He stretched, shuddered, yawned. There were seventy-five minutes before the first meeting and soon he would get up to shave and shower, but not yet, not while he was holding on to the day’s only tranquil moment. His nakedness against the sheet, the wanton tangle of bedclothes by his ankle, and the sight of his own genitalia, at his age not yet fully obscured by the swell and spread of his gut, sent vague sexual thoughts floating across his mind like remote summer clouds. But Mandy would be just leaving for work, and his latest friend, Dana, who worked at the House of Commons, was abroad until Tuesday. He rolled onto his side and wondered whether he had it in him to masturbate, whether it might serve him well to have his mind cleared for the business ahead. He made a few absent-minded strokes, then gave up. These days he seemed to lack the dedication and clarity or emptiness of mind, and the action itself seemed quaintly outmoded and improbable, like lighting a fire by rubbing two sticks. Besides, in Vernon’s life lately there was so much to think about, so much of the real world that thrilled, that mere fantasy could hardly compete. What he had said, what he would say, how it went down, the next move, the unraveling consequences of success … In the accumulating momentum of the week, practically every hour had revealed to Vernon new aspects of his powers and potential, and as his gifts for persuasion and planning began to produce results, he felt large and benign, a little ruthless, perhaps, but ultimately good, capable of standing alone against the current, seeing over the heads of his contemporaries, knowing that he was about to shape the destiny of his country and that he could bear the responsibility. More than bear—he needed this weight, his gifts needed the weight that no one else could shoulder. Who else could have moved so decisively when George, concealing his identity behind an agent, went on the open market with the pictures? Eight other newspapers put in bids, and Vernon had to quadruple the original price to secure the deal. It seemed strange to him now that not so long ago he had been afflicted by a numbness of the scalp and a sense of not existing that had provoked in him fears of madness and death. Molly’s funeral had given him the jitters. Now his purpose and being filled him to his fingertips. The story was alive, and so was he.

But one small matter denied him complete happiness: Clive. He had addressed him in his mind so often, sharpening the arguments, adding all the things he should have said that night, that he could almost convince himself that he was winning his old friend round, just as he was triumphing over the dinosaurs on the board of directors. But they hadn’t spoken since their row, and Vernon was worrying more as publication day approached. Was Clive brooding, or furious, or was he locked in his studio, lost in work and oblivious to public affairs? Several times during the week Vernon had thought of snatching a minute alone to phone him. But he worried that a fresh attack from Clive would unsteady him in the meetings ahead. Now Vernon eyed the bedside phone beyond the heaped and buckled pillows, and then he made a lunge. Best not to let forethought make a coward of him again. He had to save this friendship. Best to do it while he was calm. He already had a ring tone when he noticed it was only eight-fifteen. Way too early. Sure enough, something in the fumble and clatter of dive’s pick-up suggested the near-paraplegia of shattered sleep.

“Clive? It’s Vernon.”

“What?”

“Vernon. I woke you. Fm sorry.”

“No, no. Not at all. I was just standing here, just thinking…”

There was a rustle of sheets in the receiver while Clive rearranged himself in his bed. Why did we so often lie about sleep on the phone? Was it our vulnerability we defended? When he came on again, his voice wasn’t quite so thick.

“I’ve been meaning to phone you, but I’ve got rehearsals in Amsterdam next week. I’ve been working so hard.”

“Me too,” Vernon said. “I haven’t had a spare minute this week. Look, I wanted to talk to you again about those photographs.”

There was a pause. “Oh yes. Those. I suppose you’re going ahead.”

“I’ve canvassed a lot of opinion and the consensus is that we should publish. Tomorrow.”

Clive cleared his throat softly. He really did sound remarkably relaxed about it, “Well, I’ve said my say. We’ll just have to agree to differ.”

Vernon said, “I wouldn’t want it to come between us.

“Of course not.”

The conversation moved on to other things. Naturally, Vernon gave a rather general account of his week. Clive told him how he’d been working through the nights, and how he was making great progress with the symphony, and what a good idea it had been to go walking in the Lake District.

“Oh yes,” Vernon said. “How was that?”

“I walked over this place called Alien Crags. That’s where I had the breakthrough, pure inspiration, this melody, you see…”

It was at this point that Vernon became aware of the call-waiting bleep. Twice, three times, then it stopped. Someone from his office. Probably Frank Dib-ben. The day, the last and most important day, was getting into gear. He sat naked on the edge of the bed and snatched up his watch to check it against the alarm clock. Clive wasn’t angry with him, so that was fine, and now he needed to get going.

”…they couldn’t see me from where I was and it was looking nasty, but I had to make a decision …”

“Mmm,” Vernon repeated every half-minute or so. He was right out at the end of the stretched telephone cord, standing on one foot, reaching with the other for clean underwear from a pile. The shower was out. So was the wet shave.

”…and he might have beaten her to a pulp for all I know. But then again…”

“Mmm.”

With the phone wedged between his shoulder and the side of his head, he was trying to ease a shirt out of its cellophane wrapper without making a din. Was it boredom or sadism that made the shirt-service people do up every single button?

”.—— about half a mile away and found this rock, sort of used it as a table…”

Vernon was halfway into his trousers when the call-waiting sounded again. “Absolutely,” he said. “A rock table. Anyone in their right mind would use one. But Clive, I’m late for work. Gotta run. How about a drink tomorrow?”

“Oh. Oh, all right. Fine. Drop by after work.”

Vernon extricated himself from the back of the tiny car his paper allowed him and paused on the pavement outside Judge House to straighten his rumpled suit. As he hurried across the black and ginger marble vestibule, he saw Dibben waiting by the lift. Frank had become deputy foreign editor on his twenty-eighth birthday. Four years and three editors later, he was still there and rumored to be restless. They called him Cassius for his lean and hungry look, but this was unfair: his eyes were dark, his face long and pale, his stubble heavy, giving him the appearance of a police cell interrogator, but his manner was courteous, though a little withdrawn, and he had an attractive, wry intelligence. Vernon had always detested him in an absentminded way but had come round to Frank in the early days of the Garmony turmoil. The evening after the chapel passed its no-confidence vote in the editor, the evening after Vernon’s compact with Clive, the young man stalked Vernon’s hunched figure down the street at dusk and finally approached, touched his shoulder, and suggested a drink. There was something persuasive in Dibben’s tone.

They stepped into a side—street pub unknown to Vernon, a place of torn red plush and dim smoky air, and took a booth right at the back, behind a giant jukebox. Over gin and tonics Frank confessed to his editor his quiet outrage at the way things had turned out. Last night’s vote had been manipulated by the usual chapel suspects, whose beefs and feuds stretched back years, and he, Frank, had stayed away from the meeting pleading pressure of work. There were others, he said, who felt the same way, who wanted the Judge to broaden its appeal and get lively and do something bold like stitching up Garmony, but the dead hand of the grammarians was on every lever of patronage and promotion. The old guard would rather see the paper die than let it reach out to an under-thirties readership. They had fought off the bigger typeface, the lifestyle section, the complementary health supplement, the gossip column, the virtual bingo, and the agony uncle, as well as snappy coverage of the royal family and pop music. Now they were turning on the one editor who could save the Judge. Among the younger staff there was support for Vernon, but it didn’t have a voice. No one wanted to stand up first and be shot down.