once up there everyone would be surprised. Simon Hacov of the Urals was the best climber in all of the final year at the Gymnasium. Those Moscow boys could not keep up with Simon Hacov.

The rock face was not sheer. Grey and sandy-brown pieces jutted out in

irregular steps. Simon faced the wall, inhaled, exhaled heavily for air, flexed his fingers, found a grip for and foot and was off, upwards. The first two feet were easy. Thereafter the push and pull, the kick for toeholds, the push and pull, the pull and push, the strain on the fingers, the insteps and the toes, brought out the grunts and dangerous sweat, that formed into balls and rolled down across the forehead into the squinting eyes, blurring the vision. Progress.

Pull. And push. Each push, each inch gained a victory for determined will and straining muscle. A pause to chisel out a hand-hold was almost a relief. But not quite. Then on again, up. And up. Simon Hacov climbed and knew that each pull and push higher brought him nearer to the dizzy heights of a fame; a fame that might even peak and tower over the fame of Ashka himself. Or even acceptance, that would do. Perhaps this would bring Simon Hacov his first medal. A foot slipped, but the fingers held until a searching toe-cap found security on a shelf of rock. Time to concentrate even harder. Forget these dreams. There is only the climb. Push and pull and push and pull, onwards, and, upwards. The stanchions criss-crossing under the parapet looked close enough now to be tried. They looked near enough and secure enough. One angle iron ran under the platform and was bolted into the rock-face. Other supports criss-crossed above it, leaving little triangular spaces. To be nearer would be better. Clamber on, move into the state of mind of the climber when nothing else exists: There is no Earth, there is no sky, only the climber and the climb. The challenger and the challenged. And the hidden challenge that defies the fear to be shown on the outside. Passive and superior rock, defying these would-be superior humans who might conquer, but who would soon pass away. Climb on. Now, nearly. He could plainly see the iron fretwork of the balcony and the angle where the extra stanchions joined the faceplate on he wall. The distance was about right. The rope was peeled from the shoulder. Leaning in on the wall, Simon tied one end of the rope around the hammer, leaving enough rope for the chisel to be tied on also. Simon rolled the rope around into loops. By touch and experience only, he made sure each loop was free. He jiggled the rope in his fingers. Twice he measured the distance with his eyes, conveying the information to the muscles of his arm and their memory. He tightened his grip on the end of the rope with his left hand. He held his right hand down and swung the looped rope slowly back and slowly forward. Simon pushed his body in hard to the wall and swung the rope out and up, the wrists shooting out the line and making it straight. It bounced off the angle iron. A miss. Simon fingered and hauled the rope into its loops again. Again the distance was checked. Simon threw. The hammer flew straight through a space in the iron. Simon held the rope taut with his left hand. One jerk: and the hammer and the chisel were caught; jammed in angled space, hammer and chisel cramping on, hard. Another jerk. The tools held. Simon jerked again harder and the rope was held by Simon Hacov swinging like a clapper looking for a bell: high, high in the air, high underneath the balcony. Simon held on. Simon held on until gradually the swing lessened, closing his eyes until he felt the swings diminish. He swung, silently, holding on. The rope settled. Simon took charge of the rope between his knees and the instep of each foot. He climbed; hands and feet, hands and feet, all tight, close together. He climbed up and on up until he could grasp one of the underside irons of the balcony. Simon rested, swinging a leg over the angle-iron and perching delicately on it.

The respite was brief.

Simon shimmied to the edge where balcony met its supports. He stretched and pulled at a bannister stanchion. His feet flailed the air, but he was up. He lay flat on the balcony, hearing his own breathing and the sound of voices from within. Simon stood up and pressed his ear to the glass. He tried to count the voices. There seemed to be only two – if he discounted the squawking. Probably there were guards outside the door. One could only guess. A calculated risk.

Simon's shoe came up and the door flew open. The parrot flew around the room, its wings thrashing the air, screeching: It's the electric man, it's the electric man. J.L. McCrabberty looked up from the paper he was about to write on. The Lord of the Crabs looked up from looking down.

The door opposite burst open, banging back on its hinges. Two guards rushed across the room, one pausing to nip the end off his cigarette and to place the dog-end in his sporran.

The first lunged at Simon. Simon jumped aside at the last moment, whipped round and kicked the man in the backside. The man stumbled on and crashed over the balcony into free space. The other drew back his arm to strike with his claymore. Simon pulled him by the beard, hauled him to the balcony, and thrust him over. The two Highlanders were flying through the air, their kilts ballooning out into parachuting panoplies of tartan. Grandfather's stories about kilts and Scotsmen were true. Dr. Crab rushed to the balcony's edge. "My workers, my workers what have you done to my workers?"

"Those men are not workers. The real workers are embarked upon a long and glorious strike from your mines, Dr. Crab. I'm afraid for you, your jig is up." Dr. Crab said nothing. Turning, he walked past Simon into the room. A hand and arm were held up. The parrot flew down onto his wrist. Dr. Crab sat down stroking the bird's feathers and allowing it to nibble at his fingertips. A long look was passed round the two visitors. He swung his feet up on to the desk and laughed. J.L. knew the next line. "You find your situation amusing, Dr. Crab?"

