There is a possibility, among the dogs, latent so far because it’s never been seriously tested, of a crystallizing into sects, each around the image of its trainer. A feasibility study, in fact, is going on even now at staff level in G-5, to see whether original trainers might not be located, and this crystallizing begun. One sect might try to protect its trainer against attacks from others. Given the right combinations and an acceptable trainer-loss figure, it might be cheaper to let the dogs finish themselves off than to send in combat troops. The study has been contracted to, of all people, Mr. Pointsman, who is now restricted to one small office at Twelfth House, the rest of the space having been taken over by an agency studying options for nationalizing coal and steel—given him more out of sympathy than anything else. Since the castrating of Major Marvy, Pointsman has been officially in disgrace. Clive Mossmoon and Sir Marcus Scammony sit in their club, among discarded back copies of British Plastics, drinking the knight’s favorite, Quimporto—a weird prewar mixture of quinine, beef-tea and port—with a dash of Coca-Cola and a peeled onion. Ostensibly the meeting is to finalize plans for the Postwar Polyvinyl Chloride Raincoat, a source of great corporate fun these days (“Imagine the look on some poor bastard’s face when the whole sleeve simply falls out of the shoulder—” “O-or how about mixing in something that will actually dissolve in the rain?”). But Mossmoon really wants to discuss Pointsman: “What shall we do with Pointsman?”

“I found the most darling boots in Portobello Road,” pipes Sir Marcus, whom it’s always hard to get around to talking business. “They’ll look stunning on you. Blood-red cordovan and halfway up your thighs. Your naked thighs.”

“We’ll give it a go,” replies Clive, neutral as can be (though it’s a thought, old Scorpia’s been so damned bitchy lately). “I could use a spot of relaxation after trying to explain Pointsman away to the Higher Levels.”

“Oh, the dog chap. I say, have you ever thought about a Saint Bernard? Big, shaggy darlings.”

“On occasion,” Clive keeps at it, “but mostly I think about Pointsman.”

“Not your sort, darling. Not at all. And he is getting on, poor chap.”

“Sir Marcus,” last resort, usually the willowy knight demands to be called Angelique, and there seems no other way to get his attention, “if this show prangs, we’re going to see a national crisis. I’ve got Ginger Groupers jamming my switchboard and my mailbox day and night—”

“Mm, I’d like to jam your male box, Clivey—”

“—and 1922 Committee coming in the windows. Bracken and Beaverbrook go on, you know, it isn’t as if the election put them out of a job or something—”

“Dear chap,” smiling angelically, “there isn’t going to be any crisis. Labour wants the American found as much as we do. We sent him out to destroy the blacks, and it’s obvious now he won’t do the job. What harm can he cause, roaming around Germany? For all we know he’s taken ship for South America and all those adorable little mustachios. Let it be for a while. We’ve got the Army, when the time is right. Slothrop was a good try at a moderate solution, but in the end it’s always the Army, isn’t it?”