Blade paid, a shilling all around, remembering that it was indeed Guy Fawkes day, November 5. Until now he had forgotten. He had been preoccupied as usual before a mission into Dimension- X, and matters were not going well between Lord Leighton and J, who was Blade's real boss in MI6 and who had screamed bloody murder when Lord L suggested implanting the crystal in the young man's brain. J had done more than scream. J had gone to the Prime Minister and made an official protest. The project had nearly been called off, then the election had put in a new Government, and a new PM, and the project was on again. This last time.

The new PM had been most emphatic. Millions of pounds had been poured into Project DX so far with no results. This meant, in political language, no profits. Science, and especially Lord L, had reaped vast benefits. Very good. But England was so many million pounds the poorer. There had been, in short, no treasure in Dimension X. The old PM had been sympathetic; the new PM was not. Produce or close down was now the order of the day. One more chance: Venture No. 6 into DX. And if the sliver of crystal in Blade's brain would help in any way then the Prime Minister was all for it.

Blade could understand J's bitterness. He should, he supposed, be a little bitter himself. Yet he was not. England was a commercial nation fighting for her life in the world marketplace. The politicians could not be expected to understand Project DX. It was as far beyond their comprehension as the quantum theory was beyond the comprehension of that poor little street cur, just now so nearly struck by a taxi.

Blade realized that the taxi was empty. He ran for it, shouting, feeling very insecure beneath the damned toupee, and as he slammed into the musty leather-smelling interior he came to a sudden decision.

He had intended to go down to Dorset and stay at his cottage while his hair grew in again.