Nunn tried to make the antique, rusty machinery inside his head go round and tell him what to do. Should he run after Chiddingfold and try to explain? He had exactly one minute left before the Queen arrived. Could he possibly do it in that time? What would Goldwasser be telling Chiddingfold on the phone? Would Chiddingfold believe that it was Nunn who had locked Goldwasser up? And if he did, how would he react? Would he have the sense to leave Goldwasser where he was until after the ceremony and sort it out then? Or would he be panicked into releasing him now? And if he was, would Goldwasser take the opportunity to clear the field for whatever sinister activity he was plotting by having him, Nunn, locked up on the spot as a dangerous and possibly insane malefactor?

‘Jolly good,’ Nunn mumbled to himself. The world around him seemed to be bathed in a strange, apocalyptic light, cold and wan and unreal. For a moment he had the weird feeling that in this odd world Goldwasser might not in fact be plotting anything at all – that the whole cast-iron case against him might be a hallucination. The universe was crumbling around him like bread. He thought he might be going to faint. He even wondered briefly whether he were not in fact in the process of dying.

He closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them again he saw Chiddingfold standing outside the switchboard room, gazing at him over the heads of the lesser folk between. His look was troubled, irresolute, almost absent. Nunn took a deep breath and steadied himself. There were only ten seconds left – nothing to do now but stay where he was and hope for the best. But illogically he found himself not staying where he was at all; he found himself breaking ranks and walking towards Chiddingfold, all eyes upon him as he went, his steps hastening almost eagerly to judgment.

Chiddingfold ushered him into the switchboard room, followed him in, and shut the door behind them. For a moment they looked at one another, both their faces broken up by the march of events.

‘I think I can explain, Director,’ said Nunn.

But Chiddingfold was not listening to him.

‘The Queen,’ said Chiddingfold.

‘You see . . .’ began Nunn, but he stopped. The realisation caught up with him that Chiddingfold had said ‘The Queen.’ Not ‘Good day.’ Not ‘Good morning.’ Not ‘Thank you.’ He had spoken two substantive, information-bearing, sentence-starting, real words.

‘You spoke!’ he cried, so suddenly that he caught his larynx unawares, and croaked like a frog.

Chiddingfold did not hear him.

‘The Queen,’ said Chiddingfold. ‘The airport has, er, phoned. He said, er, they said, er, there is . . . there is a minor mechanical defect. In the plane. And so, er, it has, er, had to be diverted. And the visit . . . the visit is, er . . . the visit is cancelled.’

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