of despair, he still carried himself like a soldier and his tread was firm.
Colin Noble did not even look through the open door.
“All right,” he called to the doctor. “She’s all yours now.” And he followed Peter Stride down the broad staircase.
There was a long hard gallop over good going and open pasture to the crest of the ridge, with only one gate. Melissa-Jane led on her bay filly, her Christmas gift from Uncle Steven. She was in the midst of the passionate love affair that most pubescent girls have with horses, and she looked truly good astride the glistening thoroughbred.
The cold struck high colour into her cheeks and the braid of honey-coloured hair thumped gaily down her back at each stride. She had blossomed even in the few weeks since last Peter had seen her and he realized with some awe and considerable pride that she was fast becoming a great beauty.
Peter was up on one of Steven’s hunters, a big rangy animal with the strength to carry his weight, but the gelding was slogging hard to hold the flying pair that danced ahead of him.
At the hedge, Melissa-Jane scorned the gate, gathered the filly with fine strong hands and took her up and over.
Her little round bottom lifted out of the saddle as she leaned into the jump, and clods of black earth flew from the filly’s hooves.
As soon as she was over she swivelled in the saddle to watch him,
and Peter realized that he was under challenge.
The hedge immediately appeared to be head-high and he noticed for the first time how the ground fell away at a steep angle beyond. He had not ridden for almost two years, and it was the first time he had been up on this gelding but the horse went for the jump gamely, and they brushed the top of the hedge, landed awkwardly, stumbled with
Peter up on his neck for an appalling instant of time in which he was convinced he was to take a toss in front of his daughter’s critical eye; caught his balance, held the gelding’s head up and they came away still together.
“Super-Star!” Melissa-Jane shouted laughing, and by the time he caught her she had dismounted under the yew tree at the crest, and was waiting for him with her breath steaming in the crisp calm air.
“Our land once went right as far as the church-” Peter pointed to the distant grey needle of stone that pricked the belly of the sky, ” and there almost to the top of the downs.” He turned to point in the opposite direction.
“Yes.” Melissa-Jane slipped her arm through his as they stood close together under the yew. “The family had to sell it when
Grandfather died. You told me. And that’s right too. One family shouldn’t own so much.” Peter glanced down at her, startled. “My God,
a comrnu rust in the family. An asp in the bosom.” She squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, Daddy darling. It’s Uncle Steven who is the bloated plutocrat. You’re not a capitalist you aren’t even employed any more-” And the instant she had said it, her laughter collapsed around her and she looked stricken. Oh, I didn’t mean that. I truly didn’t.” It was almost a month now since Peter’s resignation had been accepted by the War Office, but the scandal had not yet run out of steam.
The first heady paeans of praise for the success of Thor’s Delta strike had lasted only a few days. The glowing editorials, the full front pages, the lead news item on every television channel, the effusive messages of congratulations from the leaders of the Western governments, the impromptu triumph for Peter Stride and his little band of heroes, had quickly struck an odd note, a sudden souring of the ecstasies.
The racist Government of South Africa had actually agreed to the release of political prisoners before the assault, one of the hijackers had been taken alive, and died of gunshot wounds received in the terminal buildings. Then one of the released hostages, a freelance journalist who had been covering the medical convention in Mauritius and was returning aboard the hijacked aircraft, published a sensational eye-witness account of the entire episode, and a dozen other passengers supported his claims that there had been screams from the fourth hijacker, screams for mercy, before she was shot to death after her capture.
A storm of condemnation and vilification from the extreme left of the British Labour Government had swept through the Westminster parliament, and had been echoed by the Democrats in the American
Congress. The very existence of the Thor Command had come under scrutiny and been condemned in extravagant tenons. The Communist parties of France and Italy had marched, and the detonation of an
M-26
hand grenade one of those stolen by the Baader-Meinhof gang from the
American base in Metz amongst the crowd leaving the Parc des Princes football stadium in Paris had killed one and injured twenty-three. A
telephone call to the offices of France Soir by a man speaking accented
French claimed that this fresh atrocity was revenge for the murder of four hijackers by the Imperialist execution squad.
Pressure for Peter’s discharge had come initially from the
Pentagon, and there was very little doubt that Dr. Kingston Parker was the accuser, though, as head of Atlas, he was never identified, total secrecy still surrounding the project.
The media had begun to demand an investigation of all the circumstances surrounding Thor. And if it is ascertained that criminal irregularities did indeed exist in the conduct of the operation, that the person or persons responsible be brought to trial either by a military tribunal or the civil courts.” Fortunately the media had not yet unravelled the full scope of Atlas Command. Only Thor was under scrutiny; they did not yet suspect the existence of either Mercury or
Diana.
Within the War Office and the governments of both America and
Britain, there had been much sympathy and support for Peter Stride but he had made it easier for his friends and for himself by rendering his resignation. The resignation had been accepted, but still the left was clamouring for more. They wanted blood, Peter Stride’s blood Now
Melissa-Jane’s huge pansy violet eyes flooded with the tears of mortification. “I didn’t mean that. I truly didn’t.”
“One thing about being out of a job I have more time to be with my favourite girl.” He smiled down at her, but she would not be mollified.
“I don’t believe the horrible things they are saying. I know you are a man of honour, Daddy.”
“Thank you.” And he felt the ache of it,
the guilt and the sorrow. They were silent a little longer, still standing close together, and Peter spoke first.
“You are going to be a palaeontologist-‘he said.
“No. That was last month. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not interested in old bones any more. Now I’m going to be a doctor, a child specialist.”
“That’s good.” Peter nodded gravely. “But let’s go back to old bones for a moment. The age of the great reptiles. The dinosaurs why did they fade into extinction?”
“They could not adapt to a changing environment.” Melissa-jane had the answer promptly.
Peter murmured,” - A concept like honour. Is it outdated in today’s world, I wonder?” Then he saw the puzzlement, the hurt in her eyes, and he knew they had wandered onto dangerous ground. His daughter had a burning love for all living things, particularly human beings. Despite her age, she had a developed political and social conscience, distinguished by total belief in shining ideals and the essential beauty and goodness of mankind. There would be time in the years ahead for the agony of disillusion. The term “man or woman of honour” was Melissa- Jane’s ultimate accolade.
No matter that it could be applied to any of her current heroes or heroines the Prince of Wales, or the singer of popular songs with an outrageous name that Peter could never remember, to Virginia Wade, the former Wimbledon champion, or to the Fifth Form science teacher at
Roedean who had aroused Melissa-Jane’s interest in medicine, Peter knew that he should feel proper gratitude for being included in this exalted company.
“I will try to live up to your opinion of me.” He stooped and kissed her, surprised at the strength of his love
