“You what?” Grey bushy eyebrows lifted towards the mane of white hair.
“I want to get married,” Smith explained slowly and patiently. “To Miss Mary Ellison.”
“But you can't,” Rolland protested. “This morning! Impossible! There are such things as banns, permits, the registrar's office will be shut today—”
“After all I've done for you,” Smith interrupted reproachfully.
“Blackmail, sir! You play on an old man's gratitude. Downright blackmail!” Rolland banged down the phone, smiled tiredly and picked up another phone. “Operator? Put me through to the Forgery Section.”
Wing Commander Carpenter, his pipe well alight and by his elbow a cup of coffee newly poured from a vacuum flask, was his old imperturbable self again. Smith talked quietly to Mary while Jones had his eyes closed and appeared to be asleep. Farther aft in the fuselage, Schaffer had his arm around Heidi, who was making no attempt to fight him off.
“Right,” Schaffer said. “So we go to this pub tonight, see—”
“You said the Savoy Grill,” Heidi reminded him.
“A rose by any other name ... So we go to this pub, and we'll have pate, smoked trout, sirloin of Aberdeen- Angus—”
“Aberdeen-Angus!” Heidi looked at him in amusement. “Forgotten the war, haven't you? Forgotten rationing? More like a sirloin of horse meat.”
“Honey.” Schaffer took her hands and spoke severely and earnestly. “Honey, don't ever again mention that word to me. I'm allergic to horses.”
“You eat them?” Heidi gazed at him in astonishment. “In Montana?”
“I fall off them,” Schaffer said moodily. “Everywhere.”
The End
