There have also been, aggravating the Crisis, defections: Rollo Groast assumed back into the Society for Psychical Research, Treacle setting up a practice, Myron Grunton again a full-time wireless personality. Mexico has begun to grow distant. The Borgesius woman still performs her nocturnal duties, but with the Brigadier ill now (has the old fool been forgetting his antibiotics? Must Pointsman do everything?) she’s beginning to fret. Of course Géza Rózsavölgyi is still with the project. A fanatic. Rózsavölgyi will never leave.

So. A holiday by the sea. For political reasons, the party is made up of Pointsman, Mexico, Mexico’s girl, Dennis Joint, and Katje Borgesius. Pointsman wears rope-soled shoes, his prewar bowler, and a rare smile. The weather is not ideal. An overcast, a wind that will be chilly by midafternoon. A smell of ozone blows up from the Dodgem cars out of the gray steel girderwork along the promenade, along with smells of shellfish on the barrows, and of salt sea. The pebbled beach is crowded with families: shoeless fathers in lounge suits and high white collars, mothers in blouses and skirts startled out of war-long camphor sleep, kids running all over in sunsuits, nappies, rompers, short pants, knee socks, Eton hats. There are ice cream, sweets, Cokes, cockles, oysters and shrimps with salt and sauce. The pinball machines writhe under the handling of fanatical servicemen and their girls, throwing body-english, cursing, groaning as the bright balls drum down the wood obstacle courses through ka-chungs, flashing lights, thudding flippers. The donkeys hee-haw and shit, the children walk in it and their parents scream. Men sag in striped canvas chairs talking business, sports, sex, but most usually politics. An organ grinder plays Rossini’s overture to La Gazza Ladra (which, as we shall see later, in Berlin, marks a high point in music which everybody ignored, preferring Beethoven, who never got further than statements of intention), and here without snaredrums or the sonority of brasses the piece is mellow, full of hope, promising lavender twilights, stainless steel pavilions and everyone elevated at last to aristocracy, and love without payment of any kind… .

It was Pointsman’s plan today not to talk shop, but to let the conversation flow more or less organically. Wait for others to betray themselves. But there is shyness, or constraint, among them all. Talk is minimal. Dennis Joint is watching Katje with a horny smile, with now and then a suspicious stare for Roger Mexico. Mexico meantime has his troubles with Jessica—more and more often these days—and at the moment the two aren’t even looking at each other. Katje Borgesius has her eyes far out to sea, and there is no telling what is going on with this one. In some dim way, Pointsman, though he can’t see that she has any leverage at all, is still afraid of her. There is still a lot he doesn’t know. Perhaps what’s bothering him most right now is her connection, if any, with Pirate Prentice. Prentice has been down to “The White Visitation” several times asking rather pointed questions about her. When PISCES recently opened its new branch office in London (which some wag, probably that young imbecile Webley Silvernail, has already dubbed “Twelfth House”) Prentice began hanging heavily around up there, romancing secretaries, trying for a peep into this file or that… . What’s up? What afterlife have the Firm found, this side of V-E Day? What does Prentice want… what’s his price? Is he in love with La Borgesius here? Is it possible for this woman to be in love? Love? Oh, it’s enough to make you scream. What would her idea of love be… .