have been.
'You're good, son,' he said. 'You must be. One might have been a fluke, but two-I should have met you years ago. You really do enjoy it, don't you? You come into the cellar and some bloke pops off at you, and what do you do? Yell for the finest police in the world? Ask me what the hell I'm playing at? Write to your M.P.? Not you. You fire back. And I bet you squeezed that trigger before you even knew what you were doing.'
He patted Craig's shoulder with unashamed pride of possession, as a man might pat a Sheraton sideboard he'd found in a junk shop.
'Fast as a computer, son, and all done by reflexes.'
'You're right,' Craig said. 'I didn't stop to think. If I had I might have been killed. How did I know you were what you said you were?' He glanced down at Loomis's massive hand, which was still on his shoulder, a hand the size and color of a ham.
'You bastard,' he said.
Loomis said, 'I knew you'd get to like me. Everybody does. Through here.'
They went then into a gym, the floor covered by a padded judo mat, where two men in track suits, two squat and muscular men, stood waiting. They had the unmistakable stamp of unarmed combat instructors, the aggressive muscularity of men who feared nothing because they'd studied the book until they knew it backwards, and the book provided for every possibility.
'I'd like you to show us what you did to that feller-' Loomis snapped his fingers.
'Lishman, sir,' said Grierson.
'And his friends. These two splendid fellows can be his friends. As they're a lot better than the originals, I think you might start with your arms free. Grierson can be Lishman.' He leered at Grierson. 'If you don't mind, we'll assume that you've already kicked him. Otherwise he might fret. Down, Grierson.'
Grierson lay down.
Craig said, 'I don't think I can do it.'
'Why not?' asked Loomis.
'I'd have to hurt them,' Craig said.
'They're paid to take risks,' said Loomis. 'We all are. Start whenever you like.'
Grierson, flat on the floor, marveled at Craig's swift, easy grace. The whole thing went like a ballet. The P.T.I.'s moved in, he grabbed one, threw him, and in the same movement attacked the other, knocking him out. The one he had thrown bounced in again, and again Craig threw him, this time holding on the lock he had used. The P.T.I, groaned, and lay still. Craig let him go, turning to
Loomis, and Grierson remembered his instructions and prepared to spring.
'Any more?' Craig asked, and Grierson leaped for him, grabbing his arm in a hammerlock. Craig somersaulted forward, and Grierson went with him, still clutching Craig's fist. He landed underneath, and Craig swayed aside and struck with the edge of his hand at Grierson's arm. Pain scalded across his biceps and he loosed his grip. Craig wriggled free and his arm came across Grierson's throat, pressed deeper and deeper into the windpipe. Grierson struggled for air; his eyes seemed to be ballooning in their sockets, his legs thrashed.
'Who do I have to do next?' Craig snarled at Loomis. 'You?'
'No, no, I'm convinced. But we had to see for ourselves. You must see that. You might let poor Grierson breathe a little.'
Craig got up then, and hauled Grierson to his feet. For a while he had to told him up, but at last Grierson could breathe without feeling that every breath was being forced through a throat choked with steel wool.
Loomis said, 'You're slipping, Grierson.' Then to the P.T.I.'s, 'You're all slipping.'
One of them was silent; he was still unconscious. The other, murder in his eyes, said, 'Yes, sir.'
Loomis slapped Craig on the back.
'Come on,' he said. 'I think you're entitled to a drink.'
Farther into the cellars was a small, luxurious bar. Loomis went behind it and mixed pints of black velvet, the Guinness drawn from the wood, the champagne uncorked with the minimum of fuss.
Craig looked at his tankard suspiciously.
'What's in this lot?' he asked. 'Spanish fly?'
'Please,' said Loomis. 'I'm completely satisfied, and I'm sure Grierson is too. Aren't you, Grierson?'
Grierson croaked 'Yes' and let the soothing chill of his drink caress his throat.
'I worry, you see,' said Loomis. 'I have to worry. That's why I try things out first. I never tried out one like you before. I never thought I'd get the chance.'
'I don't think there are any more like me,' Craig said.
'If there are, I'm sorry for them. Look. I made a hell of a lot of money out of arms. A hundred thousand quid.' Loomis whistled. 'But you don't make that sort of money and then just live happily ever after. At least I didn't.' Craig drank more black velvet, hesitated, then continued: 'I knew I was on their list two years ago. I knew I was due to die. That's why I kept on with judo. You've no idea how difficult that was. I had to drive twenty miles to practice-I didn't even dare to let it be talked about where I lived. It was too big a lead. Then there was the pistol. The only way you're good with a gun is practice, again, and that wasn't easy either.' He sighed. 'I made money all right, and I enjoyed making it. I didn't worry too much about where it came from. No. That's not true. I didn't worry at all. But it didn't bring me any happiness. I didn't worry about that, either. Not till now. I'd made my choice, and my money, and I didn't kick about it. I just got ready for trouble. I didn't think it would be Alice and that poor bloody brother of hers who'd get it.' He looked at his drink. 'I didn't think champagne could make me so miserable,' he said.
'That's the stout,' said Loomis. 'What are you going to do now?'
'See my girl,' said Craig. 'If you don't mind.'
'Why on earth should I?' asked Loomis. 'We're all heteros here. Anything else?'
'I want to see a man called McLaren.' When Loomis asked why, he tried to explain. 'I met him in Sicily,' he said, and told them what had happened.
'All right, it's a good story, but what do you want to see him for?' Loomis asked.
'You hear a lot about things that change people's lives-Reader's Digest stuff-and I'm not blaming McLaren for what happened to mine, but he was the only one who ever saw what I was and what I could make of myself. I want to see if he's done it too.'
'Done what?' asked Grierson.
Craig struggled with unfamiliar ideas, ideas that had nothing to do with bills of lading, or manifests, or the maintenance of small arms.
'He told me what the world was going to be like, and he was right. About the world anyway. I did what he said I ought to do. I don't mean that it was his fault. I just did it. I'd like to know if he went in for teaching. Somehow I can't help feeling that he wanted to go the same way as me.'
'Suppose he hasn't?' Loomis asked.
Craig shrugged.
'It won't make any difference; it's too late for that. I just want to know.' Again he struggled for words. 'Look. I'd done a lot of things before I met him. I've done a hell of a lot more since. And I never dream about them. Never. But I do dream about that bloody rest camp, and his singing, and me watching those poor bastard soldiers dancing under the moon. I want to know what he's like now.'
'Does he know your name?' Loomis asked. Craig shook his head.
'He just knew me as John. I only found out his name because he introduced himself to the Jocks.'
Loomis grunted, and meditated. After a while he said, 'That seems to be all right. But I'd like you to tell somebody else about it before I make any decisions.'
'Who?'
Loomis peered at him shyly. 'A psychiatrist,' he said.
'Do you think I'm crazy?' Craig asked. 'I don't want to kill him. I just want to talk to him.'
'I don't care if you're crazy or not,' said Loomis. 'I want you the way you are. If you think you're a teapot, you're going to go on thinking you're a teapot till the job's finished. And talking to McLaren may make a difference. I couldn't risk that.' He turned to Grierson. 'Go and get Wetherly,' he said.
Wetherly joined them in the bar. He was small, rosy, and bland, a pared-down Pickwick, and he drank a pint of black velvet and heard about McLaren, while Loomis stayed in the background and read a much-used paperback called Death in Purple Garters. After a while the psychiatrist left Craig, and dragged Loomis away from his
