The corridor smelled agreeably of fresh paint; I had an absurd desire to touch the gleaming cream walls to ascertain whether they were still wet. For five years I’d been pestering Mid­dridge to brighten up this part of the works; a month ago, quite un­expectedly, he’d given way. He’d even consented to have a glass door put in at the end of the corridor. Through it I could see sun­shine; I quickened my pace. Then, at the moment I drew level with the door of the computer room, Hillington came out. This was the third time this had happened recently; I wondered how he always knew exactly when I was in the vicinity.

“I’d like a word with you, sir,” he said.

He was wearing a black jacket of shiny alpaca; together with the centre parting and the high collar, it gave an impression that he had somehow slipped back three decades. He might have been the model for one of the illustrations to the textbooks on office methods that I studied before the war; as I followed him into the Computer Room I felt the familiar depression take hold of me. He was Middridge’s subordinate; and through him Middridge would somehow draw me into his mess, would somehow pass the can on to me.

“I’m in a hurry,” I said. “But fire ahead, old man. Get it off your chest.” I always found myself using this outdatedly breezy idiom with Hillington.

“It’s serious, sir. I’ve thought about it very deeply. I’m going to resign.”

“We all feel like that sometimes,” I said. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not going to be sworn at,” he said. “But it was worse than swearing. Much worse.”

“How much worse?”

He didn’t seem to hear my question. “The computer will do exactly what you tell it to do, Mr. Lampton. No more, no less.”

“I know,” I said gently.

“There’s always teething troubles, Mr. Lampton. I didn’t de­sign the machine, after all. There’s things that should have been done initially and haven’t been done . . . It’s no good Mr. Brown swearing at me.” His face was reddening and his eyes sus­piciously moist.

I patted his shoulder. “Now, now, don’t work yourself up about it,” I said. “Mr. Brown’s very quick-tempered but his bark’s worse than his bite. Haven’t you told Mr. Middridge about it yet?”

“I did, yesterday. But he’s been taken ill. I don’t think he had time to see Mr. Brown.”

“Then it looks as if I’m elected, doesn’t it?” I knew Middridge’s illnesses; whether genuine or not, they always afflicted him at the most convenient time and always lasted exactly the right period.

“I had my resignation written out,” he said. “But my father said not to be hasty.”