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eyebrows. ‘Don’t you trust her?’
    ‘Do you honestly want to know what I think? No offence, Manalone, but I think she’d gladly exchange you for your life insurance any day of the week.’
    ‘Mm! She doesn’t think much of you, either. She thinks you’re a chancer.’
    Raper grinned roguishly. ‘She could be right at that. But there’s something you ought to consider – it takes a chancer to know a chancer. Come on, let’s get out of here!’

7
Manalone and the Re-drawn History
    The area knownas Old Bognor, contrasting with the sleek, vitreous skyscrapers of the new town, was still composed of old, large, individual buildings and blocks which appeared to have been built at a time when money and space was no object. In the cellar of one of these massive old residences was located Cain’s Club, a mysterious, split-level, dark and fascinating cave where the music was so loud that it was possible to damage one’s hearing in pursuit of an evening’s entertainment. This was Manalone’s habitual refuge from the world. Wedged against the bar in a re-entrant corner which effectively isolated him from the worst excesses of the sound transducers, and illuminated only by the reflected and diffused fallout from the psychedelic light displays, he could here entertain his inner domain of rationalization and philosophy, and wash the grains of fact free from the muddy media of suggestion with several of Cain’s excellent liquors.
    It was here that he brought Paul Raper. Fortunately it was yet early evening, the dancing in the dark rear caverns was restrained and thoughtful, and the music and the lights were both keyed to infinite shades of blue. When both he and Raper were wedged into the re-entrant corner and the glasses filled, Manalone turned seriously to the reporter.
    ‘We can talk quite safely here, Paul. There’s not a spy device made which could penetrate here from the outside, and Cain’s too fly to let any bugs get in. With some of his clientele, he can’t afford to take chances. There’s more to his electronic gadgets than the mere playing of music. Even a tape won’t record down here.’
    Raper nodded. ‘It’s difficult to know where to start, Manalone, but working round the courts I happened to get to see a copy of the Security Acts – that’s the legal manual which is produced in closed Security courts, never at open proceedings.’
    ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Manalone.
    ‘Not manypeople have – but it’s quite a revelation. Forget what you know of legal rights. If ever they get you in a Security court you’ve no rights whatever. None of the normal legal statutes apply. Security is a law unto itself.’
    ‘Security against what?’ asked Manalone. ‘There isn’t a war on.’
    ‘No, and that brings us to our first peculiarity. Without war or even signs of serious political unrest, one trial in every seven takes place in the closed confines of a Security court.’
    ‘Are you serious?’ Manalone was appalled.
    ‘Deadly serious. But the real puzzle comes when you start to consider the contents of the Security Acts and what they might be designed to guard against. Did you know, for instance, that archaeological excavations are now illegal?’
    ‘I find it hard to believe.’ The scientist looked at him dubiously. ‘I knew the universities had ceased giving grants for archaeological research on the grounds that it’s a nonproductive discipline – whatever that might mean – but I fail to see that it could either be illegal or a security risk. That only begins to make sense if there’s something odd about the past which the powers-that-be don’t want dug up. Or if there’s something odd about the present which would only be apparent if one could compare it with the past. You don’t suppress archaeology unless you’ve a need to re-draw history.’
    ‘Your turn of phrase, but my sentiments.’ Raper drained his glass. ‘But lest you feel inclined to go off tilting at