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fop lies the mind of a retarded fourth-grader.
    Larsen was in the radio room at that moment, listening attentively, nodding from tune to time; then he flicked a switch that put the incoming call on the loudspeaker.
    He said: "All clear, sir. Everything understood. We'll make the preparations. But haven't you overlooked something, sir?"
    "Overlooked what?" Lord Worth's voice over the telephone carried the overtones of a man who couldn't possibly have overlooked anything.
    "You've suggested that armed surface vessels may be used against us. If they're prepared to go to such lengths, isn't it feasible that they'll go to any lengths?"
    "Get to the point, man."
    "The point is that it's easy enough to keep an
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    eye on a couple of naval bases. But I suggest it's a bit more difficult to keep an eye on a dozen, maybe two dozen, airfields."
    "Good God!" There was a long pause during which the rattle of cogs and the meshing of gear wheels in Lord Worth's brain couldn't be heard. "Do you really think—"
    "If I were the Seawitch, Lord Worth, it would be six and half-a-dozen to me whether I was clobbered by shells or bombs. And planes could get away from the scene of the crime a damn sight faster than ships. They could get clean away, whereas the U. S. Navy or land-based bombers would have a good chance of intercepting surface vessels. And another thing, Lord Worth—a ship could stop at a distance of a hundred miles. No distance at all for the guided missile: I believe they have a range of four thousand miles these days. When the missile was, say, twenty miles from us, they could switch on its heat-source tracking device. God knows, we're the only heat source for a hundred miles around."
    Another lengthy pause, then: "Any more encouraging thoughts occur to you, Commander Larsen?"
    "Yes, sir. Just one. If I were the enemy—I may call them the enemy—"
    "Call the devils what you want."
    "'If I were the enemy Fd use a submarine. They don't even have to break the surface to loose off a missile. Poof! No Seawitch. No signs
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    Alistalr MacLean
    Seawlteh
    of any attacker. Could well be put down to a massive explosion aboard the Seawitch. Far from impossible, sir."
    "You'll be telling me next that they'll be atomic-headed missiles."
    'To be picked up by a dozen seismological stations? I should think it hardly likely, sir. But that may just be wishful thinking. I, personally, have no wish to be vaporized."
    "I'll see you hi the morning." The speaker went dead.
    Larsen hung up his phone and smiled widely. One might have expected this action to reveal a set of yellowed fangs: instead, it revealed a perfect set of gleamingjy white teeth. He turned to look at Scoffield, his head driller and right-hand man.
    Scoffield was a large, rubicund, smiling man, apparently the easygoing essence of good nature. To the fact that this was not precisely the case, any member of his drilling crews would have eagerly and blasphemously testified. Scoffield was a very tough citizen indeed, and one could assume that it was not innate modesty that made him conceal the fact: much more probably it was a permanent stricture of the facial muscles caused by the four long vertical scars on his cheeks, two on either side. Clearly he, like Larsen, was no great advocate of plastic surgery. He looked at Larsen with understandable "curiosity.
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    "What was all that about?"
    "The day of reckoning is at hand. Prepare to meet thy doom. More specifically, his lordship is beset by enemies." Larsen outlined Lord Worth's plight. "He's sending what sounds like a battalion of hard men out here in the early morning, accompanied by suitable weaponry. Then in the afternoon we are to expect a boat of some sort, loaded with even heavier weaponry."
    "I wonder where he's getting all those hard men and weaponry from.'*
    "One wonders. One does not ask."
    "All this talk—your talk—about bombers and submarines and missiles. Do you believe that?"
    "No. It's just that it's hard to pass up the