"Indeed, yes. Indeed I do. But the laugh is on you, and all of your friends out there, wherever they may be. How on earth do you think you are all going to escape from the Empty Mountain? You have little knowledge of the place, and I have all the controls." He held his hand poised over a panel of buttons set on his desk. "I do not know what has happened down there, perhaps there are disadvantages in having a soundproof box for an office, but, but I can assure you, your friends cannot have run very far."

J.L. settled back in his chair and clasped his hands across his body. "I think I'll take a chance on that. You can forget any deal."

"Ah. A sudden attack of bravery, Mr. McCrabberty? It does you credit. But it will be of no avail I can assure you. Perhaps when I have your wife with me next time, I shall not stop Crab Major."

Simon placed his hands on J.L. 's shoulders and pushed him back into his chair. The parrot screeched. Dr. Crab was calm. "Mr. McCrabberty, I have offered you riches beyond the dreams of macavarice and you have refused. I have offered you the chance to be an active partner in the restoration of the world to Common-sense -and you have refused. And you sir, with your funny looking friend, have upset the routine of my household. Enough is enough." The Lord of the Crabs pressed a small button.

An LCD monitor slid up on to the desk as a flap in the desk top slid back. He pressed a button. Pictures flitted across the screen. Pictures of the outside, pictures of the Plaza and pictures of the jungle area followed on, one after another. And there was a picture of John and Mary and Martha looking at a set of photographs and passing them around. There was no sign of Adam. The woman in the green and cream reversible raincoat was taking a snap of the karate hand-and-foot soldiers who were all smiles and little giggles. The parrot flew over, perched on top of the monitor, and let out a mocking squeal that splattered saliva over the desk.

J.L. spoke. "What makes you think me and this boy here are going to let you go?"

Dr. Crab let go a guffaw. "Gentlemen. You really are not aware of your objective conditions. Forget this fantasy. I may have missed what was going on down there, but now that I do know, I can assure you, I am in control." He jerked his arm straight, snapped his fingers and pointed a digit at Simon and J.L. The parrot flew up and around, snapping and flapping at the pair in front of the desk, forcing them to protect their faces. Dr. Crab grasped the telephone up and barked something into it in the Gaelic. He replaced the receiver. The parrot returned to his sleeve.

He indicated the monitor. "Gentlemen, now it really is only a matter of time. You are here. Your people are there." On the screen John was surrounded by several of the blue-rinse ladies. He was waving his arms in placation. Dr. Crab grinned. ''It appears there may be unrest in your own ranks. Those people you have taken in are a fickle and disloyal breed. They get very shirty if they are not fed by 8 o'clock." He looked at his watch. ''It is now 9.15, and I smell mutiny cooking."

On the screen, the old lady in the sensible coat was wagging her finger at John and pointing to her wrist-watch. John scratched his head, stretched up and plucked her a banana. She put it in her handbag and continued wagging her finger.

The picture changed. Around the fringes of the jungle area an officer with a diced check on his field cap was moving; bending down and pulling out some kind of notices and laying them face down on the grass, except for one which proclaimed: THIS WAY TO THE FIRST TEE. A panel in the wall of the room opened and four almost giant Highlanders came in led by the small strongman. Simon backed off a little. Dr. Crab ushered them in a walk to the door. "Let us go gentlemen. In a rather short time the timelock on the door shall operate and more of my people will be here to begin the nightshift. To-night the change-over will be a little different, but it should be savoured and I do not intend to miss any of it. Shall we?"

Dr. Crab led the way out and off down, followed by Simon who kept feeling a prod in the back , but could not see the prodder.

Guerrilla Warfare meets the Highland Brigade

The Officer Commanding the Highland Brigade stepped up on to the porch in front of the administration offices came to attention and saluted. The Commander-in-chief Crab Forces, Lord of all the Crabs had his back to him, leaning over and personally supervising the placement of a canvas-backed tubular chair on the porch: as well as checking that the chair had his name on it. The Officer Commanding held the salute. The Lord of the Crabs sat down, taking hold of the grey metallic megaphone which was handed to him. The salute was still on hold. The Lord of the Crabs swung a leg out and kicked the Officer Commanding on the shin. The man stopped saluting. Frowning, Lord Crab addressed himself to Simon and J.L. who were boxed in on the porch by the dwarf and his squad. "Mr. McCrabberty, do you wish to call your wife out of there?" J.L. shook his head. "And you, ratcatcher man, do you wish to call upon your funny friend to return to normal working?" Simon shook his head. "Very well."

Dr. Crustaceous Crab, Lord of the Crabs, and all the derivatives thereof, lifted the megaphone to his mouth. "Mr. Burnett, Mr. Burnett. I do not know what possessed you to take such action. Please return to normal working and I shall listen to every thing you have to say. Otherwise, Mr. Burnett, I shall have to take more dramatic action to restore normality to my mines." He looked at his watch. "I make this appeal to anyone listening. Please return to the work you were enjoying before these upstarts mesmerised you. If there is anything you are concerned about, I am sure we can come to an understanding. Reject these self-appointed leaders and no harm will befall you. Otherwise, I will not be held responsible." The watch was looked at again. "You have only minutes to come out. All of you. "

J.L. made a grab for the loud-hailer. The dwarf head-butted him in the stomach and J.L. collapsed, writhing on the porch. Dr. Crab placed his foot t on J.L.'s chest. Crab looked at the Officer Commanding Highland Crabbities.

"Do you wish to wait until the next shift arrives? Is there a need for that?" The answer was a smart salute and a sharp: No Sah. "Good man. Good man."

