“And the bump in the night?” asked Mr. Hoffman anxiously.

“What about that?”

“Ah,” returned Mary, scratching her chin thoughtfully, “no, the bump got away—but I’m sure you would agree a seventy-five percent success rate in that particular operation was a very good result indeed.”

Constables Charlie Baker and Gretel Brown-Horrocks were waiting in the back garden, covering the house from the potting shed in case the Scissor-man came from that direction. Unlike Ashley, Mary and Jack, Baker and Gretel were occasional members of the NCD, brought in only when the need arose. Baker had been designated a D-minus in “public social skills” owing to his acute hypochondria and was used only for internal duties within the Reading Central police station.

“Want some Vicks?” he said to Gretel, offering her the small bottle after trying in a most noisy and unpleasant fashion to clear his sinuses, which seemed to be incessantly blocked with possibly the finest cold viruses that natural selection had managed to create.

“No thanks,” replied Gretel in her soft German accent. Her skills in forensic accountancy kept her much in demand, not only in Reading but throughout most of the Berks & Wilts constabulary. NCD work was meant to “get her out more.” She was glad that it did. At the end of the Humpty affair, she had met the man who was now her husband. He was seven foot three, and she was six foot two and a quarter. It was a match made perhaps not in heaven but certainly nearer the ceiling.

“Do you have to sniffle constantly?” she asked him.

“The sniffling’s nothing,” replied Baker. “Do you want to see my rash?”

“You showed it to me already.”

“That was a tiddler. This new one covers two-thirds of my body and has raised pimples.”

“It does not.”

“It does so—or it will soon, if my diagnosis is correct. What’s the time?”

“One minute to go. We keep our eyes open—and for God’s sake stop that sniffling.”

Baker made one great big huge supersniffle that drew everything swilling around his lower sinuses into the space between his eyes, where gravity, being the force it was, would ensure that it would not stay for long.

Back inside the house, Mary counted off the seconds on her watch. At five seconds to go, she keyed the mike on her walkie-talkie and said, “Thumb reentry T minus five seconds.”

After consulting her watch for those last five seconds, she climbed into the closet, shut the door to nothing more than a crack and signaled to the Hoffmans. They nodded sagely and began the routine they had rehearsed down the road at the supermarket, where the Scissor-man had no influence.

Mr. Hoffman, in an overly dramatic fashion, said, “We’re going to leave you here to finish your soup on your own, Conrad. Don’t play with those matches, don’t lean back on your chair, and don’t you dare suck your thumb when our backs are turned!”

They sighed, walked out of the kitchen and closed the door behind them. Conrad was now alone in the kitchen, with only Mary watching through a crack in the closet door. He stared at his thumb for a moment, having never even contemplated sucking it—not since he was first warned about the Scissor-man. His father had a missing thumb to prove it, and Conrad was always careful to avoid getting his thumb anywhere near his mouth, just in case the Scissor-man should make a mistake.

He paused for a moment, thumb outstretched, and looked at Mary again. She nodded to him and smiled. If they were to catch the Scissor-man, this was the only way. After wavering for a few more seconds, Conrad opened his mouth, and in went the thumb. He paused for a few moments then obediently carried out the plan they had rehearsed. He leaned back on his chair, idly struck a match and said petulantly, “I don’t want my soup!”

Jack and Ashley had climbed out of the car and were looking about attentively at the time the thumb went in. There was a distant rumble of thunder, and somewhere a dog barked. Other than that, nothing seemed unusual.

“What does the Great Long Red-Legg’d Scissor-man look like?” asked Ashley.

“Tall, red-legged—carries a huge pair of scissors. Believe me, you’ll know him when you see him.”

Ashley looked down at his own hands. He had three fingers and two opposable thumbs on each hand, and any of them would grow back if lost. The idea of a thumb’s not growing back hadn’t occurred to him until that morning.

Gretel and Baker were alert but, like Jack and Ashley, also to no avail. No Scissor-man—nothing. The night was clear and crisp, and the moon had risen so it was easy to see. There was nothing to be seen in either the Hoffmans’ garden or in any of the next-door gardens. There shouldn’t have been anyway. The entire neighborhood had been evacuated for the operation. Only personnel involved in the sting were in residence.

“Gretel?” came Mary’s voice over the radio. “Anything your end?”

“Nothing,” she replied.

“Stay put,” came in Jack’s voice. “We wait. Mary, is Conrad still sucking his thumb?”

Mary looked out of the closet and confirmed that yes, he was still sucking his thumb, not eating his soup and leaning back on his chair while playing with matches, something that he was actually finding great fun. They waited five minutes, then ten, then fifteen. Nothing.

Mr. Hoffman put his head around the door. “Is anything happening?”

“No, sir. We must be patient.”

Mr. Hoffman said, “Okay,” and shut the door again.

Every minute Mary would ask for a status report, and after twenty reports in as many minutes she keyed the mike and said in an exasperated tone, “Jack, when was the last cautionary-related crime?”

Jack turned to Ashley. The alien had many talents, but only a few that might have been considered useful. One that definitely had its uses was his total recall.

“Five-day accelerated starvation due to soup refusal, July ninth, 1978. Single thumbectomy on December twenty-third, 1979. A fatal house fire on the night of January twenty-sixth, 1985, might have been match-play-related, but it was never proved.”

Jack relayed the information to Mary, who replied, “Twenty-five years since the last definite scissoring. What if he’s retired or inactive or something?”

“You mean Cautionary Valley has been living in terror for over two decades when they needn’t have?” said Gretel from her position in the back garden. “I’d be a bit pissed off if that was the case.”

“It’s a possibility,” replied Jack, “but only that. I say we give it another half hour, then abort and go away for a rethink. Briggs will have something to say about the overtime as it is.”

Everyone radioed in agreement, and all was quiet again.

“Gretel?” said Baker in the potting shed.

“What?” replied Gretel, who was thinking about tall babies.

“You’re a woman.”

“I know this.”

“Yes, well…” he said a bit awkwardly, “I just thought… do you think Pippa would go out on a date if I asked her?”

“You mean beautiful Pippa in the control room? No.”

“What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“I mean ‘No’ as in ‘No, I don’t think she’d go out with you.’"

“You might have paused for thought or something,” said Baker in an affronted tone, “or been ambiguous—to save my feelings, y’know.”

“Sorry. You ask a question and I answer it,” replied Gretel, who had a reputation for directness that sometimes didn’t sit well with higher authority. “I’ll tell you why. Remember that time you sneezed on her?”

“It wasn’t just her.”

“I know. It’s just that girls don’t really like that sort of thing.”

Baker nodded slowly. He’d suspected for a while that they might not. Still, he never thought it really fair to have a girlfriend, since he had only six months to live. The thing was, he’d had only six months to live for over thirteen years now.