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Only by fighting them every step of the way will we preserve our standard of living.”
    â€œOnly by fighting them every step of the way will we smash this unjust system,” interjected their guest.
    â€œQuite,” asserted the chairman. “Now I think we should call a vote. The motion is that we stop work on Monday” – Monday being a popular day as it extended the weekend – “until management reinstates minimum overtime. Those for?”
    Peter Farris cast his eye around the room and noted the sea of raised hands.
    â€œNow those against?”
    He could see none. Whatever the merits of a motion, his members were still holding firm. But he wondered how long this would last. The practical concerns of the young machinist seemed more real than the theoretical exposition advanced by the delegate from Cowley.
    â€œMotion carried!” he thundered. “This meeting is now closed.”
    * * *
    Men tumbled into the night. A few stayed behind to drink, in no hurry to re-enter desolate homes from which wives had long since left or had never arrived. Harry Blodget was one and attempted to collar Jack Pugh. But Jack, known behind his back as the Cowley Trot, was too wily an operator to get sucked into a late-night discussion that went nowhere and achieved nothing. He had a world to destroy and a world to build. Besides, there was a young undergraduate, Miranda, at Brasenose College, who found Marxist-Leninist theory profoundly erotic, waiting for him. He understood the need for flattery nonetheless.
    Before excusing himself – ‘Meetings to go to; the word to spread.’ – he assured Harry that he was one of the best, a praetorian of the revolution.
    â€œA great man, that,” the Longbridge fitter repeated intermittently as he got stuck in for what he hoped would be a journey into oblivion that shut out his empty life.
    Stanley was pleased to be going home. It was too cold a night for carousing. He hadn’t noticed his son John slipping out of the institute ahead of him; there had been such a crowd. Mabel would be waiting to brew up a hot mug of cocoa for them both. They would talk awhile before retiring. The heartfelt plea from the young machinist was sticking to him though. Perhaps the world he knew was coming to an end. Things were a right jumble, for sure. All the talk about breaking everything down so it could be built up again, well that might have come out of the Communist Party textbook, but it seemed a crippling waste. Why not just change things for the better? He shook his head, which hurt from the cold or the thinking, he wasn’t sure which. He’d leave the question to cleverer men.
    Harvey also slipped out of the institute, surprised at how easily he’d gained entry. Back home he typed up his first report and faxed it into the office.

C HAPTER

    T HE NEXT MORNING he woke late and found a copy of The Sentinel on the kitchen table. The headline blazoned across its front page was Red Robbo to Smash Society! Underneath, his article had survived more or less intact save for some subtle changes and a harder edge. The delegate from Cowley hardly got a mention, which he was sure would infuriate the young man immensely. George Gilder had been working late.
    Sylvia came in with his cup of coffee, beaming. He had told her where he was going the day before and she had recognized his handiwork straight off, although she was inclined to think that every good page in The Sentinel had been written by her son.
    â€œThat’s more like it, Harve,” she said, tapping the headline with her finger. “People don’t like to be smashed up.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her the headline wasn’t his.
    * * *
    On Sunday, it snowed off and on all day, but by teatime had more or less stopped. Harvey sat huddled on a bench in Aske Gardens, infront of their home, a plastic bag placed beneath himself and Sylvia to protect them from the fallen snow