The O.C. stepped down from the porch, wheeled right, and marched smartly over to be in front of his troops, who stood four ranks deep, claymores to the front, targes across the chest, motionless, perfectly in line. A command was rasped out. The ranks wheeled right, in single file, and jogged off, quicktime, to the edge of the jungle. Another command. Immediately they thinned out, second man left, into file, a single chain of bodies, linked in concentration, fencing in the jungle zone. Each man took up position, at the ready.

But Adam Blue had not been idle.

The John Innes peat and sand mixture was too fine for tunnelling, but he had set his battle-hardened civilians to weaving long strips of elephant grass into reasonable size pieces of matting, which they were now attaching to one another's back and shoulders, weaving stalks through each other's hair, giggling and talking nervously, as they heard the loud demands. "Cut the bloody cackle. These dingoes will be here soon. Standard tactics before a clearance: always move in some big-mouth with a loud-hailer." Adam moved around in a circle. " Don't none of you answer. Don't answer. You'll give away our positions."

John put his hands together as if in prayer. "Oh no Mr. Blue. We would never dream of doing such a thing." said an old lady in a cream poplin coat.

Adam's lips stretched up to meet his right eyelid coming down, but did not respond to the possible sarcasm. He turned away from John and called his troops together. "Listen people, you've all done bloody well so far, but it looks as if the big rammy is about to start. So nobody go pulling no bloody dingo act. We'll only score here if we all do it as I call it." He pointed to the martial arts platoon. "You blokes and your sheilas, uppa tree. You go uppa tree? Savvy?"

` They nodded. "Certainly, sir, without more ado." said a woman in front.

Adam looked at her, but carried on. "You others disperse into the Bush. Now, only take on one man at a time. Rule twenty-nine of guerrilla warfare: Make sure the other joker is outnumbered." Reggie and Ronald led the twosomes for the Bush. "You older sheilas, find a decent-size bit of bush to hide in, an if you see a piece of leg passing - bite it till an arse falls off. John, you and Mary fend for y'selves. Martha, you stick by me. Remember: only engage when you have to or when the numbers are in your favour, and don't go takin any prisoners."

The voice from the loud-hailer came muffled and mangled through the undergrowth. "You have two minutes, Mr. Burnett."

Adam shrugged his shoulders: It was an old trick not recognising the true Leader, but that was only a worry to those blokes that had egos. His eyes burned with a white and red light. An idea came. "Shush. Has anybody got any elastic? C'mon, some of you sheilas must have some. Martha?"

Martha paled, but saw the light and stepped behind a bush. Her hand held out her knickers. Adam took them and ripped the elastic from the waist-band. He tore at a Y-shaped branch on a shrub, gnawing through the final sappy piece of bark with his teeth. A catapult was formed with the elastic. "Coins, c'mon, coins, move yisselves, gimme coins." Cents and centimes, euros and pennies were pulled and picked, selected from pockets, and passed over to Adam the catapulter.

He scrambled up a tree, his hairy thighs disappearing into the leaves, which shook and shifted like sails on a wind. An almighty crack and a bang was heard. Everyone ducked. Another bang banged. Splinters of glass fell from above. Dr. Crab's ultra-violet 3000 lux lamps were imploding as Adam Blue picked them off one by one. Martha swooned. "He is David. A David come to do battle for us." Bulbs imploded. With each bang, it grew darker. This was going to be a night engagement. Bulbs imploded. Glass blew wide, scattering as wide as the darkness which fell in lengthening pieces. ]Through the darkening night, through the density of the jungle, the drone of the bagpipe was heard and the loud echoes of a marching tune. The Clan Crab were coming. Adam slid down and pulled Martha by the arm. "O.K. People: Let's do the bloody thing."

Martha followed after Adam, tumbling after him through the green foliage, until Adam hauled her under a clump of overgrown bromeliads. Sounds of swishing claymores thrashing through the undergrowth grew nearer, louder. Adam's mouth twisted, his eyes moved in the dark, together, and his lips came up to touch the tip of his nose. He was thinking. "Sh."

He crept away, not far, to return with a long thin branch. Taking Martha by the wrist, he started to undo the strap of her wrist-watch. Martha resisted, but Adam insisted, squeezing her arm. The watch was off. Adam strapped it to the end of the long branch. He held the long pole with the watch at the end of it, as high, and as far away as he could. The luminous face of the watch glowed in the dark. Adam waved it. Thrashing grew louder. Nearer. Someone was standing over them. Adam let go as the claymore hit the watch and the branch and the blow reverberated down the length of the stick to his arm. He dived forward and found his head between a pair of thick legs. A muscular calf was bitten into by his good teeth. A man screamed and fell forward. Martha jumped up and clobbered the man with her reading material. The heavy bag came down twice, and he was out. More feet were running, heading toward the scream. Adam felt around and found the man's claymore. As he lifted the claymore, two black shapes stood before him, with just the tiniest speck of light from somewhere reflecting from their blades. Specks of light swung toward Adam. Adam took a chance, hacking in the general direction of the light. A man roared and screamed. The hilt of a claymore from somewhere in the dark struck Adam down. He rolled over, but it was no use: above him he could see the whites of two eyes and hear the hiss of an intake of breath. A yell cut through the dark and a black mass came from a tree and wrapped shadowy legs around a shadowy neck. "Bloody good on ya mate."

