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spoke mildly. ‘He’s a brilliant guy and my chief. You can say what you like about Godley’s but old Paggen is a miracle worker.’
    â€˜You only say that because he’s an electronics wizard and can construct. You’re a physicist
and
a physician and fifty times as brilliant so that he has to rely on you even to communicate with his leader, but you’re not an inventor.’
    â€˜Oh shut up!’ His lips found her mouth and suddenly they each felt afresh all the warmth and tenderness of their affection for each other.
    â€˜We’re all right,’ he said making a question of it. ‘Aren’t we?’
    â€˜Of course we are. Listen. Is that the car?’
    The tapping on the outside door was peculiar; a series of short jabs on the wood.
    â€˜That
is
Paggen.’ Martin went over, unlocked the door and let in a blast of cold air followed by the visitor.
    Paggen Mayo came in slowly, holding an umbrella like a sword, on the point of which was a ball of red, yellow and blue feathers.
    â€˜This is no way to treat a child’s beloved toy,’ he said with affected gravity. ‘The infant Samuel would be rightly outraged. I’ve just removed it from your ventilator. I saw the gleam of feathers as I came by. Are the draughts really as bad as that?’
    He was in early middle age but his wild hair was already grey and his thin red face deeply scored. He wore the oiled jersey and slacks which he had made the accepted dress of his department, but dignified his appearance with a pair of heavy chrome spectacles of original and rather eccentric design and certainly highly expensive workmanship. Anyone who gave the subject thought came to the conclusion that the aim was ‘university don’, but the strong element of neat-handed practical man belied that effect and the umbrella which he always carried looked like the affectation it was. At the moment he was in his ‘social’ mood, an exaggerated pseudo-eighteenth century performance which he kept for ‘wives and VIPs’.
    Martin took the toy from the spike and handed it to Helena. ‘This is perfectly insane,’ he said. ‘We’ve been looking for this all over, haven’t we, Helena?’
    She nodded and turned the tousled bundle about tenderly. It had never been an elegant fowl but she had made it for Sam when he was little and first enchanted by the classic tale. Its success with him had been enormous and through the years it had become one of those treasures which remain secretly important long after all other baby toys are outgrown.
    â€˜I’m so glad it’s come back,’ she said.
    â€˜Well, there it was, sprouting out of the pantry ventilator. I came round that side because I walked along the sea wall. You haven’t been by there this morning, Martin?’
    â€˜I haven’t been round there for days. Was there anything else around? A very battered old brown bag, for instance?’ He was about to step out to see for himself when Mayo barred his way with the umbrella.
    â€˜Later, young sir, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I have grave matters to impart, especially to you Ma’am . . . you look very beautiful this morning.’
    Martin was frowning. ‘You see what it means, though,’ he said, pointing to the bird. ‘Someone must have gotten a key of this place.’
    â€˜Oh come.’ Mayo had very bright blue eyes. ‘That’s no diagnosis, Doctor. What is the margin of human error?’ It was one of his typical asininities. A piece of jargon in unconvincing imitation of people who, because of the odd nature of their joint enterprise, happened to be working with him. He was like a bad mimic who yet insists on attempting impressions of people to their faces. Helena looked embarrassed and Martin laughed with indulgent exasperation.
    â€˜What can we do for you, Paggen?’
    Mayo pulled a chair towards him and sat