Hasson doused the light, hurriedly stripped off his outer clothing and — with his eyes fixed on the technicoloured microcosm — got into the bed. He pulled the covers up until they almost covered his head, creating yet another barrier between himself and the universe outside. The coolness of the bedding coming into contact with his back produced painful spasms which caused him to twist and turn for a full minute, but eventually he was able to find a comfortable position and began relaxing his guard. Using the remote control panel, he instructed the set to sample any British television programmes that were available by satellite and promptly discovered that, due to the difference in time zones, he had access to nothing but early morning educational broadcasts. In the end he settled for a holofilm that was being put out by a local station and promised himself he would go back to the store at the first opportunity and buy some library spools of British situation comedies and drama series. In the meantime, he felt warm, tolerably secure, free from pain, absolved from the need to act or think… Hasson was recalled from his electronic demi-world by a persistent tapping on the bedroom door. He eased himself into an upright position and surveyed the room, which was now in darkness, reluctant to leave the cocoon of bedding. The tapping noise continued. Hasson got to his feet, went to the door and opened it to find Al Werry advancing upon him, still in full uniform.

“You can’t see a thing in here,” Werry commented, switching on the lights as he spoke. “Were you asleep?”

“Resting, anyway,” Hasson said, blinking.

“Good idea — you’ll be in good shape for the party tonight.”

Hasson felt something lurch in his chest. “What party?”

“Hey! I see you went ahead and got yourself a TV.” Werry crossed to the television and hunkered down to examine it, a doubtful expression appearing on his face. “Dinky little thing, isn’t it? When you get used to a two-metre job like the one we have down in the front room anything else hardly seems worth bothering with.”

“Did you say something about a party?”

“Sure thing. It won’t be too big — just a few friends coming round to meet you and have a few drinks — but I promise you, Rob, you’ll get a real Albertan welcome. You’re really going to enjoy yourself.”

“I …” Hasson gazed into Werry’s eager face and realized the impossibility of putting him off. “You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble — specially after the way you guys looked after me in England.”

Hasson made another attempt to recall their first meeting, the drinking session which Werry appeared to cherish in his memory, but no images were forthcoming and he felt an obscure guilt. “I met up with your friend Morlacher this afternoon, by the way.”

“Is that a fact?” Werry looked unconcerned. “He said the man who got killed today was some kind of a VIP.”

“Bull! He was a buyer for a department store down in Great Falls. He didn’t deserve to get killed, of course, but he was just an ordinary joe up here on an ordinary business trip. Another statistic.”

“Then why did…?”

“Buck always talks that way,” Werry said, losing some of his composure. “He’s got it into his head that the Civil Aviation Authority can be talked into extending the north-south air corridor up past Calgary to Edmonton, maybe even as far as Athabasca itself. He goes on TV, gets up petitions, brings bigwigs here our of his own pocket… Doesn’t seem to realise there Just isn’t enough urgent freight traffic to justify the expense.”

Hasson nodded, visualising the cost of installing a chain of automatic radar posts, energy fences and manned patrol stations to bring a three-hundred-kilometre strip up to the safety standards demanded by the various pilots” guilds. “What’s it to him, anyway?”

“The Chinook. The big lolly. The inn on a pin.” Werry paused to look affronted. “Buck thinks he can still get some of his old man’s money back out of it. He sees it as a luxury airport hotel, convention centre, billion dollar brothel, Olympic games stadium, the United Nations building, Disney planet, last filling station before Mars… You name it — Buck thinks he’s got it.”

Hasson gave a sympathetic smile, recognising the kind of bitter rhetoric used by men suffering from the age-old complaint of a thorn in the side. “He was worked up about it this afternoon.”

“What does he expect me to do?”

“From what I can gather, he’s coming over to tell you what he expects. I told him I’d pass the word on.”

“Thanks.” Werry furrowed the carpet with the toe of a glossy boot. “Sometimes I wish I’d …” He glanced at Hasson from under lowered brows and suddenly smiled, resuming the guise of the insouciant revolutionary colonel. His fingers traced the pencil line of his moustache as though making sure it was still in place.

“Listen, Rob, we’ve got better things to talk about,” he said. “You came here to forget about police work and I’m going to make sure you do. I want you to report downstairs in thirty minutes, spruced up for a party and thirsty as hell. Got it? Got it?”

“I probably could use a drink,” Hasson said. Too much had happened to him in one day and he knew from experience that it would take at least a quarter-litre of whisky to guarantee an easy descent into sleep and no dreams of flying.

“That’s more like my boy.” Werry slapped him on the shoulder and left the room in a flurry of air currents which were scented with a peculiar mixture of talc, leather and machine oil.

Hasson glanced regretfully at the bed and the comfortably glowing television set, then began to do some belated unpacking. Dreadful though the prospect of a party was, it offered him more leeway than an evening cooped up with Al Werry and the three other members of his household. It should be possible for him to get into a corner near the booze supply and sit tight until he could decently retire for the night. That way he would have won through to the next day, when he could think about regrouping his forces to withstand fresh onslaughts.

He gathered up his toiletries, opened the bedroom door a fraction and listened to make sure there was no chance of encountering May or Ginny Carpenter, then set out with stealthy tread towards the bathroom. Part way along the landing he reached another door which was slightly ajar, and was intrigued to see that the room beyond was being alternately lit up and plunged into total darkness every few seconds. Hasson hurried on by, went into the bathroom and spent fifteen minutes an having a shower and generally making himself presentable. He renewed an earlier finding that it is always a stranger who looks back at one from a strange minor. The only explanation he could think of was that people who are familiar with the positioning of their mirrors unconsciously pose, straining towards a desired image of themselves, before turning towards their reflections. In this case, Hasson was taken unawares by the sight of a dark-haired, unobtrusively muscular man whose face was marred by an apprehensive tautness around the mouth and eyes. He stood at the mirror consciously composing his features, trying to eliminate the traces of swain and self-pity he saw there, then left the bathroom and went back along the landing. The intermediate door was still ajar and the light was still flashing on and off behind it. Hasson passed by, but immediately was troubled by fears of some bizarre electrical fault which could ignite the dry timber of the house. He went back, eased the door open a little further and looked into the room. Theo Werry was sitting cross- legged on the bed, holding a table lamp directly in front of his eyes and steadily operating the switch. Hasson backed away as silently as possible and returned to his room, filled with the shameful realisation that there were worse injuries than ruptured spinal discs and broken bones.