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forty, he had come a long way from  his humble beginnings in rural Derbyshire, but  for the past few years had felt that his career was  bogged down. Each full week as acting manager  had given him hope that the appointment would  be made permanent, hope reinforced when clients started inviting him out to lunch. Though  even here fate, as usual, had distributed its gifts with grudging hand and instead of the looked-for filet mignon at the White Rose Grill,  he had just been offered the choice between  chicken-in-the-basket and scampi-in-the-basket  at the Aero Club bar.
    'First time here, Mulgan?' said his host. 'How  d'you like it?'
    Mulgan looked round. A group of young men  were drinking pints and noisily exchanging gliding experiences. Three women were sitting in a  corner beneath a fluorescent notice announcing  that Friday and Saturday were disco nights. On  the blue emulsioned walls a formation of china  Spitfires banked through photographs of smiling  young men in flying kit towards an old school  clock whose face was ringed in RAF colours. The hands, propeller-shaped, stood at twelve- fifteen.
    'It's very nice,' said Mulgan politely.
    'Yes, I thought we'd meet here. It's handy for us  both and I hate them stuck-up places with their  fancy prices. Besides, I'm going up a bit later on,  so I'd have to be here anyway. You ever tried it,  Mulgan?'
    His host was Bernard Middlefield who with  his brother John was co-owner and dictator of  a small electrical assembly plant on the Avro  Industrial Estate. Middlefield Electric was feeling  the pinch of the latest credit squeeze and Mulgan  guessed that these new friendly overtures in his  direction were just so much bread scattered on the waters. He was not offended. Middlefield under his  abrupt, loud-mouthed manner was a sharp enough operator. Chicken-in-the-basket today meant that  he had been spotted as being possibly worth filet mignon tomorrow. That was one thing about  these Yorkshiremen. You knew precisely where  you were with most of them.
    'No, I haven't,' said Mulgan. 'What kind of plane  do you fly?'
    'Plane? Not a plane, Mulgan. Do you never  look up from that desk of yours? It's gliders  we fly here. Though planes have been known  to land, isn't that right, Austin? Alistair Mulgan.  This is Austin Greenall, our CFI, that's Chief  Flying Instructor, secretary, and master of all  trades.'
    'As you see,' said the man who had taken the  place of the middle-aged woman who had been  behind the bar to start with. 'Except cooking. We're short-handed today. Summer flu, would  you believe! Jenny has to keep an eye on the  kitchen too, so if there's anything else you require  from the bar, I'm your man.'
    'No, thanks. These'll do us. I'm flying and Mr  Mulgan's got to keep his head clear else he'll get  his sums wrong at the bank.'
    'I thought I recognized you,' said Greenall. 'The  Club account's there.'
    'Watch him,' said Middlefield to Mulgan. 'He'll  be wanting to screw some money out of you for  another couple of planes if he can.'
    'The Club does own some planes already, then?'  said Mulgan.
    'A plane. We've got a Cub we use for towing  but it's long past its best. And there's a Cherokee  owned by a consortium of local businessmen, Mr  Middlefield included. No, it's the gliding that keeps  us going. Just.'
    'But not if you have your way, eh, Austin? He's  only been here five minutes and he's got ambitions  to turn us into Heathrow.'
    'Hardly. I just think there's a lot that can be done  to improve facilities and attract members.'
    'As long as you keep in mind it's not like Surrey  up here. We know what we like and we like value  for money. How's our grub coming on? Take a  look, there's a good chap.'
    Greenall smiled amiably and left the bar.
     
    In the corner Ellie Pascoe said to Thelma Lacewing, 'Why doesn't your secretary hit him with  a bottle?'
    'Middlefield's on the committee, also a JP,'  said