Is this what life is like an the ground? he wondered. His instincts had led him to reject Werry’s claim that he and May were non- people, merely realistic lay figures imitating the movements of life — but supposing the fantastic hypothesis were true? Insidious and shameful thoughts began to burgeon in Hasson’s mind. Why not throw overboard all cumbersome precepts concerned with honour and truth? Why not consider the situation as a straight- forward problem in logic or mathematics? X is a man restored to health and with an increasing need for a safety valve to release biological pressures. Y is a man who is incapable of feeling love, hate or jealousy. Z is a woman for whom the concept of fidelity has little meaning. The current relationship can be expressed as X+(YZ), but why not do a little algebraic manipulation, the sort of thing that is done all the time, and change it to Y+(XZ)?

Hasson gazed at May’s silhouette, for the moment allowing himself to see her as a love machine, a human engine which would respond in a certain guaranteed way if he pressed the right buttons — then a rising tide of self-disgust obliterated all the symbols from his mind. Al Werry was a human being, not a mathematical abstraction, and if the things he said about himself were true it meant that he had gained very little from life, and for that reason should be protected rather than plundered. Equally, May was a human being and if she appeared two-dimensional to him the fault had to lie in his inability to perceive depth.

The car had been climbing a gentle hill on the western outskirts of Tripletree and now it swung on to a private road which tunnelled through banks of rhododendrons and other shrubs which Hasson was unable to name. After a few seconds of utter darkness it emerged on a flat summit where a rambling floodlit house presided over a glittering view of the city. Tripletree itself was a spilled hoard of jewellery, a central mound of every kind and colour of precious stone surrounded by outflung necklets of diamond and topaz. The aerial highways hung over it in pastel brilliance, each generously seeded with the lights of night-time fliers, and above them a few first magnitude stars pierced the canopy of radiance with their own patient lustre. Fairy lanterns had been lit on a patio at the side of the house, there was the sound of music and thronging figures surrounded a column of smoke from what appeared to be a huge charcoal grill.

“We must have come to the wrong place,” Hasson said ironically.

“No, this is definitely Buck’s house,” Werry replied, bringing the car to a halt. “I ought to know my way around Tripletree by this time.”

They got out of the car and walked towards the centre of activity with May patting her hair into place and Werry tugging various pans of his uniform into the required degree of smoothness. Hasson lagged a little behind them, experiencing the curious mixture of hesitancy and anticipation he always felt when arriving at a party which was well under way. He expected their entrance to go unnoticed, but the tall heavy-shouldered figure of Buck Morlacher came towards them immediately. An old-style striped apron was tied around his waist, he was carrying a long fork and the heat from the charcoal had inflamed the triangular patches of red on his cheeks. He went straight to May, affecting not to see Werry or Hasson, put an arm around her shoulders and whispered briefly into her blonde hair. May listened for a moment and began to laugh.

“Evening, Buck,” Werry said pleasantly. “Looks like the party’s going well. I brought Rob along to show him how we do these things in Alberta.”

Morlacher looked at him with cold eyes, still not acknowledging Hasson’s presence, and said, “The booze is over by the fountain.”

Werry laughed. “That’s all we need to know. Come on, Rob.” He took Hasson’s arm and began to guide him across the patio.

Hasson refused to move. “Perhaps May would like a drink.”

“I can look after May,” Morlacher said, tilting his head to give Hasson an appraising stare.

“You’re busy with the cooking.” Hasson addressed himself directly to May. “The usual, is it? Rye and ginger?”

“I …” She gazed back at him, wide-eyed and flustered. “I’m not thirsty yet.”

Morlacher tightened his grip on her shoulders. “I’ll fix the lady a drink when she’s ready. What’s the rush?”

Werry pulled harder on Hasson’s arm. “That’s right, Rob. It’s every man for himself around here.”

Morlacher nodded slowly and an unexpected look of satisfaction appeared on his face. “Talking about every man for himself, Reeve Werry, I did something today that you should have thought of a long time ago.”

“Yeah?” Werry released Hasson’s arm. “What was that?”

“You know that black hound of mine? The one I tried to shoot last year for tearing a piece out of Eddie Bennett’s leg?”

“You put him down, did you?”

“No — I put him to work. Starr and I went out to the farm and netted him today and carried him up to the hotel and turned him loose up there. Any punks who move in tonight are going to move out a hell of a sight faster.” Morlacher grinned, showing his inhumanly powerful teeth.

Werry looked impressed. “That should make a difference I’ll get one of my boys to drop him some food every day.”

“No you won’t — I want the brute to stay mean and hungry From now on he’s on a strict diet of angel food. Get it?”

“Hey, that’s a good one,” Werry said, chuckling. He turned and sauntered away across the patio, waving salaam-like greetings to people he recognised, giving the impression he had forgotten the existence of Hasson and May. Hasson, feeling betrayed, followed in his wake, noting as he did so that Morlacher and May were moving off in the direction of the house. He caught up with Werry at a portable bar where two men in white jackets were dispensing liquor in heavy goblets which were decorated with simulated rubies.

“Do me a favour,” Werry said to Hasson as soon as they had obtained their drinks, “try not to upset Buck — it only makes life difficult for me. Why were you arguing with him, anyway?”

“That’s a good question,” Hasson said in a stony voice, “but I think I’ve forgotten the answer.”

Werry looked perplexed. “I hope you’re not going to start going funny on me, Rob. I’m off to do a bit of mingling. See you around.” He moved away towards a group of men and women who were dancing in a comer of the patio.

Hasson stared after him in exasperation, then turned his thoughts to the question of what he was going to do during the next four or five hours. There appeared to be about thirty people in the general area. Many of them were dressed in duvet garments of one kind or another to ward off the early season coolness, with the result that the atmosphere of the gathering was an uneasy blend of party and heroic picnic. A number of the guests were wearing identical gold badges. Hasson spoke to a gaunt, shivering middle-aged man who was determinedly lowering drink after drink in the manner of one who wanted no memory of the occasion, and learned that the visitors were members of an association of chambers of commerce from the western States. They were on a goodwill tour of the Canadian federation and the gaunt man gave the impression of suffering deep regrets over having strayed so far north from his home in Pasadena.

Hasson remained with him for some time discussing the effects of latitude on climate. Other tourists joined in and when they heard Hasson’s British accent the conversation developed into a lively debate on the effects of longitude on climate. Hasson, far from being bored, took pleasure in his newly regained ability to mix and interact with strangers. He drank, obtained food from volunteer cooks at the grill, drank some more, danced with various women wearing gold badges, and smoked his first cigar in months.

In between times, he observed that Morlacher and May were absent from the rest of the assembly for the best part of an hour, but by then he had reached a condition of malty benevolence in which he was prepared to concede that May could have been looking at her host’s stamp collection, and in which he saw clearly that other people’s problems were no concern of his. Life on the ground, it seemed, could be perfectly acceptable as long as one was prepared to live and let live. The notion struck Hasson, retired air cop and reformed meddler, with all the force of a brand-new philosophical concept, and he was exploring its implications when the dance music was suddenly switched off and everybody near him turned to look at something which had begun to happen in the centre of the patio. He moved into a clear space to get a better view.