'Oh well, I don't suppose he's sleeping now.'
She led the way into the spare bedroom. Dwight was awake and sitting up in bed. 'I guessed it must be you,' he said. 'Killed anybody yet?'
'Not yet,' said the scientist. 'I'm hoping to be the first. I'd hate to spend the last days of my life in prison. I've had enough of that in the last two months.' He undid his attache case and explained his errand.
Dwight took the report and read it through, asking a question now and then. 'I kind of wish we'd left that radio station operational, the way it was,' he said once. 'Maybe we'd have heard a little more from Yeoman Swain.'
'It was a good long way from him.'
'He had his outboard motorboat. He might have stopped off one day when he was tired of fishing, and sent a message.'
'I don't think he'd have lasted long enough for that, sir. I'd have given him three days, at the very outside.'
The captain nodded. 'I don't suppose he'd have wanted to be bothered with it, anyway. I wouldn't, if the fish were taking well, and it was my last day.' He read on, asking a question now and then. At the end he said, 'That's okay. You'd better take out that last paragraph, about me and the ship.'
'I'd prefer to leave it in, sir.'
'And I'd prefer you take it out. I don't like things like that said about what was just a normal operation in the line of duty.'
The scientist put his pencil through it. 'As you like.'
'You got that Ferrari here?'
'I came out in it.'
'Sure. I heard you. Can I see it from the window?'
'Yes. It's just outside.'
The captain got out of bed and stood in his pyjamas at the window. 'That's the hell of a car,' he said. 'What are you going to do with it?'
'Race it. There's not much time left so they're starting the racing season earlier than usual. They don't usually begin before about October, because of the wet roads. They're having little races all the winter, though. As a matter of fact I raced it twice before I went away.'
The captain got back into bed. 'So you said. I never raced a car like that. I never even drove one. What's it like in a race?'
'You get scared stiff. Then directly it's over you want to go on and do it again.'
'Have you ever done this before?'
The scientist shook his head. 'I've never had the money, or the time. It's what I've wanted to do all my life.'
'Is that the way you're going to make it, in the end?'
There was a pause. 'It's what I'd like to do,' John Osborne said. 'Rather than die in a sick muck, or take those pills. The only thing is, I'd hate to smash up the Ferrari. She's such a lovely bit of work. I don't think I could bring myself to do that willingly.'
Dwight grinned. 'Maybe you won't have to do it willingly, not if you go racing at two hunderd per on wet roads.'
'Well, that's what I've been thinking, too. I don't know that I'd mind that happening, any time from now on.'
The captain nodded. Then he said, 'There's no chance now of it slowing up and giving us a break, is there?'
John Osborne shook his head. 'Absolutely none. There's not the slightest indication-if anything it seems to be coming a little faster. That's probably associated with the reduced area of the earth's surface as it moves down from the equator; it seems to be accelerating a little now in terms of latitude. The end of August seems to be the time.'
The captain nodded. 'Well, it's nice to know. It can't be too soon for me.'
'Will you be taking Scorpion to sea again?'
'I've got no orders. She'll be operational again at the beginning of July. I'm planning to keep her under the Australian command up till the end. Whether I'll have a crew to make her operational-well, that's another thing again. Most of the boys have got girl friends in Melbourne here, about a quarter of them married. Whether they'll feel allergic to another cruise is anybody's guess. I'd say they will.'
There was a pause. 'I kind of envy you having that Ferrari,' he said quietly. 'I'll be worrying and working right up till the end.'
'I don't see that there's any need for you to do that,' the scientist said. 'You ought to take some leave. See a bit of Australia.'
The American grinned. 'There's not much left of it to see.'
'That's true. There's the mountain parts, of course. They're all skiing like mad up at Mount Buller and at Hotham. Do you ski?'
'I used to, but not for ten years or so. I wouldn't like to break a leg and get stuck in bed up till the end.' He paused. 'Say,' he said. 'Don't people go trout fishing up in those mountains?'
John Osborne nodded. 'The fishing's quite good.'
'Do they have a season, or can you fish all year round?'
'You can fish for perch in Eildon Weir all year round. They take a spinner, trolling from a boat. But there's good trout fishing in all the little rivers up there.' He smiled faintly. 'There's a close season for trout. It doesn't open till September the first.'
There was a momentary pause. 'That's running it kind of fine,' Dwight said at last. 'I certainly would like a day or two trout fishing, but from what you say we might be busy just around that time.'
'I shouldn't think it would make any odds if you went up a fortnight early, this year.'
'I wouldn't like to do a thing like that,' the American said seriously. 'In the States-yes. But when you're in a foreign country, I think a fellow should stick by the rules.'
Time was going on, John Osborne had no lights on the Ferrari and no capacity to go much slower than fifty miles an hour. He gathered his papers together and put them in the attache case, said good-bye to Dwight Towers, and left him to get upon the road back to the city. In the lounge he met Moira. 'How did you think he was?' she asked.
'He's all right,' the scientist said. 'Only a bat or two flying round the belfry.'
She frowned a little; this wasn't the Pogo stick. 'What about?'
'He wants a couple of days' trout fishing before we all go home,' her cousin said. 'But he won't go before the season opens, and that's not until September the first.'
She stood in silence for a moment. 'Well, what of it? He's keeping the law, anyway. More than you are, with that disgusting car. Where do you get the petrol for it?'
'It doesn't run on petrol,' he replied. 'It runs on something out of a test tube.'
'Smells like it,' she said. She watched him as he levered himself down into the seat and adjusted his crash helmet, as the engine crackled spitefully into life, as he shot off down the drive leaving great wheel ruts on the flower bed.
A fortnight later, in the Pastoral club, Mr. Allan Sykes walked into the little smoking room for a drink at twenty minutes past twelve. Lunch was not served till one o'clock so he was the first in the room; he helped himself to a gin and stood alone, considering his problem. Mr. Sykes was the director of the State Fisheries and Game Department, a man who liked to run his businesses upon sound lines regardless of political expediency. The perplexities of the time had now invaded his routine, and he was a troubled man.
Sir Douglas Froude came into the room. Mr. Sykes, watching him, thought that he was walking very badly and that his red face was redder than ever. He said, 'Good morning, Douglas, I'm in the book.'
'Oh, thank you, thank you,' said the old man. 'I'll take a Spanish sherry with you.' He poured it with a trembling hand. 'You know,' he said, 'I think the Wine Committee must be absolutely crazy. We've got over four hundred bottles of magnificent dry sherry, Ruy de Lopez, 1947, and they seem to be prepared to let it stand there in the cellars. They said the members wouldn't drink it because of the price. I told them, I said-give it away, if you
