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Back The Tin Men Save as PDF
Chapters (41)
  1. By the Same Author
  2. Copyright
  3. Introduction by the Author
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. About the Author

‘Keep going, Nobbs!’ urged Nunn, as they fought their way through. ‘We’re now two and a half minutes behind.’

At last, six minutes behind schedule, the official party led off on their tour of the establishment.

‘At the double,’ shouted Nunn. ‘Try and make up time in the corridors.’

By the time they reached the Sport Department Nobbs was too out of breath to ask the prepared questions. After sprinting up two flights of stairs to Fashion and Newspapers, Sir Prestwick Wining dropped out with a mild heart attack.

‘Carry on!’ cried Nunn. ‘Be all right on the night.’

By the time they reached the Refreshments Extension that had been built for the occasion, Nobbs had the stitch and a stomach-­ache, and they were nine minutes behind schedule.

‘Eat up, Nobbs,’ gasped Nunn, as Chiddingfold came running up with his Maximum Probable Refreshment Load—three glasses of champagne, four cups of tea, five sandwiches, two éclairs, and a French pastry. ‘See if you – see if you – can get it down – in five and a half minutes.’

It was a noisy meal. Everyone was doing his best not to gasp and pant, but the air was loud with the thunder of running footsteps in distant corridors, as the rest of the field struggled round the course and staggered one by one into the room. The men were all asking one another breathlessly and urgently, ‘Where the hell is the gents in this place, then?’ From inside a cage of dense indoor vegetation in one corner of the room there came a distinct noise of swearing and laughing and breaking of glass. It was a group of six junior laboratory technicians who had been put in the Press enclosure and instructed to test its resistance to bottle and crab-sandwich throwing.

At last Nobbs, clutching his stomach, was hurried out and bundled into his car, and Sir Prestwick was discovered and removed to hospital.

‘It’s your fault, Prestwick,’ said Vulgurian gently, accompanying the stretcher to the door. ‘You always will try and do too much, won’t you?’

Two by two the guests departed, and the staff of the Institute subsided on to random chairs. Over the broken glass, the fag ends of half-eaten sandwiches, the two distinguished bottom-prints, the high-heeled shoe set in concrete, and several dozen sobered cyberneticists, a great silence fell.

‘Jolly good,’ said Nunn finally.

There was no reply.

‘The worse the dress rehearsal,’ he said, slapping his knee, ‘the better the first night. That’s what we always used to say at the garrison amateur dramatics.’

Chiddingfold rose, and revolved his head slightly to take in the assembled company.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

The corners of his mouth struggled nobly up into a smile, like two wounded war heroes getting to their feet for the National Anthem.

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