“No. That was suggested—not Manston’s, but another helicopter all the same. It would have meant risking entanglement and crash and fire, quite unnecessarily dangerous. Kent have something worked out, though I haven’t yet had details. Perhaps you’d get them through for me—I’ve a few things to settle before I leave. Take a special note of the car they’re to provide for me at Folkestone, and tell them I’ll drive myself. Just a plain civilian car—there’s no need to appropriate expensive equipment. You could ask Manston to send us a reliable weather forecast. Oh, and just see if the division has anything new. Give them another half-hour before you do that, though. All right?”

“All right,” said Beddoes patiently.

Brett drove to Fitch Street. He had half intended to call again on Majendie. But on approaching the shop he was reminded by the sight of Kellett’s that his brother’s record token lay in his pocket. If he changed it, he would be able to play his choice at Christmas, in the unlikely event of his being free. He had time to spare. The things he had told Beddoes he had to settle could be boiled down to one thing; the cameo. He was making a little free time for himself in which he might try to work out the best solution. To buy the record would in any case take only a few minutes. Since he knew that recording and performance were excellent, he would not stop to test it; a glance at the surfaces would suffice. He parked the car, walked past Majendie’s, and opened Kellett’s heavy glass door.

It would have been difficult to guess, from mere appearance, what sort of shop this was, or indeed that it was a shop at all. It more resembled a superior travel agent’s office, or the showroom of an air line. A sponge-backed carpet covered every inch of the floor. Behind a crescent of counter, strewn with leaflets and catalogues, half a dozen assistants were seated at regular intervals. Behind them, a wall of pressed fibrous material extended almost to the ceiling and sides of the room. Beyond this, Brett knew from past visits, another wall was formed by what looked like grooved bookcases, which held the records. Beyond that were the stairs which led up and down to displays of perfectionists’ sound-reproducing equipment. Last of all lay the best insulated playing cubicles in London, the only place in the capital where Brünnhilde’s Immolation could be reduced to a whisper merely by shutting a door.