This is a work of fiction in the historical setting of World War II. All persons and events are imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

The match scratched noisily across the rusted metal of the corrugated iron shed, fizzled, then burst into a sputtering pool of light, the harsh sound and sudden brilliance alike strangely alien in the stillness of the desert night. Mechanically, Mallory's eyes followed the cupped sweep of the flaring match to the cigarette jutting out beneath the commodore's clipped moustache, saw the light stop inches away from the face, saw too the sudden stillness of that face, the unfocused vacancy of the eyes of a man lost in listening. Then the match was gone, ground into the sand of the airfield perimeter.

«I can hear them,» the commodore said softly. «I can hear them coming in. Five minutes, no more. No wind to-night — they'll be coming in on No. 2. Come on, let's meet them in the interrogation room.» He paused, looked quizzically at Mallory and seemed to smile. But the darkness deceived, for there was no humour in his voice. «Just curb your impatience, young man — just for a little longer. Things haven't gone too well to-night. You're going to have all your answers, I'm afraid, and have them all too soon.» He turned abruptly, strode off towards the squat buildings that loomed vaguely against the pale darkness that topped the level horizon.

Mallory shrugged, then followed on more slowly, step for step with the third member of the group, a broad, stocky figure with a very pronounced roll in his gait. Mallory wondered sourly just how much practice Jensen had required to achieve that sailorly effect. Thirty years at sea, of course — and Jensen had done exactly that— were sufficient warrant for a man to dance a hornpipe as he walked: but that wasn't the point.