“We’ve already got the airports geared up.” Heathrow and Gatwick and Stansted and Manchester and Birmingham and Luton, all of Britain’s great terminals. “The air traffic boys confirm we can handle up to a million passengers a day. A 747 in the air every three minutes, packed to the gills.

“As to destinations, we can load as many as we like into Northern Ireland in the short term, of course. It’s going to be important to keep the ferry ports in Liverpool and Wales functioning as long as possible. The Scousers are organizing volunteer squads to break up any Moonseed infection, to keep the ports and roads open. Heroic. The bloody French are being no help at all, as you’d expect; they say we can take people out through the Chunnel, but they’ll be sent straight on somewhere else.

“All of the ports are ready, of course. We’re going to ask you to front an appeal to small-boat owners to come to the aid of the party.”

Fames, in profile, smiled. “Dunkirk in reverse.”

“That’s it. That’s exactly the note to strike. Spirit of the Blitz. I’m glad your instincts are still with us, Bob.”

But the flattery did nothing to disturb the ominous calm within which Fames seemed locked.

Holland went on, “But we’ll never be able to get everybody out. The chronically ill, the very old, perhaps. The awkward squad who just won’t move anyhow. The emergency planning boys estimate perhaps fifteen per cent could never be evacuated no matter how much time we have.”

“Fifteen per cent, of sixty million.”

Holland blustered on, “We’ve already moved the bulk of the gold reserves to Belfast. The Arts Council have pulled together a committee on works of art to be exported. There are architects who want to set up an archive somewhere of plans and photographs of the finer buildings.” He coughed, and glanced around, for eavesdroppers. “On your instruction we’re working on the Ireland option.”

“Ireland?”

“The military option. Invasion. It’s feasible, though diplomatically it would be—”

“Disastrous. We would be pariahs.”

Perhaps, Holland thought. But needs must. He didn’t want to say any more, even here.

“We’re setting up alternate seats of government, in Belfast and the Scillies. We have to think about moving ourselves, sooner rather than later… Bob, are you taking in all this?”

“Oh, yes,” Fames said. “Every word.” He stared into the north. “We’ve already lost so many lives. How many more?”

Holland hesitated.

“Just too big,” Fames said. “Just too bloody big. Sixty million. We can’t conceive of such a number. In our hearts, we’re all still in some Stone Age village, where everybody knows everybody else. Sixty million. It’s beyond us.