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there?”
    “I didn’t see him.”
    She turned to Ross, faintly hostile. “Do you play any instrument, Mr. Ross?”
    He had once played drums, cymbals, and triangle in the jazz band of his Wing in Iraq, but he did not dare to say so. Instead he felt awkward and said: “I’m afraid I don’t.”
    She smiled, a little frigidly. “We’re both very keen on music. My father finds it a great relaxation.”
    The pilot took the glass handed to him and held it tight. There at least was something that he understood. “I’m sure it must be.”
    Lockwood said. “Mr. Ross is a flying man, my dear. We’ve had a very interesting talk this afternoon.”
    She said coldly: “I hope you aren’t going to fly over Oxford, Mr. Ross. There was a wretched aeroplane thisevening—right in the middle of the second movement. We were all furious.”
    She hated aeroplanes and motor bicycles. She could remember a time, when she had been a little girl after the war, when you hardly ever heard an aeroplane, and motor bicycles were few and far between. Then you could really listen to music, lose yourself in it, become submerged in it entirely. Now, that was hardly possible. You were roused from the dream sharply, irritatingly, by the infernal clamour of an engine in the air or on the road. In summer-time, by day or night, it was now impossible to listen to music without interruption from the skies. Only in winter, in the windy rainy nights, when even the big bombers stayed on the ground, was it possible to lose yourself in music, as it had been when she was a child.
    Ross said: “It must be a frightful nuisance in a place like this.”
    Lockwood asked: “Isn’t it possible to silence aeroplanes like motor-cars?”
    The pilot shook his head. “It’s the prop that makes the noise—the thin sections buzzing round. It’s like a siren. It’s not easy to see how you can deal with that. Nobody would like to see them silenced more than the pilots.”
    The girl said irritably: “If they can’t keep them quiet, they might at least keep them away from civilised places.”
    She got to her feet and picked up her violin case. “I think I’m going up,” she said. “It’s been a bit tiring.” She went over and kissed her father; then she turned to Ross. “Breakfast at nine, Mr. Ross. Daddy will show you your bathroom.”
    She turned away. “Good night. Don’t sit up too late, Daddy.”
    Lockwood said: “Good night, my dear.”
    She closed the door behind her. A feeling of constraint was lifted from the men; to Ross her departure was a conscious relief. “Keeping the aeroplane away from civilised places comes rather appropriately,” he said, smiling. “There’s not much civilisation where you think of going.”
    The other shook his head. “I imagine not.”
    The pilot considered for a moment. “That’s another aspect of it,” he said. “I don’t suppose we should find any buildings out at this place Brat—Brat——”
    “Brattalid.”
    “Brattalid. We should have to make a camp and live in tents. I’d hope to be able to get natives—Eskimos to come and do the work for us, but it may be that we should have to depend upon ourselves. Are you prepared for that?”
    “Oh, I think so. I did a good deal of field work when I was younger, in Arabia, and in Crete.”
    They went upstairs to bed. Ross lay in bed between the lavender-scented sheets for a long time before putting out his reading light, staring over to the far side of the room. There would be a most terrific lot of work in this thing, if it ever came off. The few words that they had exchanged about the camp had opened up a whole new vista. Apart from all the work of flying and maintaining the seaplane he would have to see to all the camping gear, the clothing of his passenger, the food supplies. Most of this stuff would have to come with them in the machine, unless he could arrange to get it shipped to Julianehaab or Ivigtut in time for their arrival. Then there were the