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the American voters in the eye.’
    Their voices were rising once again.
    â€˜Statesmen practise the art of the possible, Randolph.’
    â€˜Roosevelt has the moral compass of a piece of driftwood!’
    â€˜Such things take time.’
    â€˜And precisely how much time do you think we have, Papa?’
    â€˜That may well depend upon what you and your brother officers achieve in the Middle East.’
    â€˜Then I’d better get out there,’ Randolph snapped, turning away, carried along relentlessly by his addiction to argument.
    â€˜My boy!’ Winston called, despairing. ‘Not—like this. Not to war.’ Tears began to puddle in his eyes. ‘You know I love you.’
    The words stopped Randolph in mid-stride. Slowly he turned back, and his father rushed to embrace him.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Papa,’ Randolph sighed. ‘I fear I’m not good company at the moment. Been trying to sort out my affairs before I go, but…You know these things. So silly when you set them against war and what’s happening.’
    â€˜You have troubles?’
    He shrugged. ‘A few bills I’d completely forgotten about.’
    Ah, that again. ‘How much?’ the old man asked jadedly.
    â€˜Just a couple of hundred.’ He was unable to return his father’s steady gaze. ‘Not going to happen again, I promise you—promised Pam—I’ve given up gambling. Washed my hands of it. Mug’s game. No bloody good at it, anyway.’ He tried to make light of it—just as he had done last time.
    â€˜I shall write you another cheque.’
    â€˜That…would be splendid, Papa. For Pam. Mean a lot to her. And allow me to go off with a clear conscience.’
    â€˜I shall hold you to your promise.’
    But Randolph was already brighter, his confidence returning. ‘And I shall hold you to yours. Drag America into this war, and I swear—on my life as a soldier, Papa—I’ll never gamble another brass farthing.’
    Churchill’s blue eyes were fixed on his son, trying to tie him to the spot, not wanting him to leave, knowing this moment might be their last. ‘May Godgive me enough time,’ he said softly. ‘Little by little, step by step, they will be drawn to the fight. They must. Otherwise all this suffering, all the sacrifice, the lives that have been given up…’—he faltered slightly—‘and those that are yet to be given up will have been in vain.’
    â€˜I must go, Papa. I have a job to do.’
    â€˜And so have I.’
    â€˜We have an understanding?’
    â€˜I give you my word.’
    Once more Randolph threw himself into his father’s arms, then he was gone, with his father’s tears fresh upon his cheeks.
    Churchill watched him go. For a long time he stood on the spot, reaching out after his son’s shadow, clinging to the echo of his words, wondering if they would ever see each other again. Then he whispered.
    â€˜Not today, Randolph, not tomorrow perhaps, but they will come. Before it is too late. I promise you.’
    The rocket was one of Churchill’s ‘little toys’. He was fond of his toys. He had set up a specialist group of boffins and pyromaniacs to produce them—‘any new weapon, tool or war-thing that might assist us in the task of smashing the enemy to smithereens,’ as he had put it. The official designation of the group was MD1, but to most it was known simply as the ‘Singed Eyebrow Squad’.
    This morning they were testing a small rocket, no more than three feet in height. What the precise purpose of the weapon was to be, no one was entirely sure; the purpose would come later, after the principle had been proven. Churchill had gathered an unusually large group for the weekend; not only family and personal aides, but two Americans and an assortment of braid from all three services, with a couple of Ministers thrown in for