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up. You romantic types give the rest of us a bad name.”
    The speaker was a fat Welshman in his upper fifties who derived obvious satisfaction from being obliged to spend most weekends away from the demands of family and garden. While David was trying to think of something to say they were joined by a woman, much younger than either of them.
    “Leave him alone,” she said tartly. “I think it’s beautiful. We need more like him. Come on, you oldromantic.” She put one hand through David’s elbow and clasped it with the other. “I want to hear all about NOCC.”
    “Thanks, Sylvia,” he murmured, as she shepherded him away.
    “No problem. I rode to the rescue because he’s right; you
are
romantic, and I love it.”
    David flushed.
    “Is everything okay, though? You look a bit upset.”
    “I’m fine. Seems my wife forgot an errand I asked her to run, that’s all.” His voice was tight. “Well, here goes …”
    “Good luck. I envy you, incidentally.”
    “Heavens, why?”
    “No one’s offered me a shot at Vancouver.”
    “Nor me.”
    “Don’t be too sure. Your specialty is exactly what they need. Pull out all the stops today, and who knows—a place on the touring eleven could well be yours. See you.”
    David laughed, but his heart was beating too fast. His third Krysalis weekend, his first paper. He did not relish facing the high-powered types who awaited him in the lecture room, especially since his mind was less on the 1983 Montebello Council and its long-term effects on NATO’s Nuclear Operations Command and Control, than on where Anna might be.
    Sometimes he wondered what he would do if anything happened to her. What would life be like without her? But he could never imagine such an existence for more than a few seconds. She
was
his life.
    As he queued at the electronic door, waiting for the guard to scrutinize his pass, he anxiously ran through the possibilities. A girlfriend. A shopping expedition.An urgent case, necessitating her presence in chambers.
    On a Saturday? But even then, why hadn’t she telephoned the marina, as he’d asked her to? It was so unlike her.
    He remembered her saying quite specifically that she would stay at home all weekend to work.
    Last night, he’d found himself repeating how much he loved her, the kind of declaration that did not come easily to him on the phone, when others might overhear. But Anna had put the receiver down before he could finish, as if there were something more important on her mind, something worrying her. He felt concerned.
    Also—admit it—let down. He could do without this hassle.
    Here he was on probation, attached to Krysalis yet not quite part of it. The Soviet Politburo had “candidate members,” which struck him as a useful phrase. The paper he was about to deliver could change his own status to full voting committeeman. He knew how these things worked. If he performed well, there would be a subtle change in the atmosphere. Suddenly he might belong. And although he had demurred, he felt sure that Sylvia’s words were true; he might even find himself going to Vancouver as an observer of the most crucial superpower summit this decade. But for now he was still only a spectator.
    The guard examined David’s pass, compared it with the face, and handed it back. David entered what had once been a large classroom and made his way to the rostrum. As he placed his notes upon the lectern, he hoped that the audience saw him as he projected himself: a calm, professional, hardworking civil servant,accelerating through the fast lane.
The Krysalis Committee … and he, David Lescombe, was on it!
    Nearly.
    Where could Anna have gone?
    He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen …”
    As the buzz of conversation died away David found himself the cynosure of some very hard eyes. He hesitated a moment, then began.
    “The purpose of this paper is to examine several implications of the Montebello Council’s decision to cut stockpiled warheads,