"No trouble, Mr. Blue. No trouble. This good fun."

All over the jungle shadowy forms were leaping, jumping, biting thrashing and being thrashed. Phantom arms pitched umbrella and handbag against the hewing of claymore and targe, while discovered spectres hopped around, clutching at fantastic welts on their legs. Adam now possessed two claymores. Two more figures came. Adam prepared. And the dirty cowards took the sheila Martha, lifting her clean off her feet as she kicked dark stale air. Adam Blue took to the chase. With a jump he jabbed a jab a dark broad back. "C'mon, ya mangy sword-swallowers, try your luck on a real man, you wankers." Martha was left to fall flat on her face. Two claymores were turned to point at Adam. Two claymores separated. They were edging around. One to the left, one to the right. Behind and to the front. Two claymores were up. Adam held his own straight out and spun and spun, whirling, whirling, whizzing his swords around in circles and circles. One man tried to cut through this defence and one man sat down to nurse one slashed arm. Another tried to dive underneath, but felt the well-worn sole of a tough leather desert boot, and retired, unconscious. There were no more oncomers. Adam picked Martha up and helped her forward.

The sounds of fighting continued to come, but the sounds did not seem so loud. Adam helped Martha into a bower which had been formed by a cluster of competing Kangaroo Vines. "You be alright, sheila? Martha? All right? I'm off to find out what's what. Got to keep in good communications with the troops. First rule of night-time guerrilla warfare. See ya." He turned to go. Martha's grip on his arm delayed him. "Adam. Be careful." Her fingers loosened, slowly, and they, both, knew: he had called her Martha. Adam was off. Adam ran through the bushes, faster than he had ever run.

Strange lights were coming from outside the jungle perimeter. At the edge, under the same Norfolk Island Pine, Adam peered out. Some light spilled out on to the plaza from the administration block. The strange lights combined with loud popping noises. Adam's face twisted everyway. Highlanders with their targes and claymores were posing for photographs being taken by Adam's own night-time troopers. From behind, in the jungle, Adam could hear some yelling and some screaming, but overall, the sounds of fighting were subdued. It was obvious to a blind Koala that for them the game was over. Somebody in these Highlanders' ranks knew their guerrilla warfare. Some bastard had won over the hearts and minds off Adam's people. It was only a matter of time. But Adam Blue would go down fighting. Maybe need to conduct a real guerrilla campaign from this bush-place, but first things, the Martha woman would have to be defended. He turned to go back. Adam Blue hesitated. There was more sound. More sounds. Louder sounds. Bloody Mafeking. Sounds coming up. Through the air. Coming up from the same tunnel that Adam Blue had driven the little bus through. Different, but getting nearer. Marching Military Band sounds. The worst Marching Military Band sounds Adam Blue had ever heard, but they were there. The worst oompas and doot doots ahs and bangs and burps that Adam Blue had ever heard this side of the Black Stump. But there they were. And they were comin. Adam keeked out over a shrub. Someone blasted out a diritdiritdiritderoo on a trumpet. Feet came running.

Three men separated off from a bunch of around fifteen. Some kind of fight was going on up there. A tubular chair clattered and sounded over the tiles of the Plaza. A bloody band marched in and on, headed up by some black woman. Men in grey togs and strides jogged up, rifles at the ready. Adam slumped back. Feet and long grey legs tore past him and crashed through the shrubbery. A military band clashed, crashed, clanged and cleaved their way on past, following the big majorette, playing and moving through, creating a musical path through the undergrowth. The rattle of claymores being tossed on a pile was next. Adam Blue's guerrillas were being relieved, and the claymore and the targe were proving no match for to-night's technology.

Groups of Highlanders were being brought out: torches shining on the hands

at the back of their heads, while the troops with the rifles and the torches said nothing : good standard guerrilla practice. Especially at night. It was time for Adam Blue to check on Martha.

Adam stood up, preparing to return to Martha. A rifle jammed into his belly.

"Ah, look sport, you got it all wrong here. I'm with you. Dinkum. Me commander. Me goodie commander. Big noise. Me. Capeej? Savanarola?" A man with binoculars around his neck and carrying a pistol, forced the barrel of the rifle down with his hand. "Streuth, thanks mate. One I owe ya. But can't stop. I got a sheila back there waitin for me." Adam moved past the younger man, who followed on.

By the bush where he had left her, Adam found Martha. She was dabbing her eyes with the collapsed-out knickers, while gazing at a spot by a shady trio of palm trees. A small band were formed up there, playing a tune. The other half were playing torches on three men, who, bent over, fumbled with some straps, before pulling a lid from a long, long, cylinder. Bending further, they pulled, until a long, long, pole was extracted from the cylinder. The three men began to push the long, long, pole into the vertical position. The flag of the Stars and Stripes fluttered free in the torchlight. A photograph was taken. The band played more quietly now. Martha tossed her hair back and lifted her face to the flag. Voices lifted in song:

"From the Halls of Montezuma,

To the shores of Tripoli . . .

The man with the pistol saluted, a big tear running down his cheek. The flag was raised. It waved in the light of the torches. Martha cried. Adam was touched, but he never said anything. He took her by the arm. "C'mon, missus, let's go find your other half." Martha blew a wet kiss at the flag and turned away with Adam.

