Greybeard

“I’m being trained here for six weeks. All sorts of courses — boy, these fellows really know how to work! Contemporary history, societics, economy, geopolitics, a new thing they call existentietics, functional psychology — oh, and other things, and practical subjects, such as engine maintenance. And twice a week we drive out to Rock Creek Park for lessons in self-defence from a judo expert. It’s tough but I’m enjoying it. There’s a dedicated feeling about here that gives everything meaning. I’m out of the war, too, which means life again makes a little sense.”

“You look well on it, honey. And are you going to practise self-defence on me?”

“Other forms of wrestling perhaps; not that. No, I suspect you are out here for one very good reason. But we’ll ask Jack Pilbeam about that. Let’s go and join him — he’s a hell of a good chap; you’ll like him.”

“I do already.” Pilbeam was in one comer of the hostel bar, sitting close with an attentive redhead. He broke away reluctantly, swung his mack off the back of a chair, and came towards them, saluting as he did so. “All play and no work makes Jack a dull boy,” he said. “Where do we take the lady now, and is it anywhere we can take a friendly redhead?”

“Having restored the ravages of travel, I’m in your hands,” Martha said. “And she doesn’t mean that literally,” Timberlane added. Pilbearn bowed. “I have the instructions, the authority, and the inclination, to take you anywhere in

Washington, and to wine and dine you as long as you are here.”

“I warn you, darling, they play hard as well as work hard. DOUCH will do its best for us before dumping us down to record the end of the world.”

“I can see you need a drink, you grumpy man,” Pilbeam said, forcing his smile a little. “Let me just introduce the redhead, and then we will move along to a show and a bottle. Perchance we could jemmy our way into the Dusty Dykes show. Dykes is the Slouch Comedian.”

The redhead joined the party without too great a feigning of reluctance, and they moved into town. The blackouts which had afflicted the cities of other nations in earlier wars did not worry Washington. The enemy had the city firmly in its missile sights, and no lighting effects would change the situation. The streets were a blaze of neon as the entertainment business boomed. Flashing signs lit the faces of men and women with the stigmata of illness as they pushed into cabarets and cafés. Black market food and drink were in plentiful supply; the only shortage seemed to be parking spaces.

These hectic evenings became part of a pattern of fierce work and relaxation into which the DOUCH personnel fitted. It was only on her third night in Washington, when they were sitting in the Trog and watching the cabaret that included Dusty Dykes — the comedian for whom Pilbeam failed to acquire tickets on the first night — that Martha managed to put her question to Pilbeam.

“Jack, you give us a wonderful time. I wish I could seem to do something in return. Is there something I can do? I don’t see really why I was invited out here.”

Without ceasing to caress the wrist of the dark and green-eyed beauty who was his date for the night, Pilbeam said, “You were invited to keep one Algy Timberlane company — not that he deserves any such good fortune. And you have sat in on several of his lectures. Isn’t that enough? Relax, enjoy yourself. Have another drink. It’s patriotic to over-consume.”

“I am enjoying myself. I’d just like to know if there is anything I can do.” Pilbeam winked at his green-eyed friend. “You’d better ask Algy that, honey baby.”

“I’m terribly persistent, Jack. I do want an answer.”

“Go and ask Bill Dyson — it’s really his pigeon. I’m just the DOUCH playboy — Warm Douche, they call me. And I may have to be off on my travels again, come Wednesday.”

“Oh, cherry pie, but you said -“ the green-eyed girl protested. Pilbeam laid a cautionary finger on her lustrous lips. “Shhh, my sweetie — your Uncle Sam must come before your Uncle Jack. But tonight, believe me, Uncle

Jack comes first — metaphorically speaking, you understand.” The lights dimmed, there was a drum roll followed by an amplified hiccup. As silence fell, Dusty Dykes floated in on an enormous dollar note and climbed down on to the floor. He was an almost menacingly ordinary little man, wearing a creased lounge suit. He spoke in a flat, husky voice.