Colonel Butler's Wolf

to extrapolate from Grendel to Neil Smith's death. That at least was something.

'I see.' Gracey looked at the American narrowly now. Unlike Klobucki, he might well guess that there was more to that tragic accident at Petts Pond than was generally known, but he could know nothing for certain unless Audley had primed him. 'And just what is this goddamn queer something, eh?'

'Oh, no—don't you ask me!' Klobucki shook his head warily. 'I've seen enough trouble and strife of my own to want any of yours just now. I don't want any part of it. Back home I'd guess you call me a two-time loser already, but here I'm just a foreigner who wants to keep his snotty nose clean— and I don't want to be sent home just yet.'

'You said the natives are restless, though.'

'So I did, sure.' Klobucki's eyes flashed behind the thick lenses. 'That's just a feeling down in my gut.

Maybe it's imagination—or indigestion. Or maybe I just fancied I'd heard those heels drumming on the roof beam.'

Gracey looked round the room meditatively. Following his gaze, Butler noticed that they had been left high and dry in their own corner by a tide of interest which seemed to have drawn everyone else to the windows overlooking the croquet lawn.

'Hmm . . .' The Vice-Chancellor nodded to himself uneasily. Then he drew a deep breath and straightened his massive shoulders: King Hrothgar had been warned, and had taken note of the warning.

'Well, I think we'd better join the natives in that case.'

'It looks as if King's are giving us a run for our money for once,' said Polly, craning her neck over the group before one window.

'A run?' A slender, dandelion-haired young man made way for her. 'They've got us licked this time, Polly—it's that boyfriend of yours. And he's about to give us the coup de grace—watch!' Butler followed the pointing finger through the open window. The light was failing fast and the morning's cold wind had risen again—it ruffled Dan's straw coloured hair wildly, but without diminishing his fierce concentration as he stooped over the ball.

'Beowulf!'

'I beg your pardon?' Butler bent his head towards Klobucki.

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'There's our Beowulf—Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, son of Hrethel. He sure looks the part, anyway.'

Butler looked at the American suspiciously, and then back at McLachlan.

'Probably more Viking blood in Dan than Anglo-Saxon, when you come down to it,' Klobucki went on appraisingly. 'But it's the same stock, I guess.'

'Aye,' Butler growled uneasily. But who was Grendel? he caught himself thinking.

Anglo-Saxons and Vikings and Romans—it was all damn nonsense, and he was letting it throw him simply because it was strange to him. Trolls drumming their feet on the roof indeed! There were no trolls

—but there were cold facts to be related into meaning.

There was a shout of triumph from the croquet lawn. McLachlan straightened up with a yell of triumph, brandishing his mallet like a battle-axe.

The trick was to get the facts in the right order. The trouble was that there were no facts before Adashev had met Smith-had met Zoshchenko, damn it—in the museum at Newcastle. And even that had been an undeserved bit of luck due to a tip-off from that defector in the KGB's British section.

There was a ripple of clapping and applause around him.

Audley had failed. Months in the field, with Richardson and God only knew how many others, and he had failed to establish one worthwhile fact— that was the incredible thing.

Someone bowled a croquet ball towards Dan, who took a wild swing at it, missed, straightened up, caught Butler's eye at last and waved at him, smiling.

The one sure thing was—The one sure thing!

'Richardson!' Butler shouted across the terrace.

Richardson sauntered over towards him casually.

'Steady on,' he murmured, looking carefully away from Butler. 'I don't think you're supposed to be on shouting terms with me, you know.'

'Where's Audley?'

'I haven't the slightest idea, Colonel.'

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'Get in touch with him. Tell him I have to see him.'

'I don't know that I can—hullo there, Polly!' Richardson waved gaily. 'I have my cover to think of.'

'I'm not asking you—I'm ordering you,' Butler grated. 'You've got no cover.'

Richardson flicked a quick glance at Butler, then coolly looked at his wristwatch as though Butler had asked him the time. 'Right,' he murmured. 'And would there be anything you'd like him to know?'

Polly was coming towards them.

'Tell him—damn it, tell him we aren't the cat. We're the mouse.'

XVI

AFTER FIFTEEN HUNDRED years of neglect the Roman defenses at Boghole Gap were still formidable: they were like belt and braces attached to self-supporting trousers.