Adam led, Martha followed, held by this secure man's grip; he led along the paths beaten out by the feet of the reinforcements and their merry band.

Outside, past the trees, beyond the bushes, they crossed over the plaza, heading for the lights of the administration block. In front, up ahead, scuffling and cursing had broken out. A rifle shot cracked, echoing with a high, pinging noise. They could hear a parrot screeching. "Polly." cried Adam, releasing Martha.

Martha stumbled, and fell flat on the ground arms and legs spread-parroted. Ahead, one man broke away from the scuffling group on the porch, running hard, bolting toward one of the tunnels. Behind him flew a screeching parrot. "Crab. Craaab." shouted Adam. The running man turned: the one eye was wide, maddened. He ran on. Adam chased after. Their running footsteps slapped, echoed, clapped and broke all over the silence of the tunnel. Around and down, running, slipping feet chased running, slipping feet. The tunnel swept on, around, steeper, going deeper. Crab panted, no rest, increased speed, following the sweep. Adam tore on. But stopped.

No sound now. Silence. Quiet as a cathedral. Empty as a church. Empty except for two bogies which sat on a track.

Adam Blue's eyes, trained in night-time guerrilla warfare, spotted the tell-tale tip of the parrot's feather in Dr. Crab's bonnet, just above the top of the second bogie. Adam fell flat. He kept flat, crept flat, past the bogie, under the bogie, until he lay flat between the two bogies, mid-way, beneath the coupling. Adam flexed his arm, aiming the heel of his palm at the point of the hook which linked the two bogies together. ISHAHEEY AA Y AKABASA - HA. His palm hit the hook. The hook was off. The bogies were uncoupled. Adam was up and pushing, hard, pushing the bogie and its passenger down the track. The wheels moved slowly, grunting, squealing, turning, picking up speed, turning faster, carrying the load away down along the track. Dr. Crab's head appeared.

The parrot flew up and out, flapping at Adam's sun-hardened neck. But the bogie was travelling. Adam's feet were slipping as he tried to keep a grip on the bogie. Adam pushed. Dr. Crab's flailing blows were weak, pisspoor. The bogie was shifting itself, taking its energy from the shoulder and thighs of Adam Blue and the downhill gradient of the tunnel. Crab's fingers almost touched Blue's head. Adam still pushed. The bogie rattled on down. The bend was tighter here. Adam slipped and fell. The bogie rattled on, but jumped the track, bounced six times, eight times ten times, charged and smashed, clattered and clanged against the streamlining wet wall of the tunnel. Adam ran to where the bogie had come to rest. The Dr. Crab was making no move to get out.

Adam looked carefully into the bogie. The body lay jammed along the bottom. Dr. Crab, Dr. Crustaceous Crab, Lord of the Crabs, and all derivatives thereof, did not move. His head lay twisted to one side at the far end of the truck, his back lay along the bottom, his legs lay up, spread, splayed, the flat of his buckled shoon facing up to Adam Blue. The parrot flew down and lifted the feathered bonnet off the face with its beak. The one eye lay open. The parrot let go and pecked at the lying man's nose. There was no stir. The parrot looked at Adam Blue: Wings were spread and the parrot flew up and out to perch on Adam's shoulder. The parrot's voice crackled: The King is dead: Long live the King. Adam patted her beak, smiled and winked at her, and turned to trudge back the way he had come, finding it difficult to lift tired legs through water that was deepening.

Filled-in Empty Mountain

The Highlanders were leaderless. They walked, slumped and shuffled toward the doorway of the Empty Mountain. They ebbed slowly away from the Plaza and the jungle, the administration block and the mine. Commander Neptavalich and Commander Perry watched them go, and even waved to some as they passed in a little electric truck. In front of the offices, newly-released tourists all mingled and milled around awaiting guidance as to their next move. John and Mary moved amongst them, consoling them, pacifying them, assuring them. Mary handed out John's business cards. Martha stood on the porch, one hand on a post, gazing wistfully down the tunnel whence Adam had disappeared, watching the two men Neptavalich had despatched to follow the tracks.

J.L. was in the wash-room carefully concealing his penis from this Simon Havoc in the next porcelain stall who had followed him in and was now almost criminally leaning sideways over the white enamel. J.L wiggled his last drip away quicker than usual. Simon did so too. J.L. zipped up. Simon made to do so, only succeeding in slapping his kilt against the urinal. Simon let the kilt go, patting the pleats and the white coupon properly into place. They turned to the wash-basins. They turned on the taps. Simon spoke over the rush of brown water. "Mr. J.L. may I speak to you?"

"You're speaking."

"Mr. McCrabberty, I feel we have been through much together."

"Sure have."

"That being so, it doesn't seem too much, at least to me, that I should ask you a favour."

"Depends doesn't it? What's on your mind?"

"Mr. McCrabberty, I wish to know the secret of Ferrocola."

"Ah, Richard Nixon, the devil you do. Not another one of these commercial espionage bums? Y'know, I had you marked out for one of those jokers as soon as I clapped eyes on you."

Simon's face reddened. "I am not in commercial espionage. Intelligence

Section is above that sort of thing. "Simon leaned over, and snatched the soap.

"If I told you who I work for, you would never believe me. All I can say is I

do not do this for ideology; I do this for my comrades and friends whose jobs

and families will go down the hole-plug if I do not return with the secret of your Ferrocola. My good Colonel Ashka and all my University depend upon me."

