'He's along at the Lab,' Tilson said.

'Who is?'

'Egerton.' He watched me with his pink and amiable face, tapping his fingertips lightly together.

Not Parkis, then, or Mildmay or Kinloch. Egerton. It's like pulling a name from a hat: you never know who you're going to get, the next time out.

'Where is it?'

'Where's what, old horse?'

The little bastard watched me amiably. He knew what I meant but he was playing hard to get, so I took a shoe off, the one that was leaking, and let the water out all over his nice parquet floor.

'Where's he sending me?'

I was showing my nerves, because Egerton would tell me quick enough where he was sending me but I wanted to know now. The minute you're called in for a mission you become desperate to know everything — whether you're going to freeze to death in Moscow or fry in Casablanca, whether it's a penetration job or a snatch or a radio tap, who's to direct you in the field and who's going to try getting you out if you come a mucker — you want to know everything and you want to know it as soon as you come in, because, I suppose, the more you know about something the less you're afraid of it.

'No earthly idea, old horse.'

So I put my shoe back on and did up the soggy lace and told Tilson he could screw himself and he said thank you very much and I went along to the stairs and down two flights and right to the end of the corridor. The red lamp over the door went out before I reached it: that would be Tilson, told them I was on my way. I went in.

Shaded lights and a workbench and radio gear and a screen and some chairs and a long table where Egerton was sitting, one thin leg dangling. He didn't look up. One of the other people switched the red lamp on again and the man with the headphones adjusted the volume.