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skimmers too?’ he said.
    ‘We make them. They’re hand-made, and can be finished exactly as you want them.’
    ‘The problem is I don’t really know what I want. It’s been a long time since I did any wave-riding.’
    ‘Then try a few. We’ve got a lot of samples.’
    ‘Are they here?’
    At that moment, two of the assistants came through the doorway of the shop and walked quickly across to them.
    ‘You!’ shouted one of them, jabbing the girl roughly on her shoulder. ‘Get the hell out of here! We’ve told you before.’
    She stepped back into the sunlight, and Harkman turned to face the man.
    ‘We were just talk ...’
    ‘We know what she wants. Can we help you, sir?’
    Harkman said: ‘No.’
    He turned his back on the two men, and followed the girl. She was smiling.
    ‘Did they hurt you?’ he said.
    ‘I’m used to it. What about our skimmers? Are you interested?’
    ‘I’d like to see some, but I’m late for an appointment. Will you be here tomorrow?’
    ‘I could be. That’s our stall there.’ She pointed to the craft- stall, overlooking the harbour. ‘But we don’t sell skimmers in the town, because we’re not licensed for them. Why don’t you come up to the Castle? You could see everything we have there.’
    ‘You mean Maiden Castle?’ Harkman said, and looked at once across the bay towards the green mound on the promontory.
    ‘Yes.’ She was a pretty girl, about twenty-seven years old, Harkman supposed. He looked at her plain, unflattering smock, her tangled hair, her grimy legs and feet.
    ‘I’ll go to the Castle tomorrow,’ he said. ‘How will I find you?’
    ‘Ask any of the others. I’m Julia.’
    ‘Do you want my name?’
    ‘I’ll remember you,’ she said, staring, down at the boats in the harbour.
    ‘I’m David Harkman,’ he said, but she seemed not to be listening. She walked away from him, not looking back, and Harkman felt she had lost interest.
    Then she said: ‘I’ll wait until you arrive,’ but still she did not look back at him.
    A large yacht had just berthed in the harbour, and a crowd was gathering by her stall.
     

five
     
    The Commissioner in Dorchester was a man named Peter Borovidn. Russian name but English blood, back through three generations. Before leaving London, Harkman had found out what he could about the man, but it wasn’t much. His reading of what he had learned was that Borovitin had risen in the Regional Service more on the strength of his family name than for any individual qualities within the Party. It suited the Soviet to administer the regions with native-born Englishmen, but Harkman had heard that at least a half of the Commissioners presently in service were Slav either in name or ancestry.
    By repute, Borovitin was a good Commissioner, administering the Dorchester area of Wessex fairly and competently, if unimaginatively.
    The interview in Borovitin’s office - a sunny but bare room on the top floor of the Commission building, with a huge photograph of the Supreme President glaring down from the wall - was a brief one. Either Borovitin disliked Harkman, or he was not interested in him, but he seemed anxious to be finished.
    After he had read Harkman’s letter of introduction from the head of the Bureau, Borovitin stared heavily at him for at least a minute.
    At last he said: ‘What kind of research are you intending to do, Mr Harkman?’
    ‘At first I want to do a lot of reading. Newspapers, local-government files, and so on. This will give me an insight into the way the island is run. Later I want to talk to local people. It will involve a certain amount of travelling.’ Borovitin was still staring at him, so Harkman added: ‘Is there likely to be any restriction on my movements, sir?’
    ‘Not if you get my authorization first. Where are you going?’ Harkman knew if his project was to be done at all realistically, he would eventually have to visit every part of Wessex, but he also knew that unless he kept his early