Tomorrow, Saturday, there would be a protest march in London, if London was still standing in the morning. Jasper would be there as a reporter for St. Julian’s News, the student paper. Jasper did not really like doing news reports: he preferred features, longer, more reflective pieces, in which the writing could be a little more fancy. He hoped one day to work in magazines, or maybe even television.

But first he wanted to be editor of St. Julian’s News. The post came with a small salary and a sabbatical year off studies. It was much coveted, as it practically guaranteed the student a good job in journalism after graduation. Jasper had applied but had been defeated by Sam Cakebread. The Cakebread name was famous in British journalism: Sam’s father was assistant editor of The Times and his uncle was a much-loved radio commentator. He had a younger sister at St. Julian’s College who had interned with Vogue magazine. Jasper suspected that it was Sam’s name, not his ability, that had won him the job.

But ability was never enough in Britain. Jasper’s grandfather had been a general, and his father had been on course for a similar career, until he made the mistake of marrying a Jewish girl, and in consequence had never been promoted above the rank of colonel. The British establishment never forgave people who broke their rules. Jasper had heard it was different in the United States.

Evie Williams was in the kitchen with Jasper, sitting at the table, making a placard that read HANDS OFF CUBA.

Evie no longer had a schoolgirl crush on Jasper. He was relieved. She was sixteen now, and beautiful in a pale, ethereal way; but she was too solemn and intense for his taste. Anyone who dated her would have to share her passionate commitment to a wide range of campaigns against cruelty and injustice, from apartheid in South Africa to experiments on animals. Jasper had no commitment to anything, and anyway he preferred girls like the impish Beep Dewar, who even at the age of thirteen had put her tongue in his mouth and rubbed herself against his erection.

As Jasper watched, Evie inscribed, inside the O of OFF, the four-branched symbol of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Jasper said: “So your slogan supports two idealistic causes for the price of one!”

“There’s nothing idealistic about it,” she said sharply. “If war breaks out tonight, do you know what the first target of Soviet nuclear bombs will be? Britain. That’s because we have nuclear weapons, which they need to eliminate before they attack the United States. They won’t be bombing Norway, or Portugal, or any country that has the sense to stay out of the nuclear competition. Anyone who thinks logically about the defense of our country knows that nuclear weapons don’t protect us—they put us in danger.”

Jasper had not intended his remark to be taken seriously, but Evie took everything seriously.

Evie’s fourteen-year-old brother, Dave, was also at the table, making miniature Cuban flags. He had used a stencil to paint the stripes onto sheets of heavy paper, and now he was attaching the sheets to small sticks of plywood with a borrowed staple gun. Jasper resented Dave’s privileged life, with wealthy, easygoing parents, but he worked hard to be friendly. “How many are you making?” he asked.