J.L. leaned on his submerged hands. "So you work for that lot, do you? I

might have known, you don't have much of an accent. You don't talk right." J.L. stared at a small fish swimming in the hand-basin, and the small crab that emerged from the plughole. He was studious for a time. He spoke. "Mr. Simonovich, this just might be your lucky day, for I think me and your masters just might be able to do business. Y'know, I really do like you, Simon."

The soap slipped and skited across the floor. Simon chased it, attempting to scoop it up, losing it, and finally knocking his head on the wall before retrieving it. "Please. Please. Go on. Go on."

"Well Simon, your folks have a lot of problems at the moment. One of them is hooch."

"Hooch?"

"Hooch. The People's Juice. The babbling water."

"Ah."

"You just about ban the vodka .. Now you shove up the prices, nobody can afford it. So, they make the hooch. Nobody but the top man and your British ex-pats drinks much vodka any-more. Your entrepreneurial comrades are awash with the stuff. And I just might want to do a trade."

"Ah. You want you want our vodka for your Ferrocola?"

"Simon. You're quick. I'm always on the look out for new markets. Keeps me where I am. I like you Simon."

Simon took his wet hands over to the electric drier. He pressed the knob. He pressed the knob. Hot air flowed down in a blast. He let go the knob and stuck his hands under. The hot air stopped. Simon pressed again. Hot air flowed. Hands under. Air stopped. Simon leaned forward and pressed the knob with his nose, sticking his wet hands under at the same time. J.L. waited behind him. Simon finished, but out of politeness, kept his nose on the button to allow J.L. to dry his hands. "Good, Simon, impressive, fine attention to detail, guess we never think about you guys learning the Western rules of the Executive wash-room. "

Simon smiled, nodding, closing one eye in confirmation of the statement.

"Yessir, Simon, I reckon we can do business. You tell your masters in . . ."

"Tashkinajan."

"Tell them I'll take all the vodka they can shift, and I'll shift over my Ferrocola. No need to worry about the bottling plant. I'll build that. Save you the trouble. No cost to your people whatsoever. What d'you say? We got a deal?"

Simon hesitated. This was big business. His mind raced to find a big question. J.L. brought his hands out and patted Simon on the back. Simon straightened up. J.L. found a wet bit between his fingers. Simon stuck his nose back on the button. From below he mumbled. "Please, Mr. McCrabberty, how much Ferrocola are we talking about?"

"Around eighty million bottles. That be enough you reckon?"

Simon's nose scraped up and off the knob. "I think so. Are your hands dry now?"

"Sure. Sure." J.L. turned Simon around. They headed for the door. J.L. patted

Simon on the shoulder. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, boy. Remember, where my Ferrocola goes, democracy goes . "

"It is the same with our vodka: Once every one has a few vodkas, everyone gets completely democratic."

As they passed through the door, a bronze-faced, pipe-smoking man in a silk-backed waistcoat and brown Fedora hat came in. "Hello, Bill." said J.L.

In the Plaza the little bus was returning for another load of passengers. More passengers than usual scrambled to get aboard. The driver let them squeeze in, climb on top, and balance on the wheel arches. John ran over. "What the blazes are you doing? You can't shift this amount of people in this."

A woman screamed from the inside. "He has to, he has to. The Mountain is slipping, slipping. You strangers can stay here to die, but we are going." John stood: stunned. The bus pulled away. As he stood he heard a sound like faraway pounding engines, mixed with the faint sound of gurgling water. The tourist-cum-miners heard it too. The tourist pack ran screaming, past Neptavalich and Perry and their heard it too, but appealed for calm with appealing upraised arms. The mob scampered, ignoring such calls for calm. John saw Mary through the crowd, herding Simon and J.L. and Martha together. John knocked his way through the throng to Perry. "Can't you control this?" Perry lifted his hands in the air, and was spun round by a fleeing woman in a green and cream reversible coat. The pounding and gurgling was growing louder. The band broke outs hushing version of 'Deep River' but to no avail. Since no-one was listening they decided not to play any more. Screams started. Lights flickered. The generator was stuttering. Mary ordered her others to link arms with herself and John. Perry and Neptavalich gathered their troops together, ordered them into a V-formation, Perry and Neptavalich behind the the point. Mary and John's chain herded as many people as they could into and between the arms of the V. The formation moved forward at a brisk jog, cutting a swathe through the mass of people in the tunnel, forcing them behind, to join behind the arms of the V, so forming an almost orderly procession out. Hot, puffed and red, the people caught on, and fell into the lines to be led out. The pounding was louder, and becoming louder the closer they came to the entrance. The entrance to the Empty Mountain came within sight and deafening earshot. A waterfall of peaty brown water thundered over and covered over the opening, carrying and heaving boulders, spraying and scattering stones before it.

The soldiers lined up in two ranks. Each one in turn took a person and ran at the water, forcing a way through, then came back to the rear rank to do it again. One pair followed one pair, the force of the water making their backs bend and their legs and feet move from under them in no particular direction. Perry and Neptavalich moved up and down the lines telling the civilians to hang on tight to the soldiers taking them through.

