“Jerome Jones, by God!” Goldfarb burst out. They’d worked side by side on radar sets through the Battle of Britain, and then during the onslaught of the Lizards-till radar-seeking missiles had taken out their sets and reduced them to using field glasses and field telephones right out of the First World War. “What the devil are you doing with yourself these days?”

“I’m in the import-export business,” Jones answered, and David’s heart sank. If that wasn’t a euphemism for smuggling ginger, he would have been astonished. And if Jones wasn’t going to try to use him some way or other, he would have been more astonished still. Sure enough, his former comrade went on, “I hear you’ve come on a spot of trouble lately.”

“What if I have?” Goldfarb asked tightly. Jerome Jones wasn’t in Her Majesty’s forces; David could tell him where to head in without worrying about getting court-martialed-not that he’d let that bother him when he’d finally told Roundbush where to go and how to get there. Even though Jones’ father had headed up a bank, dear Jerome would be hard-pressed to land Goldfarb in worse trouble than he’d already found for himself.

“Why, I wanted to lend you a hand, if I possibly could,” Jones said, sounding surprised David would have to ask.

“What sort of hand?” Goldfarb remained deeply suspicious. He knew the kind of answer he expected. If you need to put a few hundred quid in your pocket, Jones would say, you can take this little shipment to Buenos Aires for me. Or maybe it would be to Warsaw or to Cairo or even, God help us, to Nuremberg.

Jerome Jones said, “Unless the little bird I’ve been listening to has it altogether wrong, there are some people giving you a bit of difficulty about leaving the country.”

“That’s true.” Goldfarb kept on answering in monosyllables, waiting for the sales pitch. He remained sure it was coming. What would he do if good old Jerome promised to help him emigrate after he did his former pal one little favor that would, undoubtedly, turn out not to be so little? Also undoubtedly, good old Jerome had the clout, if he could be persuaded to use it.

“It’s bloody awful, is what it is.” Jones sounded indignant. How smooth was he these days? Back when Goldfarb had known him, he’d been distinctly callow. But he was a captain of industry these days, not a puppy still wet behind the ears. “You’ve done more for Britain than Britain wants to do for you. We’re still a free country, by God.”

“From where you sit, maybe,” David said. From where he sat himself, the United Kingdom tilted more toward the Greater German Reich with every passing day. With most of the British Empire in the Lizards’ scaly hands, with the USA still rebuilding after the fighting, and with the Reich just across the Channel, he supposed that tilt was inevitable. That didn’t mean he thought it was anything but disastrous.

“I also hear your superiors have taken unfair advantage of you. Officers are nasty that way-think they’re little tin gods, what?” Jones chuckled. “I always thought that. Back when I was wearing RAF blue, though, there was damn all I could do about it. Things are different now. If I ring the minister of defense, I expect he’ll listen to me. He’d damn well better; his son is married to my first cousin.”

“My God.” Goldfarb’s voice was hoarse. “You really mean it.”

“Well, of course I do,” Jones answered. “What’s the point of having influence if you don’t get to use it? I’d have rung you up sooner, but I only heard of your difficulties a few days ago.”

“That’s all right,” David said vaguely. Back when they’d served in the RAF together, he’d thought about Jerome Jones’ secure upper-class upbringing and his own roots in East End London. Then he’d thought the most he could aspire to was a little wireless-repair shop. After the fighting ended, staying in the RAF looked like a road to a better life. It had been, for a little while.

“I’ll ring you back directly I know something,” Jones told him. “Be good in the meanwhile.” He hung up. The line went dead.

Goldfarb stared at the telephone handset before slowly returning it to the cradle. The young aircraftman was long gone. Goldfarb went back to the radar screens by himself, his head whirling.

A few days later, he was watching the glowing green screens again. They showed a Soviet spacecraft passing north of the U.K. The Americans and Germans-and likely the Race, too-laughed at the craft the Russians flew; the Americans called them flying tin cans. Because of the limits to their craft, Soviet spacemen couldn’t do nearly so much up there as their counterparts from the USA and the Reich. But they were flying. Britain had no spacemen. Watching everyone else go by above his head, Goldfarb acutely felt the lack.

He was about to remark on it to Sergeant McDowell when a fresh-faced enlisted man stuck his head into the room and said, “The base commandant’s compliments, Flight Lieutenant, and he’ll see you in his office fast as you can get there.”

Taking the privilege of long acquaintance, McDowell asked, “What have you gone and done now, sir?”

“I don’t know,” David answered, “but I expect I’ll find out before long. Don’t let that Russian land in Belfast-people would talk.” Before the Scotsman could find a comeback, Goldfarb headed for Group Captain Burton Paston’s office.

Paston was doing paperwork when he walked in. The commandant’s face, normally dyspeptic, now grew less happy still. “Oh, it’s you, Goldfarb,” he said, as if he’d been expecting someone else-perhaps the Spanish Inquisition-instead.

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” Goldfarb said, coming to attention and saluting as he waited to discover what sort of new trouble he was in.

“Yes.” Distaste filled Paston’s voice, too. “Some little while ago, you attempted to resign from the Royal Air Force.”

“Yes, sir, I did, but I’ve performed my duties since to the best of my ability,” Goldfarb said. If Group Captain Paston thought he’d be able to hang a bad-conduct discharge on him, he had another think coming.

But Paston waved that away. “You seem to have friends as well as enemies in high places,” he remarked. “Why so many people would get themselves exercised over a flight lieutenant up from the ranks is beyond me, but that’s neither here nor there. The point of the matter is, I have been instructed in no uncertain terms to reconsider your resignation. Having done so, I’ve elected to accept it after all.”

“Have you, sir?” David breathed. No matter what Jerome Jones said, he hadn’t dreamt his old pal really did have so much clout, nor that he could work so fast. He also noted that Paston had tacitly admitted he’d been under pressure to reject the resignation before. Gloating would have felt good, but wouldn’t have helped; Goldfarb could see as much. All he said was, “Thank you very much.”

“I’m not nearly certain you’re welcome,” the base commandant answered. “You’re the most experienced radar operator we’ve got, and I’m damned if I know where we’ll come up with another one even half as good.”

If he’d put something like that on a fitness report, Goldfarb might have risen higher than flight lieutenant. On the other hand, he couldn’t do anything about being a Jew, so he might not have, too. He said, “I do appreciate this, from the bottom of my heart.” Now that he’d got what he wanted, he could afford to be gracious. He couldn’t very well afford to be anything else.

Burton Paston shoved forms across the desk at him. “I’m going to need your signature on all of these.”

“Yes, sir.” David signed and signed and signed.

When he was done, the base commandant handed him a copy of one of the forms. “If you take this to the Canadian consulate, it will serve to notify them that you have in fact separated yourself from the RAF, and that no impediment stands in the way of your emigration.”