Tomorrow's ghost

' - who didn't wholly approve of him.'

'Sour grapes,' said the fair-haired young man. 'The favourite food of the only mythical monster commonly found in Senior Common Rooms - the one with green eyes.'

'No, I think not.' Crowe shook his head. 'This was well before he became a cult figure

- before even the first volume was published.'

Idiot, Frances admonished herself. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.

'Ah - but he'd already done well with The Hobbit, hadn't he?' the young man countered. 'That was republished directly after the war - ' He looked at Frances, then over her shoulder. 'Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo. Someone's wanted by the Law.'

Frances turned towards the door. The Law was grizzled and stocky, but unmistakable. And it was trying to catch her eye.

'I think he's looking at you. Miss Fitzgibbon,' said the young man. 'He probably wants to frisk you for infernal devices.'

Frances looked at him questioningly. 'For what?'

'But don't worry,' the young man reassured her. 'We've all been through the process, and it's surprisingly painless. The whole place is absolutely crawling with security types

- it's getting more like Colditz University every day.'

'Oh?' said Frances.

'The Minister for Ulster is collecting his honorary degree today.' The young man shrugged. 'Presumably they do this wherever he goes, poor devil. He must lead a dog's life - no wonder our revered Chancellor retired from the fray.'

'Oh...' Frances trailed off nervously. 'Well, I suppose I'd better go and see what he wants. Excuse me.'

The Law held the door open for her, and then followed her into the ante-room.

'Mrs Fitzgibbon?'

'Sergeant ... Ballard?'

They examined each other's warrant cards.

'I am just about to make my final check before the count-down, madam.'

I am in charge. In theory anyway, and because of the unit's place in the hierarchy, I am in charge.

'Very good, Mr Ballard.'

There was no need to panic. The building was a detached one; it had been thoroughly searched several times over a forty-eight hour period; there were two men and a woman officer on the main door, and two men on the back door, with scanners.

There were two men on the roof; there was Sergeant Ballard himself; the outside approaches to the building were covered by four monitors. There was no need to panic.

As a result of a sequence of events which neither she nor Colonel Butler understood, there was Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon in charge of all this - the late Marilyn Francis, vice ex-Lieutenant James Cable, R.N., who had expressed himself satisfied with it. There was absolutely no need to panic, therefore.

Sergeant Ballard was looking at her, and Frances realised how young officers felt when put in command of old soldiers vastly senior to them in years and experience.

'Very good, madam.' Sergeant Ballard paused. 'Then I shall report back to you when the check is completed.'

Simple routine. And if the Sergeant felt any distaste at being subjugated to a woman half his age who was drinking coffee socially while he was doing all the work, he didn't show it.

'Thank you, Mr Ballard.'

She watched the broad back disappear, knowing that she hadn't asked the crucial question - Are you satisfied with the precautions? - because it was also meaningless. No precautions could ever be foolproof. It all depended on whether Colonel Butler's computer could out-think O'Leary.

* * *

'... he was a philologist really, and a very fine one. And he had a good ear, too - he could place a man by his accent with uncommon accuracy. Almost as good as Higgins in Pygmalion.'

Frances's heart sank: they were still discussing John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.

'Is it true he was obsessed by the '14-'18 war?' The fair-haired young man's voice was no longer bantering. 'Are the Dead Marshes in volume two - and the whole of Mordor, for that matter - are they based on his experiences in the trenches?'

'Hmm... I don't know about that. But he was fascinated by trenches, certainly ... I can remember meeting him in the High once - at Oxford. He was standing in the rain watching workmen digging a trench in the road, absolutely transfixed by them - ' Crowe broke off as he saw Frances. 'Ah, my dear! We have obtained a cup of coffee for you, even though it is almost time for tea, I shouldn't wonder.' Crowe looked at his watch.

'The Chancellor's party is evidently running behind schedule.'

'Thank you. Professor.' Frances accepted the cup. There were, of course, two schedules: the official one, and the actual one which fluctuated according to predetermined times and deviations required by security to dislocate any plans O'Leary might have. But then no doubt O'Leary would have allowed for that in his planning.