“Is that right?” Hasson smiled, hopelessly, and saw the boyish enthusiasm fade from Colebrook’s face to be replaced by a look of professional concern. He cursed himself for not having made a greater effort to cover up.

“Problems, Rob?” Colebrook turned bodily to get a better look at his patient, pulling his suit into silky diagonal folds across his stomach. “How do you feel?” “A bit tired that’s all. A few aches and pains. I’ll hang together.”

“I’m not asking about that side of it. Have you taken any Serenix today?”

“Well …” Hasson abandoned the attempt to lie. “I don’t like taking pills.”

“What’s that got to do with anything,” Colebrook said impatiently. “I don’t like brushing my teeth, but if I stop the result will be a lot of pain and a mouth full of delph — so I brush my teeth.”

“It’s hardly the same thing,” Hasson protested.

“it’s exactly the same thing, man. Your nervous system is bound to give you hell for a month or two, maybe longer, but the fact that a thing is natural doesn’t mean you have to put up with it. There aren’t any medals for this Rob — no Misery Cross or Depression Diploma…”

Hasson raised a finger. “That’s good, doc. I like that.”

“Swallow a couple of those caps, Rob. Don’t be a fool.” Colebrook, who had too much medical experience to allow himself to be upset by a wayward patient, leaned forward and tapped Air Police Captain Nun on his shoulder, his expansive mood returning. Why don’t we all go to Canada, Wilbur? We could all do with a break.”

Nun had been at the wheel most of the way from Coventry and was showing signs of strain. “Some of us can’t be spared,” he said, refusing to be captivated by pleasantries. “Anyway, it’s too early in the year for me. I’d rather wait till the Iceland-Greenland corridor is cleared.”

“That could take months.”