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Slowly, almost unwillingly, he nodded his head, reached forward and gripped the gloved hand, wincing as the steel fingers closed on his own flesh and bone.
    â€˜If it’s too uncomfortable Ah’ll drop the artificial extension an’ ye can test out the grip this claw o’ mine’s got. But then, o’ course, it will have to be elbows off the table.’
    â€˜No, we’ll try it this way. I’ve seen artificial limbs like this before and I’ll be interested to check the efficiency of it.’ He was smiling now. ‘Haven’t played this game since I was a middy.’ He planted his elbow on the table. ‘Say when.’
    Ward had placed his own strangely-shaped elbow-cum-wrist in position, the muscles above beginning to swell as he said, ‘Okay, let’s go.’
    Squared up to each other, their faces tense and set, they began to strain, arms literally trembling with the effort. The theatricality of it was almost ridiculous, an expedition into the Antarctic apparently depending on the outcome. Ward was like an actor slipping into a well-worn part and I knew he had done this before, a sort of party trick. He was enjoying himself. You could see it in his face. So, in his different way, was the Admiral. Socially, and probably politically, they were poles apart, yet in their personalities there was something remarkably similar. Seeing them face-to-face like that, the good hand locked with the gloved steel, muscles straining, the blood pulsing, they were like two gladiators – one could almost hear the crowd baying.
    And then in a flash it was over, the Admiral’s arm bending outwards, his whole body being pressed sideways until his arm was flat on the table.
    Ward released his grip on the artificial forearm and the gloved fingers let go the Admiral’s hand. ‘Would ye like to try it wi’out the gadget?’ The metal extension fell with a dramatic clatter on the table-top. ‘It’ll have to be standin’ up, elbows free, o’ course.’
    The Admiral shook his head, flexing his fingers.
    â€˜Ah was born like this,’ Ward said almost apologetically. ‘Ah’ve been learnin’ to cope wi’ it ever since Ah were shoved out into this wicked world, an’ gradually Ah’ve built the muscles till Ah’ve a lot o’ strength here.’ He tapped his shoulder as he got to his feet. ‘Ah’ve even got a black belt. Karate.’ He was putting on his jacket again. ‘Does that set yer mind at rest or d’ye want me to run up the Cutty Sark ’s riggin’ and scramble over the futtock shrouds or whatever?’
    The Admiral laughed. ‘No. I think my objection has been very conclusively overridden.’ He turned to Mrs Sunderby. ‘What about crew? I presume you’ve given some thought to that.’
    She nodded, pulling another file from her briefcase. ‘I contacted the Whitbread people, the RYA, the STA and the RORC. Out of a list of over a hundred names for which I had some biographical and performance details, I narrowed it down to just over twenty who might have the time and the inclination to join this sort of expedition. As a result I have seven possibles.’ She hesitated. ‘If you have somebody in mind, Admiral …?’
    He shook his head slowly. ‘Alas, those that leap to mind are all too old for this sort of a lark, myself included. Now if I were forty years younger –’ He gave a little shrug. ‘What’s the total complement you have in mind?’
    She glanced down at the typed sheet in her hand. ‘Apart from myself and Mr Ward here, I’ll need an engineer, an experienced navigator, a sailing master, a deckhand with Arctic experience and a cook who is also a sailor – five in all. I think that should be enough, though we could do with one extra in case of injury, and I’ll need somebody who is a competent radio