… they wanted analysts and information control management, and they wanted graduates. "Don't have a degree, do you, Bill?" Gary Brennard's sneer. "Didn't make university, did you, Bill?" His feet hammered the linoleum above the launderette. He snatched the cover off the typewriter. "Without a degree, without a university education, you've reached your plateau, haven't you, Bill?" He began to type. He accepted the assignment. He listed the daily rate and a half to be paid in advance, and the per them expenses rate… He pounded the keys of the typewriter. "If that's the way you feel then you should consider transferring your talents to the private sector. We wouldn't want disaffected junior officers, would we, Bill?" He read through the paper. No, he wouldn't be sentimental. No, he wouldn't get himself involved. He dialled the number. He watched the fax sheet go. There was not enough light for him to make a clean job of the sewing. He did it as best he could, and it was poor work because he could barely see where he pushed the thick needle, and his hands shook. His hands shook in fear. Ham sewed strips of black elastic onto the arms and the body of the tunic. The others watched him and waited their turn with the one needle and the reel of heavy cotton.