John joined the soldiers of the line. Simon stood next to him. A soldier grabbed J.L. and he was away, through. Simon ran after them on his own. Followed next by Martha. It was John's turn, and he took hold of Mary. "Bend your head, bend your head." he shouted. John turned Mary sideways onto the cascading water. They ran. The water forced them down, bent, almost double. John slipped, but held his feet as Mary grasped him. And they were through. A man in grey stood over them, pointing. "Go. Go. To the Castle. Go. Go." John made to pass him, attempting to re-enter the cavern. The man pushed him away. "Go."

John and Mary stumbled down. In front, they saw J.L. and Martha holding each other, making their way down slowly. They looked back. Most of the Highlanders had chosen to disperse across the mountain side, heading for traditional refuge in the adjacent glens, some were attempting to run uphill in the face of a watery avalanche of stones and boulders and fast cascading streams. The soldiers were coming out on all fours. Once out, they waited for their comrades and buddies.

All the military men at the waterfall were frozen into positions of readiness. Simon came through. Neptavalich and Perry came through. But still everyone waited. They waited. No-one else came. They waited. Two soldiers stumbled through. No-one could be left, surely. Still they waited; waited until, from above them, grew a greater roar than they had heard so far. Everyone looked up. A large pear-shaped boulder was rolling and bouncing its way down the slope. "Withdraw." yelled Perry. Neptavalich blew a whistle and superfluously waved his arm. Everyone ran. Those already running ran harder. And harder.

The rock rolled and bounced, and with one high bounce it came down to jam itself in the entrance to the Empty Mountain, like an ill-fitting stone cork in an effervescing bottle. The water split into two bursting speeding torrents around the rock. White bursts of air bubbles fought to the surface in foaming explosions, while spray was flung up and out in differing sizes of white air-borne bouquets of water. But the rush of water was impeded. Below was a stampede. Below, everybody scampering for dear life. They ran down and down. Legs and feet were caught by the slope and forced to move faster, faster, and faster. They stumbled, somehow, to the causeway, slightly relieved at its relatively flat surface, but not stopping, just slipping and spilling over, staggering away from the showers of angry waters that spat tiny stones at their retreat.

Neptavalich and Perry waited at the edge of the causeway, waiting until all had passed and the rising water, flowing faster now, belted their knees. Every trickle had become a burn, every burn had become a stream, every stream had become a river, and those rivers had teamed into a torrent, sweeping aside the boulders and rocks of every shape and size, drowning and burying, tearing up the bracken and the saplings on the road to the greedy sea. Neptavalich signalled. Perry signalled.

All the last sentinels ran along the causeway toward the castle. Behind them the roadway crumpled, and chunks lazily crumbled into the receiving waters of the loch. Easily, without protest, the causeway gave way and surrendered to the wind and the rain and this long-expected surge of water from the mountain. Slowly, reluctant even yet, the causeway disintegrated into large and tiny pieces of tottering rock that sank in individual pieces into the sea, and the sea covered them over. Above, the top of the Empty Mountain sagged, to fall in on itself with a sigh. The waters rose and took revenge on the causeway which surrendered without resistance. The Castle of Crabs was marooned.

Once all were inside, the castle door was slammed shut. Water spread in underneath. Neptavalich and Perry sat on their haunches, shaking their heads, letting their hair dangle, and flicking at the wet as it dripped. Perry spoke. "What now, my old friend?"

Neptavalich grinned. "Old is correct. But even you do not look as young as you did earlier, my young friend."

"No doubt. But, you and me, we've still got a problem here."

Neptavalich shook his head. He pointed to where J.L. and Simon were deep in conference. "Somehow I think our problem has been solved."

"What do you mean?"

"Our man has become exceedingly friendly with your man"

"Our man? You mean, your man."

"Our man is our man, but I'm afraid your man is not our man."

Commander Finnias P. Perry was tired. He drew his fingertips along the spaces between the cobbles in front of his knees. The finger went back and forth, alternately creating a miniature canal, or a tidal wave. He spoke. "Neptavalich, what exactly was your response to that last move I made?"

Neptavalich laughed, and slapped Finnias on the back. "Comrade, as of now, I accept the draw. It is time for a new game. My submarine is in the bay. It appears I shall have to give a lift to all who want to leave this island."

"A lift? Where to?"

"The Loch of Angels. How does that suit you, my friend? You have all that spare accommodation, and the civilian hospital is not too far away. And hey presto, we are the famous two for international co-operation. And on the way, we shall play." Neptavalich waved his signalling arm in a semi-circle. A man on a seaward turret signalled out to sea, using two spare kilts for semaphore flags. A light answered, and immediately a submarine surfaced. A launch was sent for the stranded.

In the stem of the launch, on the way out to the submarine, Martha and John gazed at the Empty Mountain. Martha sighed. "It's sad, isn't it?"

"Yeah. My bus was in there."

"The hell with your bus, Mr. Burnett, buses can be bought. My poor Mr. Blue is in there." John was silent. They looked up to the zig-zag remains of the mountain. The mad Aussie. He had been forgotten. Martha jumped up excitedly. "Mr. Perry, quick, quick, your glasses, quick."

Mid-way up the mountain a bird hovered like a mountain hawk over a dark round hole in the side of the slope. Martha focused. The hovering bird was a parrot. Through the hole a man's brown leather hat appeared. The man scrambled out and stood up. The parrot flew down to his shoulder. A wave of his hand was aimed at the launch. He turned to make his lonely way along the mountain. Tears rolled off Martha's cheeks. The rain stopped and the clouds disappeared in white and grey puffs of magic. A red full sun turned the loch a full spangle of silvers and oranges, deep reds and purples. Martha spoke. "Red at night is the shepherd's delight." She turned to John. "Do you sailors find that to be correct, Mr. Perry?"

