He snoozed for a while. When he woke up, he learned they were off the coast of Argyll, Scotland. It was half past six in the morning. They had been in the air ten hours. Nightminster explained they would have to loiter offshore for another hour until dawn, when they could fly up the Firth of Lorne and land in the Sound of Kerrera outside Oban Bay.
*
“What are those?”
They were taxiing across Oban Bay. Donald nodded towards some sailing barges moored across the bay from the town of Oban. The barges were large enough that one would call them small ships. What caught his eye, apart from their isolation, was that they were armed. Each sported a four-barrelled brass-muncher in a turret near the stern. The boom of the main sail was shortened to make room for it.
“They are patrol barges, General Wardian uses them to prevent surplus at sea before it can reach the shore and cause infestation.”
“Surplus from where?”
The remoteness of the town was typified in the heavy stone architecture, dark slate roofs and the raw landscape, so thinly layered with soil that rock blistered out everywhere.
“It flows across England and Wales, crosses to Ireland, then rises up to the north coast, whence it launches itself in blind hope across the Irish Sea.”
Donald burst out laughing at this preposterous behaviour.
“What on earth for?”
“You have to understand the mentality of the surplus. Far away in deepest Europe lurks a fantasy of the north as an empty paradise, a place of endless forests, limpid lakes, seas rich with herring, cod, mackerel, shark and seal. Surplus born into the dust and plagues of the south carry this dream across years of travel.”
As the flying boat approached the town’s jetty, a pilot cutter skimmed out, oars pulling cleanly together, a harbour official standing in the bow with a severe expression. Nightminster slid back his window and stopped the engines. He offered his passport with an envelope folded inside. The passport was not one that Donald recognised. It was a smart booklet, bound in black leather, with creamy pages watermarked in purple thread. Combined with the contents of the envelope, it entirely satisfied the harbour official.
“Welcome to Krossington at Oban Castle, sir. We will tow you into the harbour.”
Twenty minutes later, Donald stood on solid stone harbour mole looking down at the flying boat nestled with the fishing fleet.
“OK,” Nightminster said. “First stop will be Rackland.”
Nightminster knew his way around. He led through the town centre, which was congested with man-hauled wagons bearing casks, blocks of pale stone and bellowing cattle. Working people in leather aprons and denims bustled around the docks. In a side street they approached an old stone building, the ground floor windows of which were blanked with iron plates. Above the porch was a coat of arms and in gold letters “Rackland & Company”. Nightminster leaped up the steps and rapped the door. It swung open upon an attractive teenaged girl with long dark hair, wearing a Harris tweed waistcoat and skirt. Donald noted sturdy legs in heavy black woollen stockings, which were no doubt a practical necessity in this chilly place. She beamed at them and spoke cheerily.
“Good morning, I am Dorothea Rackland. How can I help you?”
“My name is Prentice Nightminster. I would appreciate the audience of Gustavus Rackland. Please take him this introduction.”
Nightminster passed across a beige envelope of heavy vellum. The young lady departed, leaving the door open, a display of trust that surprised Donald. He supposed everyone felt safe here on Krossington land, where strangers were few and by invitation only. She beamed again on her return.
“My father will be pleased to offer his audience. Please follow me.”
She led them initially through the business level of things, stores piled with tree trunks, slates, hides, boxes of 0.303 calibre ammunition, bottled meats, walls of sacked grain... After ascending a couple of floors, they reached managerial levels of carpeted corridors decorated with portraits of late worthies of the firm. She ushered them into a classic boss’s office, dominated by a large desk in the far corner. The boss sat in a typical pose, fingertips steepled. Rackland was about fifty, with wavy brown hair turning grey over the ears. He lived well. His paunch swelled out, lifting the front of the suit, a bob of flab drooped under his chin. Donald thought his eyes particularly dark and unfriendly.
Nightminster marched forward across the office, his teeth bared in that carnivorous grin of his.
“Good morning Mr Rackland, I am grateful you could receive us without an appointment.”
Rackland slipped off the chair and heaved himself up. He was only about five foot seven inches tall. Nightminster shook hands so hard Rackland’s flabby chin wobbled.
“Not every visitor is endorsed by His Decency Tom Krossington himself,” Rackland said. “Tell me what your interest is, Mr ah… Nightminster.”
Nightminster evidently felt that standing like a schoolboy before Rackland’s desk did not suit the atmosphere he aimed to establish. He turned about, in no great hurry selected an armchair from a suite on the opposite side of the office and kicked it across the carpet to a new position under a window at one side of Rackland’s desk. Rackland following this with glaring, disbelieving eyes. Nightminster relaxed with one leg cocked up on the other knee, gazing down his nose. In the crystal tension, Donald eased himself out of the line of fire, retreating to a ladder-backed chair over near the door.
Rackland swung his chair to face Nightminster. The bob of fat under his chin quivered. He clasped his hands on his lap. The show of arrogance, backed by the name of Tom Krossington and Nightminster’s physical size relative to his own, had clearly fazed him.
“I am here concerning a matter of the most extreme political sensitivity.” Nightminster spoke
