CHAPTER 17 FEBRUARY                                                       Hamish and Ian decided that Allan's departure required some fitting escapade and so they chose Bheinn na Cailleach. The mountain was tucked away at the end of a winding single-track road in the North Western part of Scotland but it was also shapely with fine crags and gullies and Allan loved it perhaps more than any other. The great hollow bowl of the northern corrie held some of the finest cliff scenery in Scotland and the jagged spurs which descended into it from the summit ridge were famous for their length and difficulty.          For efficient climbing in the limited winter daylight they needed two pairs and so they invited Dougie Barr who was a forestry graduate and lived and worked not far from the mountain. It was agreed that Dougie, being local, would make his own way, with a key to open up the mountain bothy which gave shelter to the climbing fraternity within the northern corrie itself.          Cold clear weather with hard snow was what they wanted but what they got, on the long drive north, was wind gusting to eighty, throwing bucketfuls of sleet at the windscreen. With some difficulty they ignored the attractions of the hostelries along the route and pressed on, for was it not a special trip? And besides, Dougie would be waiting for them, up there on the mountainside, in a cosy bothy, soup at the ready.          By midnight when they climbed out of the car at the foot of the mountain the wind had dropped and the sleet was holding off.          ‘Who's idea was this anyway?’          ‘Some infidel. It's against my religion to drive past a pub during opening hours.’          The packs were heavy so they took the slopes with a slow steady swing of the hips, rucksack straps creaking in rhythm with their pace, each cocooned with his own thoughts within the pool of light thrown by a torch. A quick shower soaked them and then passed leaving a dark ragged sky and a few stars. They walked by torchlight. The path was good for the first three miles and then the ground steepened and the path degenerated. In places they were ascending the boulder strewn bed of a small burn. Two hours later, high on the shoulder of the hill, they lost the path for a while and Hamish stuck his leg into a bog up to the knee. As he withdrew it, covered in black slime and with a great sucking noise, Ian put his finger in his mouth and added the plop of a cork.          Higher still they crossed over a crest and dropped down into the lower end of the northern corrie where the wind vanished and the hollow resonance of their footsteps suggested big cliffs on the right. More stars pierced the blackness above, hanging like lanterns. They reached the snow line. It was getting very cold and sweat laden clothes were beginning to freeze.          ‘I don't see any light from the hut.’          ‘You can't see it from here. There's a bump between us. But don't worry lads. Dougie'll be there. He'll have picked up the key this afternoon and he'll have the soup ready. You'll see.’          Another half hour's toil on slippery snow took them over the bump. Dougie was not there.          The hut was black and the door was locked and the place was built of massive masonry as though to withstand an assault by bulldozers. The door was iron bound and keyhole big enough to admit a child's hand. The windows were deep set into the walls and had iron bars padlocked across them. The roof was of corrugated iron, tightly nailed.          They found out afterwards that Dougie, having forgotten about the arrangement, had gone to see his girl friend in Dundee but Ian insisted that Dougie was merely held up and would be along shortly. A circuit of the hut revealed an evil smelling dry lavatory and a big box with a sloping top held shut with a metal hasp. They prized the hasp with an ice axe and found a rescue stretcher with sledge runners lying on a pile of coal.          ‘Toss,’ said Ian and won.          ‘I bags the stretcher,’ he said, ‘You two in there,’ He pointed at the lavatory. ‘Dougie'll be here soon so there's not much point in getting your sleeping bags out. Besides,’ he added gleefully, ‘ye'd get them all mankie. That cludgie's mingin.’          The lavatory shed was roughly the size and shape of a telephone box with solid stone walls and a flimsy wooden door. Even with the toilet bucket removed the stench was abominable. In total darkness and the temperature of a deep-freeze cabinet Hamish and Allan stood back to back and then front to front and then front to back and then front to side.          ‘Do you think we could sit down?’          ‘What on?’          ‘On our hunkers.’          They slid down slowly backs against the freezing stone walls. It was very tight.          ‘Aaargh!’ said Hamish. He reached up desperately for the lock and as the door burst open he rolled out into the snow. ‘Bloody hell!’ he said rubbing his leg and holding it out straight. ‘I don't think that was a very good idea.’          So they stood again in the blackness, back to back then front to front, then back to front.          ‘We could sit on our rucksacks.’          