Hutton paces the carpet while puffing on his cigarette. His trembling hand trails ash over the carpeted floor. He looks especially tired and racked from stress.

Previously, I would have presumed them effects of running ragged for MI9. Now I fear it’s more. Perhaps I’ve become one of his worries, an issue requiring an “urgent solution.” A firing or reassignment. Or could it be more sinister?

The office door swings open, giving way to a handsome British private, tall as a lamppost and nearly as slender. “Major Hutton, the air commodore will see both of you now.”

I rise as Hutton starts forward, but then he glances at his cigarette and frantically surveys the area.

The private pipes in. “May I take that for you, sir?”

“Thank you, Private.” Hutton hands off the pluming stub.

As we file past, the private slides me a flirtatious smile until spotting the RAF pin on my coat lapel. Obtained as a favor through Wing Commander Moretti, the “sweetheart wings” that symbolize a courtship dependably prove a deterring ruse. A saver of time and effort for all involved.

The door shuts behind us with a rattle. Planted in his desk chair, an officer with dark bushy eyebrows sports a scowl that appears to be his resting face. He demands without preamble, “And just what the devil is this?”

One of my self-heating cans, labeled DANGER, is unmistakably the subject. It stands at the center of his desk, a walnut furnishing that’s polished to a shine and as meticulously tidy as the rest of the room. No doubt the potted fern in the corner receives a daily dusting.

Before I can reply, Hutton dives in with a flourish. “Sir, the device before you”—he sets down his briefcase to gesture emphatically—“will prove revolutionary for our bomber crews, keeping them warm and nourished for those night sorties to Hamburg. In doing so, it would be quite the morale booster. And that is to say nothing of its inexpensive cost, efficiency, and ease of use.”

Suddenly I recall Hutton’s background in the film industry, aptly as a publicity director. I almost expect him to burst out with claims of the gadget’s ability to launder clothes and mix gin tonics, all while a musical score plays in the background.

Far into the pitch, there’s a tilt to the air commodore’s head, his fingers steepled atop his desk. His interest betrays his unmoved expression. “Well?” he says once Hutton breaks for a breath. “Do you intend to simply talk about your invention or demonstrate it?”

Hutton beams, not bothering to correct that the credit should be mine. He turns to me. “Miss Vos?”

My budding offense shrinks away. All at once, I’m back onstage, an assistant taking my cue from the showman. I smile reflexively and whisk a bradawl from my coat pocket, which I thankfully remembered to bring along.