On The Beach

"I found the place that makes them, out at Elsternwick," she said. "They aren't making any more, but they made one for me."

"I don't know what to say," he muttered. "Now I've got something for everyone."

She gathered up the torn brown paper. "That's all right," she said casually. "It was fun finding it. Shall I put it in the corner?"

He shook his head. "Leave it right here."

She nodded, and moved towards the door. "I'll turn this top light out. Don't stay up too long. Sure you've got everything you want?"

"Sure, honey," he said. "I've got everything now."

"Good night," she said.

She closed the door behind her. He lay for some time in the firelight thinking of Sharon and of Helen, of bright summer days and tall ships at Mystic, of Helen leaping on the Pogo stick on the swept sidewalk with the piles of snow on either hand, of this girl and her kindness. Presently he drifted into sleep, one hand upon the Pogo stick beside him.

Peter Holmes lunched with John Osborne at the United Services Club next day. "I rang the ship this morning," said the scientist. "I wanted to get hold of Dwight to show him the draft report before I get it typed. They told me that he's staying out at Harkaway with Moira's people."

Peter nodded. "He's got the flu. Moira rang me up last night to tell me that I wouldn't see him for a week, or longer if she's got anything to do with it."

The scientist was concerned. "I can't hold it so long as that. Jorgensen's got wind of our findings already, and he's saying that we can't have done our job properly. I'll have to get it to the typist by tomorrow at the latest."

"I'll look it over if you like, and we might be able to get hold of the exec, though he's away on leave. But Dwight ought to see it before it goes out. Why don't you give Moira a ring and take it out to him at Harkaway?"

"Would she be there? I thought she was in Melbourne every day, doing shorthand and typing."

"Don't be so daft. Of course she's there."

The scientist brightened. "I might run it out to him this afternoon in the Ferrari."

"Your juice won't last out if you're going to use it for trips like that. There's a perfectly good train."

"This is official business, naval business," said John Osborne. "One's entitled to draw on Naval stores." He bent towards Peter and lowered his voice. "You know that aircraft carrier, the Sydney? She's got about three thousand gallons of my ether-alcohol mixture in one of her tanks. They used it for getting reluctant piston-engined aircraft off the deck at full boost."

"You can't touch that!" said Peter, shocked.

"Can't I? This is naval business, and there's going to be a whole lot more."

"Well, don't tell me about it. Would a Morris Minor run on it?"

"You'd have to experiment a bit with the carburetion, and you'd have to raise the compression. Take the gasket out and fit a bit of thin sheet copper, with cement. It's worth trying."

"Can you run that thing of yours upon the road, safely?"

"Oh, yes," said the scientist. "There's not much else upon the road to hit, except a tram. And people, of course. I always carry a spare set of plugs because she oils up if you run her under about three thousand."

"What's she doing at three thousand revs?"

"Oh well, you wouldn't put her in top gear. She'd be doing about a hundred, or a bit more than that. She does about forty-five in first at those revs. She gets away with a bit of a rush, of course; you want a couple of hundred yards of empty road ahead of you. I generally push her out of the mews into Elizabeth Street and wait till there's a gap between the trams."

He did so that afternoon directly after lunch, with Peter Holmes helping him to push. He wedged the attaché case containing the draft report down beside the seat and climbed in, fastened the safety belt and adjusted his crash helmet before an admiring crowd. Peter said quietly, "For God's sake don't go and kill anybody."

"They're all going to be dead in a couple of months time anyway," said the scientist. "So am I, and so are you. I'm going to have a bit of fun with this thing first."

A tram passed and he tried the cold engine with the self-starter, but it failed to catch. Another tram came by; when that was gone a dozen willing helpers pushed the racing car until the engine caught and she shot out of their hands like a rocket with an ear-splitting crash from the exhaust, a screech of tires, a smell of burnt rubber, and a cloud of smoke. The Ferrari had no horn and no need for one because she could be heard coming a couple of miles away; more important to John Osborne was the fact that she had no lights at all, and it was dark by five o'clock. If he was to get out to Harkaway, do his business, and be back in daylight he must step on it.