Here Be Monsters

And he wasn't happy with the answer he received.' She would have to brief Paul about this.

He munched for a moment. 'How did he know you were on analysis?'

She wasn't there ahead of him, but at least she was ready for anything. 'Oh - ' This had better dummy2

be good, Elizabeth!' - I asked him about that…'

'And what did he say?'

Only the truth would do. 'He seems to know my style. He calls it a 'mind-print'.' She shrugged, a little disbelieving, a little irritated.

'He does?' Another nod, and another reach towards the box. But there were so few left now that he had to lean forward to search among the empty paper containers. 'Like the radio-operators… But to do it with SGs is really quite ingenious… He's no fool, is your Dr Mitchell, Elizabeth.'

That was one crack too many. 'Not my Dr Mitchell, Mr Latimer.'

'No. Forgive me.' He found his chocolate, and then turned towards the screen as he fed it to himself. 'You know, the results of your Civil Service interview a couple of years ago, and all that… they were quite good, you know.' He had got a chewy one this time, and it was giving him problems. 'And your other fitness tests.'

Patronizing chauvinist pig! thought Elizabeth. But then she checked her own prejudice, and reassessed her judgment. What he was doing was prudently clearing her for what Paul plainly believed was beyond her capability.

Prudent level-headed Deputy-Director! 'Colonel Butler said my results were satisfactory.'

'More than satisfactory. They said you were a late developer, and they'd probably have failed you if you'd come to them straight from Oxford, in spite of your first-class degree and your hockey Blue… It seems that they are presently indulging - or trying to indulge -

some sort of positive discrimination in that regard.' He shook his head at the screen. 'It won't do, you know - it won't do at all! Though I suppose they might have passed you…

because you were female…'

Patronizing chauvinist pig! 'I'm still female, Mr Latimer.' Not even a secure classification was worth this! 'I may have developed, but I haven't changed in that respect.'

'Oh - ' He left the screen instantly, to blink at her in surprise, almost as though he was seeing her for the first time ' - yes - ?'

'You sent for me, Mr Latimer. I'm sorry I was late.' She often - too often! - saw Admiral Varney's face, but it was only very rarely that she heard his voice.

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'Yes… Miss Loftus.' Suddenly he really did see her. And suddenly he wasn't a little fat man with an almost empty box of chocolates in front of him on an empty desk.

Tripod masts!

Then he relaxed, and the masts faded into her imagination, and he was a little fat man again.

'How's your latin, Miss Loftus - Elizabeth?'

'My - what?' She couldn't have heard correctly.

'Your Latin. Veni, vidi, via?' He stared at her, and she had heard correctly. 'Hie, haec, hoc -

and Gallia est omnis divisa in panes tres?'

She had heard correctly - but she didn't know how to answer.

Elizabeth could only think Paul had been wrong!

'No matter!' He didn't seem to expect an answer. He seemed to know all the answers to his own questions. 'No matter, Elizabeth. You just tell me now about the Pointe du Hoc in 1944

instead.'

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Ten years as a school-teacher had taught Elizabeth how to deal with the clever-awkward girls, who had simultaneously known too much for their own good, yet not half enough.

But what she had somehow forgotten was how such girls resisted The Enemy.

'The Pointe du Hoc is a headland on the coast of Normandy, between Grandcamp and Vierville - '

'Spare me the geography, Elizabeth.' Oliver St John Latimer munched his chocolate.

'Waterloo is a village near Brussels, and Gettysburg is a small town in Pennsylvania, and neither of them has moved an inch on the map since 1815, or 1863. So the Pointe du Hoc is still where it was in 1944 - shall we take that as read?' He munched contentedly. 'Just tell me something I don't know - eh?'

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Dawn, 6th June, 1944, Companies D, E and F, 5th Battalion, US Rangers -

' Rangers, the Americans called them, Liza - like our Commandos.' Major Birkenshawe locked a bushy white eyebrow at her. 'You know what they are? Real cutthroats is what they are, Liza!'

Elizabeth tried not to wince. Long, long ago, when she had been in pig-tails and short skirts - when Father had