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horse, or glowered with general hate at the world around him, might find a coldly appraising psychoanalyst studying him with growing interest. Now it was time for seatbelts and nervous silence. The plane lifted off, gained altitude, stayed there. Everyone could unfasten and relax. “Cuba next stop?” David asked.
    “As long as we don’t have a prolonged visit—” McCulloch shrugged his shoulders to end the sentence. The airline hostess, waiting for their orders, wasn’t amused. Funny way some people had of breaking the ice, she thought, but she smiled her warm, enveloping smile and talked of dinner in half an hour. “Or a little later,” McCulloch guessed. “Anyway, time for a double Martini.”
    “Scotch on the rocks, water added,” David told her. “Make that two, please.” It would save any gap in service: the girl would have enough to do with the batch of women on the aisle opposite, not to mention the child behind him.
    She left, neat and demure in her crisp suit, pretty face still carrying the beautiful smile. No trouble with these two, she thought. (There would be plenty with the small boy and his mother one seat back; or with the group of women, elderly and still nervous, who were making their first flight over the Atlantic to see bulb farms in Holland, lace shops in Brussels, and chateaux on the Loire.) What were they, anyway? The older one looked like a professional man—he had kept his thin briefcase beside him, saying he had some work to finish. Lawyers were always doing that, never seemed to get rid of their offices. The other had magazines with him—no bright front covers, all serious-looking—and a couple of paperbacks. A reader, obviously. Someone in teaching, or in publishing, or a young executive? They were all mixed up nowadays: you couldn’t tell much from their clothes any more. Not stage or movies—his hair wasn’t wild enough, and he wore a tie. Not a talent scout, either: he hadn’t that wandering, how-do-you-look-stripped gaze. Light brown hair, dark eyes—a neat combination with a healthy tan. Very attractive. Molto simpatico . The only thing she hadn’t liked about him was his sense of humour. Cuba, indeed... When she brought back a tray of various orders, she noticed that they were introducing themselves but hadn’t reached the stage of talking freely. Must be the reserved type, both of them. Well, that never caused any bother. No complaints from her on that score. She bustled away, happily. Plenty to do elsewhere.
    David studied his double Scotch in a single glass, soda added, and shook his head. No one really listened, it seemed. He hoped that this would also hold for his fellow passengers—he was still worrying about the risk of any talk with McCulloch being overheard. He assessed the immediate field.
    Across the aisle, the women had rediscovered their voices. In pairs, they were discussing future plans over their champagne cocktails, and dropping heady names with abandon—Chaumont, Chambord, Chemonceaux, Cheverny. And to hell with exact pronunciation, thought David, enthusiasm was the thing. But where were the husbands? In flight from culture? Gone fishing? Anyway, he could relax about the Ladies’ Self-Improvement Society: it was too absorbed in its own projects to overhear McCulloch’s.
    Behind David, the small boy was raising his own barrage. He blotted out any voices within a six-foot radius with his constant argument. His mother sounded young and harassed, when she could be heard, and then only by raising her voice. She’d pay no attention to anything except the battle on hand.
    And in front of him there was the only risk to privacy. It came in the nicest possible form, too. A girl travelling alone, sitting by herself, who had boarded the plane just ahead of him. Dark hair, smooth and shining, carefully shaped. That was all he had seen, except for the way she carried her head. A slender, erect figure dressed in a smartly cut pants suit that may have hidden her