Hutchman watched his arrow go wide, hit the target close to the rim, and almost pass clear through the less tightly packed straw.

“I didn’t hear you arrive,” he said evenly. He turned and examined her face, aware she had startled him deliberately but wanting to find out if she was issuing a forthright challenge or was simulating innocence. Her rust-coloured eyes met his at once, like electrical contacts finding sockets, an interface of hostility.

All right, he thought. “Why did you sneak up on me like that? You ruined a shot.”

She shrugged, wide clavicles seen with da Vincian clarity in the tawny skin of her shoulders. “You can play archery all evening.”

“One doesn’t play archery — how many times have I… ?”

He steadied his temper. Misuse of the word was one of her oldest tricks. “What do you want, Vicky?”

“I want to know why you’re not at the office this afternoon.” She examined the skin of her upper arms critically as she spoke, frowning at the summer’s fading tan which even yet was deeper than the amber of her sleeveless dress, face darkened with shadows of the introspective and secret alarms that beautiful women sometimes appear to feel when looking at their own bodies. “I suppose I’m entitled to hear.”

“I couldn’t take it this afternoon.” I can make neutrons dance to a new tune. “All right?”

“How nice for you.” Disapproval registered briefly on the smooth-planed face, like smoke passing across the sun. “I wish I could stop work when I feel like it.”

“You’re in a better position — you only start when you feel like it.”

“Funny man! Have you had lunch?”

“I’m not hungry. I’ll stay here and finish this round.” Hutchman wished desperately liat Vicky would leave. In spite of the wasted shot he could still break the four-figure barrier provided he could shut out the universe, treat every arrow as though it were the last. The air was immobile, the sun burned steadily on the ringed target, and suddenly he understood that the eighty yards of lawn were an unimportant consideration. There came a vast certitude that he could feather the next arrow in the exact geometrical center of the gold and clip its fletching with the others — if he could be left in peace.