And yes, perhaps it was also expressed in the very iciness of the eyes, which I hadn't noticed in the past, the few times I'd run across him. There was anger here, and of a high order, finely controlled, barely contained, as Flockhart sat watching me across the table.

'That's rather soon,' I said, simply to give myself time. Because this anger of his was also something I should take into account, perhaps, before I made my decision. It wasn't directed against me: we were virtual strangers, had had nothing to do with each other before tonight. But anger in a man like this, directed at no matter whom, was a potent form of explosive.

'Time,' he said evenly, 'is of the essence.'

I heard that idiot Corbyn laugh again, but the sound was faint this time; the hum of voices in the room had seemed to die away as I let my mind fold into itself to seek guidance. I wasn't worried by the instant deadline Flockhart was giving me; with comfortable time to make any kind of decision we tend to cloud the issue with pros and, cons, and are never quite sure, when we've cast the die, whether we've done right or wrong. Whereas intuition is as fast as, light, flashing up from the subconscious with all the facts marshalled and the answer ready, if we're prepared to listen.

'All right,' I said.

Because the only fact that really mattered was this: when I'd been prowling those dreary corridors for weeks on end I would have taken on any mission for anyone.

And nothing had changed.

'You'll do it?' Flockhart sounded, if anything, surprised.

'Yes.'

He left his eyes on me, leaning forward a little across the table. 'You'll do well,' he said quietly. 'You'll do very well.'