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on his way out. France was only the first station on a line which led to eastern Germany and Moscow.
    “One thing puzzles me,” said the colonel, breaking into his thoughts. “During all the time we have been talking here – and I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed our conversation – I couldn’t help noticing that you have hardly moved. Your hands, for instance, have been lying cupped, one on each knee. When a fly annoyed you just now, instead of raising your hand to brush it off you shook your head violently.”
    Mr. Behrens said, raising his voice a little, “If I were to lift my right hand, a very well-trained dog, who has been approaching you quietly from the rear while we were talking, would have jumped for your throat.”
    The colonel smiled. “Your imagination does you credit. What happens if you lift your left hand? Does a genie appear from a bottle and carry me off?”
    “If I raise my left hand,” said Mr. Behrens, “you will be shot dead.”
    And so saying, he raised it.
    The two men and the big dog stared down at the crumpled body. Rasselas sniffed at it, once, and turned away. It was carrion and no longer interesting.
    “I’d have liked to try to pull him down alive,” said Mr. Behrens. “But with that foul weapon in his hand I dared not chance it.”
    “It will solve a lot of Mr. Fortescue’s problems,” said Mr. Calder. He was unscrewing the telescopic sight from the rifle he was carrying.
    “We’ll put him down beside Hessel. I’ve brought two crow-bars along with me. We ought to be able to shift the stump back into its original position. With any luck, they’ll lie there, undisturbed, for a very long time.”
    Side by side in the dark earth, thought Mr. Behrens. Until the Day of Judgment, when all hearts are opened and all thoughts known.
    “We’d better hurry, too,” said Mr. Calder. “It’s getting dark, and I want to get back in time for tea.”

 
ON SLAY DOWN
    “The young man of today,” said Mr. Behrens, “is physically stronger and fitter than his father. He can run a mile quicker—”
    “A useful accomplishment,” agreed Mr. Calder.
    “—he can put a weight farther, can jump higher and will probably live longer.”
    “Not as long as the young lady of today,” said Mr. Calder. “ They have a look of awful vitality.”
    “Nevertheless—” said Mr. Behrens (he and Mr. Calder, being very old friends, did not so much answer as override each other; frequently they both spoke at once) “—nevertheless he is, in one important way, inferior to the older generation. He is mentally softer—”
    “Morally, too.”
    “The two things go together. He has the weaknesses which go with his strength. He is tolerant but he is flabby. He is intelligent but he is timid. He is made out of cast iron, not steel.”
    “Stop generalising,” said Mr. Calder. “What’s worrying you?”
    “The future of our Service,” said Mr. Behrens,
    Mr. Calder considered the matter, at the same time softly scratching the head of his deerhound, Rasselas, who lay on the carpet beside his chair.
    Mr. Behrens, who lived down in the valley, had walked up, as he did regularly on Tuesday afternoons, to take tea with Mr. Calder in his cottage on the hilltop.
    “You’re not often right,” said Mr. Calder, at last.
    “Thank you.”
    “You could be on this occasion. I saw Fortescue yesterday.”
    “Yes,” said Mr. Behrens. “He told me you had been to see him. I meant to ask you about that. What did he want?”
    “There’s a woman. She has to be killed.”
    Rasselas flicked his right ear at an intrusive fly; then, when this proved ineffective, growled softly and shook his head.
    “Anyone I know?” said Mr. Behrens.
    “I’m not sure. Her name, at the moment, is Lipper – Maria Lipper. She lives in Woking and is known there as Mrs. Lipper, although I don’t think she has ever been married. She has worked as a typist and filing clerk at the Air Ministry since—oh, since well before