Filled with the liveliest misgivings he went out to the car. Simon was in the garage. Gaunt had been granted a traveller’s petrol licence and Simon had offered to keep the magnificent car in order. Gloating secretly, he would spend hours over slight adjustments; cleaning, listening, peering.

‘I still reckon we might advance the spark a bit,’ he said without looking at Dikon.

‘I’m going into Harpoon,’ said Dikon. ‘Would you care to come?’

‘I don’t mind.’

Dikon had learned to recognize this form of acceptance. ‘Jump in then,’ he said. ‘You can drive.’

‘I won’t come at that.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s not my bus. Not my place to drive her.’

‘Don’t be an ass. I’ve got a free hand and I’m asking you. You can check up the engine better if you’re driving, can’t you?’

He saw desire and defensiveness struggling together in Simon. ‘Get on with it,’ he said and sat firmly in the passenger’s place.

They drove round the house and up the abominable drive. Dikon glanced at Simon and was touched by his look of inward happiness. He drove delicately and with assurance.

‘Running well, isn’t she?’ asked Dikon.

‘She’s a trimmer,’ said Simon. As the car gathered speed on the main road he lost his customary air of mulishness and gained a kind of authority. Bent on dismissing the scene with Gaunt from his thoughts, Dikon lured Simon into talking about his own affairs, his impatience to get into uniform, his struggles with Morse, his passionate absorption with the war in the air. Dikon thought how young Simon would have seemed among English youth of his own age and how vulnerable. ‘I’m coming on with the old dah-dah-dit, though,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve made my own practice transmitter. It’s got a corker fulcrum, too. I’m not so hot at receiving yet, but I can get quite a bit of the stuff on the shortwave. Nearly all code, of course, but some of it’s straight English. Gosh, I wish they’d pull me in. It’s a blooming nark the way they keep you hanging about.’

‘They’ll miss you on the place.’