The Loo Sanction

breakfast with us. Cool it, man.'

'When I went into his room this morning, the bleedin' bed 'adn't been slept in. Looked like he'd scarpered. The lads and me's been all over the grounds lookin' for 'im!'

'You must have worked up quite an appetite,' Jonathan commented softly. 'And it's obvious that you needed the exercise.'

'I'm fitter than you'll ever be, mate.'

'In which case you don't need my support to stand up.' Jonathan glanced again at the hand, which was removed from his shoulder with an angry snap.

'Let's drop it,' Yank told The Sergeant. 'After all, the Guv has given Dr. Hemlock the run of the place.'

'You know he don't want 'im up... there.' The Sergeant jerked his head in the direction of the path leading to the Feeding Station. 'And anyway, nobody told me nothin' about 'im having the run of the place.'

'I am telling you now,' Yank said distinctly, clarifying for Jonathan the chain of command from the Vicar. 'Now be a good lad and sit down to your breakfast.'

The Sergeant glowered at Jonathan, then left, grumbling.

Yank leaned forward and spoke confidentially to Jonathan. 'I wouldn't put him on, if I were you. He's no quiz kid, but he's got a temper, and he's a master of hand-to-hand combat.'

'I am forewarned.'

'By the way. Just out of curiosity, where did you pass the night?'

Maggie smiled into her plate.

Jonathan answered offhandedly, timing his response to catch Yank with a forkful of eggs on the way to his mouth. 'At the Feeding Station.'

The fork hovered, then returned to the plate still laden. The color had drained from Yank's face. 'That's a good deal less funny than you fancy, Dr. Hemlock.'

It amused Jonathan to note that all traces of American accent fled from Yank's voice under pressure, just as multilingual people always return to their native language when they swear, count, or pray.

Unable to eat, Yank excused himself and left.

'That was cruel,' Maggie said.

'Uh-huh. What do you know about this Feeding Station?'

'Nothing really. It's up the path there. Guards and dogs and all. Sometimes the guards come down here to the bar or to take lunch, but they never talk about it.'

'Can you find out about it for me?'

'I can try.'

'Do that.'

It had turned wet and blustery by the time Jonathan was allowed to walk to the vicarage with only the light guard of Yank, who kept up a running conversation of trivia, quite recovered from his crisis of distrust over the mention of the Feeding Station. When they reached the gate, Yank joined two other young men dressed in the flared dark suits and wide bright ties that were almost a Loo uniform. Jonathan could not help noticing how much like East End hoods they looked.

He found the Vicar in his garden, dressed in a stout hunting jacket and twill breeches tucked into thick stockings. His shoes were heavy, boat-toed brogans. The costume contrasted sharply with Jonathan's close-fitting city clothes and custom-made light shoes. The Vicar did not seem to be aware of Jonathan's presence as he muttered angrily to himself while scattering fish food to the carp in his pond. Then he looked up. 'Ah, Dr. Hemlock! Good of you to come.'

'You seem distressed.'

'What? Oh. Well, I am a bit. Nothing to do with your affair. It's that damned Boggs! Will you take something? Coffee, perhaps, or tea?'

'Thank you, no.'

'Just as good. I was hoping we might take a little walk through the fields as we chatted. No place like the open country for privacy. There are insects in the hedgerows, but no bugs—if you have my meaning there.'

Jonathan looked up at the threatening, gusting sky.

'No worry about the weather,' the Vicar assured him. 'Forecast predicts only occasional rain.' He winked.

Jonathan shrugged and followed him to the bottom of the garden where the path became a narrow foot trail through a tangled coppice. 'How did this Boggs get damned?' he asked the back of the figure trudging out briskly before him.

'Pardon? Oh, I see. Well, Boggs owns the land next to the church. A farmer, you know. Been ripping out hedgerows again. Do you know that more than five thousand miles of hedgerows are ripped up annually in England?'

'Pity they didn't get this one,' Jonathan mumbled after stumbling over a root.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Five thousand miles of homes for small creatures and nestings for birds torn out every year! And some of our hedgerows were planted in Saxon times! But the farmers say they get in the way of modern machinery. They are sacrificing the inheritance of centuries for a few pounds profit. No sense of responsibility to nature. No sense of history. Oh, I am sorry! Did that branch catch you as I let it go? And do you know what Boggs has done now?'

Jonathan didn't care.

'He sold off the tract next to the church to construction speculators. Think of it! In a year's time there may be an estate of retirement homes abutting the churchyard. Thin-shelled boxes with names like 'End O' The Line,' and 'Dunroam Inn'!'

'Does all this really matter to you? Or is this a little show for my benefit?'

The Vicar stopped and turned. 'Dr. Hemlock, the Church is my life. And I take a special interest in preserving the living monuments of its architecture. Every penny I make from my avocation with the government goes to that end.' He winked.

'And is that how you justify the ugly things your organization does?'

'It might be. If patriotism required justification.'

'I see. You picture yourself as a kind of whore for Christ. Presumably Magdalen was your college.'

The Vicar's expression frosted over, his face seemed to flatten, and he spoke with crisper tones. 'It occurs to me that we might do better to confine our communication to the problem before us.' He turned and continued his walk, pushing through the brush to a field of stubble.

'Let's do that.'

'It goes without saying,' the Vicar spoke over his shoulder, 'that everything you learn in the course of your work with us is absolutely confidential. My young assistant—the man you know as Yank—has told you in outline the function of the Loo organization. Rather like the Search and Sanction Division of your CII, Loo is assigned the thankless task of providing protection for MI-5 and MI-6 operatives by technique of counterassassination. For good or for ill, our position as most secret of the secret and most efficient of the efficient brings extraordinary tasks to my doorstep. The affair at hand is one such. It is not in essence what your people would call a sanction. There is no specific assignment to kill a given person. To state it better: The affair does not absolutely require assassination. But the chances are you will be pressed to that extreme in an effort to remain alive yourself. Oh, my goodness! I should have warned you about that boggy spot. Here, give me your hand. There! Ah, you seem to have left a shoe behind. Never mind, I'll fetch it out for you. There. Good as new!'

The Vicar pressed on, inhaling deeply the brisk breeze that carried needles of rain with it. 'I think it would be clearer if I presented the situation to you in terms of morals, for modern trends in turpitude lie at the core of the issue. Sexual license, to be specific. The New Morality—which is neither true morality nor particularly new, as a casual reference to the social lives of the Claudian emperors will affirm—has infected every stratum of society, from the universities to the coal pits—not that that is such a great gulf fixed, what with the democratization of the schools. Perhaps it is only natural that a generation that has passed the greater part of its life under the covert threat of atomic annihilation, that has seen the traditional bulwarks of family and class crumble under the pressures