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twisty tree-shadowed road from the promontory where the lab buildings stood and out into the blazing flats below. The shortest way home lay along the handsome new beach road, past the absurd hotels, but at noon there always seemed to be a steady wind from the south, just strong enough to whip bitter little sprays of white sand into his face as he pedalled; so over the weeks he’d explored and perfected his own route through the sordid maze of Back Town. Now he branched off the main road, crossed the screening dunes and dipped in among the tangle of shanties.
    Poverty without picturesqueness, colourful with the hues of rust and tar and scum, rich-smelling with much-used cooking oil and rotting fruit and open drains. Foxe had seen tourists being politely turned away from this end of Back Town by two of the Island police, and pointed in the direction of the gaudier and more presentable sections near the harbour, but till to-day nobody had tried to stop him. He was about half way home, already savouring the beer and fish-salad which he’d left in his refrigerator, when it happened. The alley he was in twisted round the back of one of the few large buildings among the shanties—a sort of dance-hall tavern—and reached a larger road. At this point Foxe’s path was blocked by a crowd, mostly with their backs to him.
    â€œScuse me,” he said, “scuse me,” and began to nose his way through with his front wheel. A few of them looked at him, but mostly they gave way without interrupting their chatter. He reached the front of the crowd and saw that the road itself was empty but a similar mass of people lined the far side, all evidently waiting for someone to pass. As he eased his bike into the space a policeman—khaki shirt and trousers, black cap, white whistle-cord round neck, gun at hip—stalked in front of him and held up a hand.
    â€œCan’t cross here, mister. Prime Minister coming.”
    â€œOh. How soon?”
    The policeman’s black brow furrowed as he peered up the road.
    â€œCan’t hear no cheering. Bit of time, yet.”
    â€œIn that case …”
    The policeman stared at Foxe, both startled and angry.
    â€œPrime Minister coming, I tell you, man,” he said.
    â€œGot the Ol’ Woman with him,” said someone in the crowd.
    An area of chatter stilled into quiet sighs. Foxe hesitated.
    â€œBetter go back, man,” said someone. “You don’ want to cross where the Ol’ Woman coming.”
    â€œOK,” said Foxe. “Thanks.”
    They made way to let him back his bike into the alley and then paid no more attention to him. He noticed another policeman close-by, a smaller, scruffier figure than the one in the main road. This man was standing by the foot of a ladder which leaned against the tavern wall. Foxe approached him.
    â€œHow long will he be?” he asked.
    â€œGet it done by time the Prime Minister come long,” said the policeman.
    Foxe blinked and looked up. A man on the ladder was frantically white-washing a section of wall, trying to obliterate a large symbol which Foxe had noticed in several places in Back Town, a circle with a vertical bar projecting at the top. Hitherto it had meant nothing to him, but now he suddenly caught the policeman’s warning gaze and guessed that this was something which the Prime Minister would prefer not to see—the symbol of some underground opposition movement, perhaps. Indeed, it looked vaguely like the old cartoonist’s convention for an anarchist’s bomb, so it might be just that. More important at the moment, the painter was going to take at least another twenty minutes to obliterate it, and that meant that Foxe wasn’t going to be able to get back to his flat for lunch.
    â€œThanks,” he said, then turned and cycled back along the alley, only now noticing how much quieter and less populous the shanties were than normal. What now? The Prime