They’re all ruthless bastards, the London directors: they’ve got to be. They wouldn’t survive if they weren’t, and nor would we. But most of them understand what this kind of work does to us, and what it can do to us if it’s allowed to get out of hand. Most of them regard us as human beings even when they’re directing us into operations that no human being could be expected to bring off and keep his sanity. So we usually manage to get back, give or take a few exceptions; and this is partly because when we’re out there in the field we know there’s someone doing his best to look after us from London Control.

Parkis is different. He is like Loman, but infinitely worse. I’ve worked three missions under his control and since a year ago I’ve refused him and I’m going to go on refusing him. Parkis doesn’t think we’re human beings. He thinks we’re robots. And the only reason why he’s still among the top-echelon directors is because he plans his operations so meticulously that nothing can go wrong: providing you’re a robot. But there are situations in the field that even Parkis can’t control: it can rain and your foot can slip; a plane can be late; a shot can ricochet. Then if you’re still alive he’ll throw you to the dogs because there’s nothing else he can do: his operations are designed to tick with the precision of a watch, and they are thus too sensitive to accommodate the unpredictable.

So he wins on points: he brings back as many of us as the other directors do, and he does it by skill; but it’s the skill of a toy maker He finishes the paintwork and winds us up and sets us going and nine times out of ten we don’t hit the wall. It isn’t the odds I mind: they’re pretty good. It’s Parkis.

He spoke.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”