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supposed to look dashing and romantic—Her Majesty’s officers on far-flung frontiers, or characters from a Hemingway novel—but the Lieutenant was short, frizzy-haired and shaped something like an old-fashioned milkbottle. The overall effect was pretty incongruous.
    “Hello,” she said, backing out of a tank recess and tugging at the skirt of her tunic. “Fielding, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, sss…” Uncertain about sir-ing a female officer, James let his salutation sizzle into silence.
    “Did you want to see the major?”
    “Not particularly. What I mean is, maybe you can tell me what I want to know. I just want to know if our Willowby pass gives us other privileges besides the use of the Commissary and the snack bar. Like the tennis courts, for instance? I mean, would it be all right if I came over now and then to play some tennis?”
    The lieutenant frowned. “Well, I don’t believe that situation has come up before, so I just don’t know what the major would say. I think perhaps you’d better talk to him.”
    James had been afraid of that. The major, it seemed, was in. In a few minutes James was standing at attention in front of the major’s enormous desk. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. In fact, everything in the room seemed to be standing at attention, including all the objects on the major’s desk and the hair on his closely cropped head. His khakis were immaculately pressed and his lean, freshly shaved face had an almost metallic gleam. “Good morning, Fielding,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
    When James had explained what he wanted, the major got up and took some papers from an elaborate filing system and studied them carefully before he answered. “You realize, of course, Fielding, that in making a decision such as this, I must give first consideration to the needs of Camp residents.” He paused and looked at James sternly. James nodded, wondering if that meant “Forget it.”
    “However,” the major went on, “I see by our Facilities Use Records that the courts have not been fully utilized lately, so perhaps some of our tennis regulars would enjoy having a new adversary. Some fresh blood, as it were.”
    James considered saying he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Instead he diplomatically admired the view from the office window and an assortment of rifles in an enormous gun case behind the major’s desk, while the files were being returned carefully to their proper place and a notation made on the back of James’ pass, to the effect that it had been extended to cover use of athletic facilities. It was a very successful stratagem—the major handed back his pass with what came fairly close to being a smile, and then personally escorted James back out through the outer office, pointing out other items for him to admire. Carried away by the success of his diplomacy, James fervently admired a bright green plastic tree, an enormous photograph of The Camp’s main entrance, and each one of the fish individually. They all looked pretty much the same. They were, the major said, belligerent little devils called Siamese fighting fish, which had to be kept in separate tanks to keep them from tearing each other into bloody scraps. By the time James left, he had been called upon to admire nearly everything in the office except Lieutenant Carnaby.
    On his way to the tennis courts he stopped off at the snack shop to retrieve his racket and balls, which he had left with Fiona while he presented his case, not wanting to give the impression of overconfidence. He chatted for a while with Fiona, who was being bitter about the beautiful weather. It couldn’t be like this on her day off, could it? Oh no . Let her take the day off and the thermometer automatically dropped twenty degrees. But just let her be stuck behind this counter and look at it. Paradise.
    James sympathized and, rather guiltily, headed for the tennis courts, detouring once more at the pavilion’s public