Peters laughed. "The most imaginative brain in the City turns out to have no imagination."

"I don't follow that."

"You don't read novels or go to the cinema, either, do you?"

"No."

"You see? You've got a blind spot-you can't empathize with fiction. It's true of many of the most enterprising businessmen. The incapacity seems to go with heightened acumen, like a blind man's hypersensitive hearing."

Laski frowned. Being analyzed put him at a disadvantage. "Maybe," he said.

Peters seemed to sense his discomfort. "I'm fascinated by the careers of great entrepreneurs," he said.

"So am I," Laski said. "I'm all in favor of pinching other people's brain waves."

"What was your first coup, Felix?"

Laski relaxed. This was more familiar territory. "I suppose it was Woolwich Chemicals," he said. "That was a small pharmaceuticals manufacturer. After the war they set up a small chain of High Street chemists' shops, with the object of guaranteeing their markets. The trouble was, they knew all about chemistry and nothing about retailing, and the shops ate up most of the profits made by the factory.

"I was working for a stockbroker at the time, and I'd made a little money playing the market. I went to my boss and offered him a half-share in the profits if he would finance the deal. We bought the company, and immediately sold the factory to ICI for almost as much as we paid for the shares. Then we closed the shops and sold them one by one-they were all in prime sites."

"I'll never understand this sort of thing," Peters said. "If the factory and the shops were worth so much, why were the shares cheap?"

"Because the enterprise was losing money. They hadn't paid a dividend for years. The management didn't have the guts to cash in their chips, so to speak. We did. Everything in business is courage." He started to eat his sandwich.

"It's fascinating," Peters said. He looked at his watch. "I must go."

"Big day?" Laski said lightly.

"Today's one of the days-and that always means headaches."

"Did you solve that problem?"

"Which?"

"Routes." Laski lowered his voice a fraction. "Your security people wanted you to send the convoy a different way each time."

"No." Peters was embarrassed: it had been indiscreet of him to tell Laski about that dilemma. "There is really only one sensible way to get there. However…" He stood up.

Laski smiled and kept his voice casual. "So today's big shipment goes by the old direct route."

Peters put a finger to his lips. "Security," he said.

"Sure."

Peters picked up his raincoat. "Good-bye."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Laski said, smiling broadly.

Arthur Cole climbed the steps from the station, his breath rattling unhealthily in his chest. A gust of warm air came up from the bowels of the Underground, wrapped itself snugly around him, and blew away. He shivered slightly as he emerged into the street.

The sunshine took him by surprise-it had hardly been dawn when he boarded the train. The air was chilled and sweet. Later it would become poisonous enough to knock out a policeman on point duty. Cole remembered the first time that had happened: the story had been an Evening Post exclusive.

He walked slowly until his breathing eased. Twenty-five years in newspapers have ruined my health, he thought. In truth, any industry would have done the same, for he was prone to worry and to drink, and his chest was weak; but it comforted him to blame his profession.

Anyway, he had given up smoking. He had been a nonsmoker for-he looked at his watch-one hundred and twenty-eight minutes, unless he counted the night, in which case it was eight hours. He had already passed several moments of risk: immediately after the alarm clock went off at four thirty (he usually smoked one on the WC); driving away from his house, at the moment when he got into top gear and turned on the radio ready for the five o'clock news; accelerating down the first fast stretch of the A12 as his large Ford hit its stride; and waiting on a cold, open-air Tube station in East London for the earliest train of the day.

The BBC's five o'clock bulletin had not cheered him. It had had all his attention as he drove, for the route was so familiar that he negotiated the bends and roundabouts automatically, from memory. The lead story came from Westminster: the latest industrial relations bill had been passed by Parliament, but the majority had been narrow. Cole had caught the story the previous night on television. That meant the morning papers would certainly have it, which in turn meant that the Post could do nothing with it unless there were developments later in the day.

There was a story about the Retail Price Index. The source would be official government statistics, which would have been embargoed until midnight: again, the mornings would have it.

It was no surprise to learn that the car workers' strike was still on-it would hardly have been settled overnight.

Test cricket in Australia solved the sports editor's problem, but the score was not sufficiently sensational for the front page.

Cole began to worry.

He entered the Evening Post building and took the elevator. The newsroom occupied the entire first floor. It was a huge, I-shaped open-plan office. Cole entered at the foot of the I. To his left were the typewriters and telephones of the copytakers, who would type out stories dictated over the phone; to the right, the filing cabinets and bookshelves of specialist writers-political, industrial, crime, defense, and more. Cole walked up the stem of the I, through rows of desks belonging to ordinary common or garden reporters, to the long news desk which divided the room in two. Behind it was the U-shaped subeditors' table, and beyond that, in the crosspiece of the I, was the sports department-a semi-independent kingdom, with its own editor, reporters, and subs. Cole occasionally showed curious relatives around the place: he always told them: "It's supposed to work like a production line. Usually it's more like a bun fight." It was an exaggeration, but it always got a laugh.

The room was brightly lit, and empty. As deputy news editor, Cole had a section of the news desk to himself. He opened a drawer and took out a coin, then walked to the vending machine in Sport and punched buttons for instant tea with milk and sugar. A teleprinter chattered to life, breaking the silence.

As Cole walked back to his desk with his paper cup, the far door bumped open. A short, gray-haired figure came in, wearing a bulky parka and cycle clips. Cole waved and called: "Morning, George."

"Hello, Arthur. Cold enough for you?" George began to take off his coat. The body inside it was small and thin. Despite his age, George held the title Head Lad: he was chief of the office's team of messengers. He lived in Potters Bar and cycled to work. Arthur thought that an astonishing feat.

Arthur put down his tea, shrugged out of his raincoat, turned on the radio, and sat down. The radio began to murmur. He sipped tea and gazed straight ahead. The newsroom was scruffy-chairs were scattered randomly, newspapers and sheets of copy paper littered the desks, and redecoration had been postponed in last year's economy drive-but the scene was too familiar to register. Cole's mind was on the first edition, which would be on the streets in three hours.

Today's paper would have sixteen pages. Fourteen of the first edition's pages already existed as semicylindrical metal plates on the press downstairs. They contained advertising, features, television programs, and news written in such a way that its age would-it was hoped-be overlooked by the reader. That left the back page for the sports editor and the front page for Arthur Cole.