John looked at the figure disappearing over the crest of the hill. "Usually that's true, yes."

Capitol Hill

George Gurgelotz settled back in his seat. Across the desk the woman smiled, but kept her hands poised over the keyboard. They had respite now, of thirty seconds at least. In front of the curtain her husband the Chief was telling the Press Corps one of his homespun philosophic jokes nobody laughed at, but all took to be a sign of his education. His voice came through again: "… and that was when I think I first wanted to be President." There was the silence. "Well boys, what is it to-day?" George and the woman tensed and listened intently to their earphones.

"Munro. Washington Post. What's this about our boys in the U.K. being involved in some joint rescue operation with the Russkies?"

The Chief gripped the edges of the podium and looked down as though in thought, frowning for gravitas, staring straight ahead, as though thinking. There was nothing on his screen yet. The woman looked at George, typing as she did so: WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR INFORMATION?

The screen in the President's lectern read: WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR INFORMATION? Thus spak the President.

"This newspaper: The Dunoon Herald, from Scotland." replied the reporter.

As George coughed, the woman's fingers flew, transposing into down-home colloquial: "First, let me salute our boys, we, their fellow-Americans ...

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

John looked up at the towering presence of Edinburgh Castle, and grued. Castles he had seen enough of for a lifetime. Early morning sun was already warm, the sky clear blue, and there was no milk in the shop. Today it was just clear the desk, maybe even brush the floor, and clear out. Two o'clock it was back to the Central depot to plead with MacAllister for the old job back. And MacAllister's island was not the island of John Bumett. Proper tartan on your tie made all the difference at Central. Down the steps into the gardens of Princes street, to take it easy along past the high-stemmed roses. The flower clock was a geranium slow. No need to hurry. Past Waverley, under the bridge, over the cobbles, under the grey bridge where the bus used to sit. People. Outside the shop. Crowding around, that, bus, there, shining and reflecting in the sun, a brand new bus looking as strong as a tank and as handsome as the North British itself. And there was Mary ushering them into the shop. Run, John Burnett, run. Mary's laughing. "C'mon, lazybones don't you know these folks are dying to go on a mystery tour to Crail? Here, catch." Keys. Shiny keys. Glinting in the palm. In the cab, smelling the new, feeling the perfect fit. A fax was taped to the dash. 'THIS ONE'S FOR YOU. IF YOU EXPAND, I WANT IN. J.L. McCRABBERTY, CRAB OF McCRAB (by default):

"Mary. Saddle up. We're off. Just watch out for wee men from Australia."

TASHKIN, TASHKINAJAN

Admiral Ashka observed that the artist had captured the very cold of the October Revolution. He took his eyes away. It was too painful. It was funny how he had never noticed how big Pashinov's office really was. Pashinov's old office. The new office of Admiral Ashka, Chairperson, Supreme Intelligence (Intelligence Section), plc. Ashka's friend spoke. "Are you studying that painting, or admiring yourself in the glass?"

"Neptavalich, I am enjoying the trappings of my promotion. The painting reminds me it may be shorter than Pashinov's." The door opened. "Ah. My three cuckoos. Podroyin. Make the tea. Like Hacov; or I will be having another interview with your bum. Tea. Hacov. White coupon, please. Yevta. You carry a book? Good. We are all in the mood for a read. Correct, Hacov? What is its title?"

"Love in the Heather, sir."

"Louder."

"Love in the Heather. Sir."

"Read."

"Sir?"

"Read."

" Captain Johnstone Gregory of the Royal Scots Greys took off his hat and allowed the wind to brush his corn-coloured hair, setting it dancing above his palest of pale blue eyes. He raised himself high in the saddle and watched young Emily Manson, eldest daughter of Major Manson, of the Blues, walk decorously, yet teasingly toward him over the green sward which fronted . . . . Neptavalich laughed. "Enough. Enough. Ashka, you are too cruel."

Ashka waved them away. "Oh, Hacov. White coupon. Please."

HILVERTON, U.S.A.

Jonathan Clackmore watched the last of the Rs dip down on to one knee, and bow forward, to be capped. There was only one S, the new Doctor of Economics: Miss Janet Singlebody. From his seat on the centre-stage, Jonathan B. Clackmore, Tutor, mentor, nay, friend, looked down on Miss Singlebody, nay, Janet, as she arose and smiled sweetly at the world in general. She caught sight of her Professor, to whom she owed so much. She smiled at him in particular.

Out on the green grass of the quad, Miss Singlebody, Ph.D., stood alone. Jonathan peeled off two passing sherries with ease. He pulled his stomach in and approached. "Here's to you - may I say, the lovely Janet?"

"Thank you, Professor. I don't think I've ever really thanked you for your help in getting my thesis published. I don't think it would have happened with any other Tutor. "

"Nonsense, my dear. The fact that this Tashkinajan is so eager to have

Ferrocola, makes you flavour of the month. And because you made such

generous reference to my own humble work, people have remembered me.

Why, only this morning I received an invitation to talk at Edinburgh."

"Why, so have I. For next summer. Perhaps we can put in some tours together."

Mrs. Woody looked down. Her parrot had died last night.

She was angry.