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spread so fast that the MO stopped sending its victims to the sick bay and instead isolated entire barrack blocks. By then nearly half the ground crew had a fever, swollen lymph glands and a rash that itched like nettle-sting.
    Group Captain Rafferty took a dim view of such failings until he began sweating and scratching. He telephoned the Wingco. “I’ve got the fascist pox, don’t come near me, you’re in command,” he said. “Keep the flying personnel healthy, that’s crucial. Use your initiative, I’ll back your decisions, it’s bed for me.”
    Hunt telephoned Group HQ and got approval for his plan. He gave “A” Flight three days’ leave. With luck they would escape infection; then “B” Flight—if they were healthy—could disappear for three days. Having only half the squadron available was better than losing everyone to German measles; and in six days the worst might be over.
    â€œLondon,” Tony Langham said to Silk.
    â€œCan’t. Broke.”
    â€œUse your overdraft.”
    â€œSpent it. Lost it. Blew it on a pair of kings.” When Langham rolled his eyes, Silk said, “I was bluffing. I nearly won the pot, it was a hell of a good bluff, everyone said so. They gave me a standing ovation. What have you got?”
    â€œCouple of quid. Not enough for return tickets to London.”
    â€œTrain’s too slow, anyway. Why don’t we drive? Borrow Black Mac’s Bentley, scrounge some petrol, hit the road.”
    Black Mac was Flight Lieutenant McHarg, the Armaments Officer, a big man with a dark complexion who had boxed for the RAF at heavyweight. He rarely smiled. “Mac’s a miserable sod. He’ll never lend us his car,” Langham said. “It’s always locked up.”
    â€œI know where he hides his spare key. He’s not going anywhere, he’s got the measles. He resembles a large helping of spotted dick.”
    â€œWhat about petrol? That Bentley must drink the stuff.”
    â€œI have friends in the MT Section. Sergeant Trimbull will fill her up if I promise him a flip in a Hampden.”
    â€œThat’s scandalous,” Langham said. “Has the man no morals?”
    The Bentley was open-top, so they wore their fleece-lined flying jackets. McHarg kept his car in excellent condition. The engine had a deep and throaty roar, the gear changes were slick and sure, the big, wide wheels had a love affair with the road. They raced across the flatlands of Lincoln, picked up the Great North Road, stormed down through the shires of Huntingdon and Bedford and Hertford, and were in London too soon. “Damn. The pubs aren’t open,” Silk said.
    Langham was driving. He crossed Marble Arch, cruised down Park Lane, turned into Piccadilly. “I’m hungry,” he said. “You’re navigating, Silko. Where can we get food and drink at half-past three?”
    â€œWell, there’s the Ritz hotel on the starboard beam.”
    It was a joke. Langham’s couple of quid wouldn’t buy tea and crumpets at the Ritz. He made a U-turn and stopped outside its entrance. A doorman in top hat and tails stepped forward.
    â€œUnbelievably silly mistake,” Langham said to him. “I was sure my friend here had the invitations, and he thought I had. My cousin’s wedding reception.” He gestured helplessly with his wallet, the one without the invitations. “Have you got a large wedding reception in progress? We’re frightfully late, but…”
    â€œWould it be on the occasion of the Honorable Richard and Patricia Byng-Shadwell’s marriage, sir?”
    Langham slapped the steering wheel. “Told you it was the Ritz,” he said to Silk. They got out and he gave the doorman the Bentley’s keys and a pound note. “Put her somewhere safe, would you? Thanks awfully. Chocks away, Silko! Cousin Richard awaits.”
    They went inside. “You