To Chris Priest — counsellor and friend.

The drive to Chivenor had been long and tiring. As it had progressed the pain in Hasson’s back had grown worse, and with the pain had come a steady deterioration of his mood. At first there had been stray misgivings, hints of sadness which anybody might have felt on passing through a series of towns and villages where all commerce and community life seemed to have been vanquished by the chill grey rains of Match. By the time they had reached the north Devon coast, however, Hasson felt more than normally dejected, and later when the car surmounted a rise giving its three occupants a glimpse of the Taw estuary — he realized he was terrified of the journey that lay ahead.

How can this be? he thought, unable to reconcile his feelings with those he would have experienced six weeks earlier in similar circumstances. I’m being given a free trip to Canada, three months” leave on full pay, all the time I need to rest and recuperate

“I always think there’s something right about the principle of the flying boat,” said Colebrook, the police surgeon, who was sitting in the rear seat with Hasson. “The whole idea of flying over the sea in ships, having four-fifths of the globe for a landing place

It all seems natural, if you know what I mean — technology and nature going hand-in-hand.”

Hasson nodded. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“Just look at those things.” A gesture of Colebrook’s plump, strong hand took in the slate-blue strip of water and the apparently haphazard scattering of flying boats. “Silver birds, as our Polynesian cousins might say. Do you know why they aren’t painted?”

Hasson shook his head, trying to take an interest in the surgeon’s conversation. “Can’t think.”

The load factor. Economics. The weight of the paint would be equal to the weight of an extra passenger.”