They tried it. That was better but it was difficult not to touch the walls which would have frozen a candle flame.          ‘Do you think Dougie's really coming?’          ‘If he isnae he's going to die a slow and horrible death.’          Hours later, cramped and exhausted they gave up and opened the door.          ‘Have you slept at all?’          ‘Are you joking?’          ‘Listen!’          They were silent and heard a faint but distinct snorting noise.          ‘The bugger's snoring!’          Hamish lifted the lid of the box and shone a torch in Ian's face. He was stretched out peacefully on the stretcher and he was in his sleeping bag.          ‘What's the matter with you two? Can y' no let a fella sleep?’          ‘Time's up,’ said Hamish. ‘Next shift.’          ‘What's the point? Dougie'll be here soon.’          They dragged him out and tossed again. Allan won. It wasn't exactly comfortable but it was bliss after the toilet shed and as he drifted into sleep he hear Hamish and Ian arguing. Minutes later ... was it really two hours? ... the lid was lifted and he was dragged out and Hamish sank gratefully on to the stretcher.          It was a fiercely cold night, now full of stars and deathly still. You could see the shapes of the hills against the not quite black sky. Ian was swinging his arms.          ‘That's a hell of a cold doss,’ he said nodding at the toilet shed. ‘What do you say we get the stove going?’          They lit a stove. Ian pumped it hard and placed it on the ground at their feet. They stood over it with legs apart.          ‘Jesus that's hot!’ said Ian.          They left the door open so that they could beat a quick retreat into the snow and for the rest of the night, as the light in the East grew and the hills took solid grey form, they alternated between frigidity and searing heat.          Ian was for waking Hamish.          ‘He hasn't had long enough,’ said Allan.          ‘Would y'look at that mountain!’ said Ian.          The massive cliffs of Bheinn na Cailleach were iced like a wedding cake. The gullies were ribbons of green ice and festoons of snow smothered the rocks which rose in gigantic steps into a clear pink dawn. You got a crick in your neck just looking at it.          ‘It's going to waste!’ Ian said. ‘We've got to get that lazy bugger out of his pit.’ His breath hung round him like ectoplasm.          ‘Let's cook breakfast first.’          So they did that. In the stillness the stove burned easily in the open. Allan fried up bacon, eggs, haggis and beans in a single pan into a glorious hash. Ian lit another stove and placed a dixie full of snow on it. He stood over it adding more lumps of snow as it melted and the volume reduced. When it boiled he kicked the coal box.          ‘Wake up princess!’          *      *      *      *      *          If the night had been Hell, the day was Paradise.          ‘Hadn't we better go down for the key?’ said Allan.          Ian was adamant. ‘Dougie'll be here tonight - for certain! It's too good a day to waste.’          A wickedly sharp blade of rock split the corrie into two smaller bowl-shaped hollows. Looking up it from the hut they saw it rise in huge irregular steps. The last and highest one, just below the summit itself, soared into the tower which gave the blade its name - 'An Casteil'. Its tip was aflame as the sun caught the crusted snow.          The right flank of the blade formed a tremendous precipice and running up the cliff was a shallow, twisting groove. This was Yggdrasil. From the sunless boulder strewn floor of the corrie it ascended vertically, splitting as it did so into smaller cracks like the branches of a tree. In late spring when the sun had shifted most of the snow from the crags, a thin seam of snow would often linger within the groove so that it resembled a bleached skeletal hand reaching up from the gloomy depths of the corrie towards the sunlight which touched the summit ridge.          *      *      *      *      *          ‘Why's it called Yggdrasil?’ said Ian.          They were moving up hard steep snow in the corrie below the climb. They paused and leaned backwards to look at the precipice above them.          ‘Because it's shaped like a tree,’ said Allan. ‘The Yggdrasil was a kind of tree.’          The cliff above them was foreshortened by the angle but they could see the way the groove branched and branched again as the narrow band of green ice, trapped between the white crusted rocks, soared upwards.          ‘Never seen one. Where does it grow?’          ‘It's a mythical tree. It's in the old Norse Sagas. It's branches, trunk and roots are supposed to hold together Heaven, Earth and Hell. But it got all burned up on the Day of Ragnarok - that was the sort of Twilight of the Gods.’          The axes gave purchase. They had two each. The downwardly curved blades bit solidly. Hamish in the lead kept up a steady rhythm. The snow accepted the bite of their crampons with a squeal like harvest mice.          Hamish said, ‘That must be a Hell of a tree. Which is which?’          ‘What is what?’          ‘Are the branches Hell or are the roots Hell or what?’          ‘The branches are Heaven and the trunk is Earth or ordinary life and the roots are in Hell. They dip into a spring which is the 'Spring of all Knowledge'.’          Ian paused and considered that, leaning forward on his axe. His breath hung white in the still air. Their mouths tasted the coldness of it. ‘Useful for examination purposes,’ he said.          ‘Aye,’ said Allan. He paused below Ian and buried the shaft of his axe deep. ‘But there's a price to pay if you drink there.’          ‘Knew there'd be a catch. What's the price?’          ‘Odin had to sacrifice an eye.’          The climb was perfect - solid green ice the whole way at a terrifying angle. Whiles they used ice pegs and dangled to ease the strain on arms and feet, whiles they moved upwards on 'lobster claw' crampon points and the hooked 'pterodactyl' ice-axes.          From the narrow neck behind the tower and onwards they were in gentle evening sunlight. At the summit they lingered watching the purple shadows pushing the pink off the surrounding peaks one by one. The outer isles were visible, floating, so it seemed above the silver of the western sea.          ‘That bastard Dougie had better be there,’ said Hamish.          *      *      *      *      *          The events of the next two days represented a triumph of exuberant optimism over common sense. For two more nights they suffered as they took turns at standing in the upright toilet shed and sleeping on the stretcher.          They aged ten years.          Each morning the weather was so perfect that the thought of returning to sea level for the key was unbearable and they went climbing - and the climbing was the stuff of paradise - solid vertical ice and rock covered in snow with the solidity and texture of timber.          On the last night, as Hamish and Allan shivered in the vertical ice-bound tomb of the toilet shed, Hamish said. ‘What was all that business with the tapes and the programs you wrote on my machine?’ Perhaps it was that Allan's brain had become chilled and drained of the ability to dissemble by sheer exhaustion or perhaps it was the effect of a camaraderie born of shared adversity, but it seemed the natural thing to do. He told him the whole story.          Hamish whistled. ‘You've opened a can of worms my son. What do you suppose they're after?’          ‘Money?’          ‘Naw. More like power. Some people are switched on by power the way you and I are by a hard climb.’          ‘You're right but I think it's partly fear. The more power they've got, the more afraid they become about losing it. They want things tightly controlled so that nothing can shake their control unexpectedly. Keeping control needs still more control. That's why they keep prattling on about `stability'. Stability's a good thing mostly but if you make it a religion then nothing can ever change for the better.’          Hamish said ‘And you're going to the South America. That's a bit like putting your head in the lions mouth isn't it? Hold on I'm getting cramp.’ They were sitting on the rucksacks. Hamish shifted his position.          ‘I think I will be ok so long as they don't begin to suspect. We have been careful so far and not drawn attention to ourselves.’          ‘Can you trust that guy Jack? He sounds a bit of a tear-away.’          After a while Allan said ‘Hamish. Would you be willing to act as a post box?’          ‘What do you mean?’          ‘Well I can communicate on MCI's computer network to the folk at Gairnock but that will be monitored and I'm afraid a letter would be intercepted. But a letter to you would not ring any alarm bells. I could send a postcard to Rosa. A picture of mountains would be a code to tell her that there was a letter lying at your department.’          His thoughts were often with Rosa. She wasn't part of the circle but he wanted to keep their closeness to themselves.          ‘Sure. But do you really think it's necessary? Seems a bit ... excessive.’                   ‘I don't know if it's necessary. How can I know? All I know is that there is some kind of conspiracy which is world wide and seems to have enough clout to control the Procurator Fiscal in Gairnock. Chalmers is obviously worried about who he can tell within the police force. It seems to go to the top in MCI but it may also go to the top elsewhere as well.’          ‘You mean governments?’          ‘Who knows? I'm freezing. Shall we try a primus stove for a while?’          *      *      *      *      *          In the morning their will broke and they made their way to the valley. The weather broke too. A front swept in from the West and soaked them to the skin as they descended. They changed into dry things by the car, standing naked in the roadway in a lonely glen watched by a herd of inquisitive cows.          As they climbed into the car Allan said ‘Thanks lads. That was something special.’          Ian squeezed the water out of his trousers and said ‘Y'know I think that was the best three days of my life!’                            *      *      *      *      *          Jean's idea of a farewell do was to press-gang Allan into making up the numbers of an SNP demo. His protested but his protests were half-hearted and he went along. His feelings of guilt, of deserting Jean, were enhanced by the deterioration in Roddy's health, but the old man still seemed to be inordinately proud of him.          ‘So they're sending you to South America,’ he said. ‘They must think an awful lot of you son. Be sure to visit your cousin in Seattle.’          They marched to the site at Bannockburn and listened to speeches including one from Andrew Coltart. Colourful invective was his refrain. It was amusing for the faithful and made good headline items but Allan kept wanting to tell him that the insulted seldom became the converted. His main target was the Labour Party and his thesis was that Labour was the unwitting tool of the 'Westminster Establishment', a harmless repository for the votes of the Scottish electorate, a dumping ground which could never threaten the unassailable control which the establishment had over Westminster. It was good tub thumping stuff and got a lot of cheers. He also gave them a warning about opinion polls which he claimed were manipulated by the 'Establishment'.          ‘Scotland will not be free,’ he roared, ‘of the Westminster yoke, until the Scottish electorate ends its love affair with the Labour Party or the Labour Party in Scotland ceases to be the harlot of Westminster.’          The crowd cheered him hysterically. A pop group sang Scottish songs to steel guitars at a volume which imploded Allan's ears, and then the rain came down and soaked them.          Afterwards they all went to a pub in Stirling. Allan found himself wedged between a sober man in a navy-blue suit and a woman whom everyone called 'Hettie' and who had had too much to drink. Hettie wanted to get her arm round him. The sober man drank orange juice and looked as though he was suffering as Allan was with the din, the congestion and the tobacco smoke. He turned to Allan.          ‘What did you think of Andra's speech?’          ‘I think I agree with a lot of what he says but the way he says it tends to put some people off.’          ‘Aye. He is a bit of a street fighter.’          ‘I don't believe his theory about the opinion polls though,’ said Allan.          ‘Why don't you believe it?’ said the man, suddenly alert.          ‘How could they do it?’          ‘Opinion polls,’ said the man, warming to the subject, ‘are based on samples. Each opinion poll company has its own way of constructing the sample based on representative groups of the population a kind of cross-section. Each canvasser is told to interview ten or twenty or fifty people made up of people in the same proportion as the cross-section. It would not be hard to weight that cross-section to give a bias to the results. You only need to modify ten returns in a sample of a thousand to give a two percent swing to the result. There are no official checks on the results. No watch dogs.’          ‘What good would it do them?’          ‘If they made out that an election was a close run thing, the middle parties would be squeezed and folk who might be inclined to vote for the SNP might opt instead for Labour. Of course they cannot risk being too wrong when the actual results are announced so they have to have 'a late swing'.’          ‘Are you serious?’          ‘Deadly,’ said the man.          Allan shook his head. He wondered if the man really was sober. There was no smell on his breath but he had in his eye the intoxication of fanaticism.          ‘Do you think they are too nice?’ said the man. ‘Do you think they don't have the resources to do it? Do ye think people who would murder Jack Kennedy or Willie McRae would think twice about fiddling a few polls? Ah tell you it's gaun t'get worse. We're heading for the big bang. We've got the British elections soon, this year anyway, the Euro-elections, the American presidential elections and now we've also got the Eastern European countries in the act. The motivation for fiddling or influencing the results couldnae be greater. With the technology we have today there is no need for them to send out the Imperial Guard to cut down the revolting peasants. They just manipulate the supply of information and the peasants vote the way they're tell't.’          At closing time they debouched on to the pavement. A group was already there and began singing Flower of Scotland. Jean was drunk. She was in a group close behind. Allan could hear her saying ‘That's my wee brother. He's ... he's a genius ... no ... A'm serious .... An' he's going to South America to work for some bloody multi-national. A' don't think he should go. Do you think he should go? ... no ... but do you think he should go?’          She gave Allan the keys and he drove them back to Maryhill. Uncle Roddy was asleep and so was Jean, when he let himself out of the flat.                   *      *      *      *      *          Allan chopped his spaghetti small so that he could fork it easily. Other times he had tried with the spoon and the twirling fork trick. It wasn't so hard, but the stuff tasted the same whichever way you did it, so what was the point? He waited, glancing at her several times. At last he said, ‘So did you get it?’          