On The Beach

"I've got no orders. She'll be operational again at the beginning of July. I'm planning to keep her under the Australian command up till the end. Whether I'll have a crew to make her operational-well, that's another thing again. Most of the boys have got girl friends in Melbourne here, about a quarter of them married. Whether they'll feel allergic to another cruise is anybody's guess. I'd say they will."

There was a pause. "I kind of envy you having that Ferrari," he said quietly. "I'll be worrying and working right up till the end."

"I don't see that there's any need for you to do that," the scientist said. "You ought to take some leave. See a bit of Australia."

The American grinned. "There's not much left of it to see."

"That's true. There's the mountain parts, of course. They're all skiing like mad up at Mount Buller and at Hotham. Do you ski?"

"I used to, but not for ten years or so. I wouldn't like to break a leg and get stuck in bed up till the end." He paused. "Say," he said. "Don't people go trout fishing up in those mountains?"

John Osborne nodded. "The fishing's quite good."

"Do they have a season, or can you fish all year round?"

"You can fish for perch in Eildon Weir all year round. They take a spinner, trolling from a boat. But there's good trout fishing in all the little rivers up there." He smiled faintly. "There's a close season for trout. It doesn't open till September the first."

There was a momentary pause. "That's running it kind of fine," Dwight said at last. "I certainly would like a day or two trout fishing, but from what you say we might be busy just around that time."

"I shouldn't think it would make any odds if you went up a fortnight early, this year."

"I wouldn't like to do a thing like that," the American said seriously. "In the States-yes. But when you're in a foreign country, I think a fellow should stick by the rules."

Time was going on, John Osborne had no lights on the Ferrari and no capacity to go much slower than fifty miles an hour. He gathered his papers together and put them in the attache case, said good-bye to Dwight Towers, and left him to get upon the road back to the city. In the lounge he met Moira. "How did you think he was?" she asked.

"He's all right," the scientist said. "Only a bat or two flying round the belfry."

She frowned a little; this wasn't the Pogo stick. "What about?"

"He wants a couple of days' trout fishing before we all go home," her cousin said. "But he won't go before the season opens, and that's not until September the first."

She stood in silence for a moment. "Well, what of it? He's keeping the law, anyway. More than you are, with that disgusting car. Where do you get the petrol for it?"

"It doesn't run on petrol," he replied. "It runs on something out of a test tube."

"Smells like it," she said. She watched him as he levered himself down into the seat and adjusted his crash helmet, as the engine crackled spitefully into life, as he shot off down the drive leaving great wheel ruts on the flower bed.

A fortnight later, in the Pastoral club, Mr. Allan Sykes walked into the little smoking room for a drink at twenty minutes past twelve. Lunch was not served till one o'clock so he was the first in the room; he helped himself to a gin and stood alone, considering his problem. Mr. Sykes was the director of the State Fisheries and Game Department, a man who liked to run his businesses upon sound lines regardless of political expediency. The perplexities of the time had now invaded his routine, and he was a troubled man.

Sir Douglas Froude came into the room. Mr. Sykes, watching him, thought that he was walking very badly and that his red face was redder than ever. He said, "Good morning, Douglas, I'm in the book."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said the old man. "I'll take a Spanish sherry with you." He poured it with a trembling hand. "You know," he said, "I think the Wine Committee must be absolutely crazy. We've got over four hundred bottles of magnificent dry sherry, Ruy de Lopez, 1947, and they seem to be prepared to let it stand there in the cellars. They said the members wouldn't drink it because of the price. I told them, I said-give it away, if you can't sell it. But don't just leave it there. So now it's the same price as the Australian." He paused. "Let me pour you a glass, Alan. It's in the most beautiful condition."

"I'll have one later. Tell me, didn't I hear you say once that Bill Davidson was a relation of yours?"

The old man nodded shakily. "Relation, or connection. Connection, I think. His mother married my… married my- No, I forget. I don't seem to remember things like I used to."

"Do you know his daughter Moira?"

"A nice girl, but she drinks too much. Still, she does it on brandy they tell me, so that makes a difference."

"She's been making some trouble for me."

"Eh?"