Dianne was doing the full Italian thing but the effect was spoiled a bit by the way the strands of spaghetti flailed her lips. She sucked an errant one into her pouting mouth, dabbed away the bolognaise sauce with a paper napkin and said, ‘No.’ She took a sip of wine and then twirled again. ‘This is a nice place,’ she said, ‘How did you find it?’          ‘Jack and I come here for a pizza when we want to talk. You couldn't find it then?’          ‘No. Well, not really. I didn't look exactly. I walked into his study and said `Can I have the tape you made of Allan and Rosa Telman talking'?’ She said it in a flat voice, very casual.          ‘You didn't!’          ‘I did!’ She took some more wine and made a face. ‘The food's good but I'm afraid this is plonk.’          ‘Sorry.’          ‘Not your fault - I ordered it.’          ‘What did he say?’          He pretended for a minute not to understand. ‘`What tape?' he said, and I said `The tape Allan found the night he climbed in your window'’.          ‘Dianne!’ Allan put his fork down. Elbows on the table he covered his eyes and laughed-cried. ‘You don't mess about, do you?’          ‘What's the point? I wasn't going to rake around in his den when he wasn't there. Not be my style. He said `Why are you asking?' all huffy, and I said, `I want to give it to Allan as a going away present'.’          ‘And what did he say to that?’          ‘He hummed and hawed for a bit. He said something about `company policy' but that was just bluster. Then he said `Tell that young man of yours' ... Did you know you were my young man?’ She laughed and took more wine. ‘Anyway he said `Tell that young man of yours that he had better be careful especially when he gets to Ocean Springs'’.          ‘Was he mad?’          ‘He wasn't angry if that's what you mean, not really, more worried. He's been behaving in a funny way ever since that friend of his Seaton committed suicide.’          ‘In what way funny?’          Dianne finished her spaghetti and dabbed her mouth. She said ‘He's been drinking a lot, and he's started forgetting things. He looks worried out of his mind. He had a big row with Mummy.’          ‘Is she worried about him?’          ‘She's leaving him. Shall we ask for the menu again?’          They settled on profiteroles and fruit salad.          ‘That must be upsetting for you,’ Allan said when the waiter had vanished.          ‘What is?’          ‘Your parents splitting up.’          Dianne was either totally unconcerned or acting cool. ‘Don't be silly. Mummy will be a lot better off without him. She's going back to Sussex where her family stays. Her brother has the ancestral pile.’          ‘What will you do?’          ‘Oh Charles is being transferred to London. He's got a flat there. He's asked me to marry him. The profiteroles are for me,’ she said seeing the waiter hovering.          Allan was learning. He took a spoonful and ate slowly. He said, ‘This is nice. How are your profiteroles?’ and then caught her grinning at him. She said ‘You haven't asked.’          ‘Asked what?’ Dead innocent.          ‘Asked whether I'm going to marry him or not you bastard! Don't you care?’          ‘Oh that!’ He put down his spoon. ‘I hope you'll be very happy.’          She said ‘Bastard!’ again but she was laughing.          Two more spoonfuls. A suitable pause and then he said, ‘Well, will you? I can't see you in domestic bliss somehow.’          ‘Neither can I .... I'll give it a whirl maybe.... Not marry. But I'll probably move in and see whether I like the guy.’          ‘Don't you know?’          ‘Not really. A yacht and a Porsche tend to obscure a girl's real feelings.’          Allan was shaking his head. Laughing. ‘You're going to make somebody a horrible wife.’          ‘But a bloody good mistress,’ said Dianne. ‘But getting back to Daddy. I'm worried about him.’          ‘I thought you didn't like him. Coffee?’          ‘Yes please. I don't like him, but I didn't say I didn't love him. He is my dad. Anyway - after he showed me the tapes ...’          ‘Tapes! Did you say `tapes' - plural.’          ‘Yes. Didn't I tell you. He had a box of them. What I don't understand is how he's got the time to listen to them. Anyway he came down to breakfast the next morning and that was unusual. Usually he's away before I'm awake. But he came down all grumpy. He'd been drinking. He sat down, took some black coffee and said `Tell Allan Fraser I'd like to have a word with him - in private'.’                   *      *      *      *      *          Meeting places. Everybody had them and their choice said something about them. Halpern chose a country inn, with a carvery and wines at fancy prices and waiters who could spot a substantial tipper at a thousand paces. A suspected non-tipper, like, for example, someone turning up on a bike, someone like Allan, was waiter-invisible. It was Saturday afternoon, so the place was busy. At a rough estimate the car park had a quarter million worth of automobile soaking up the weak wintry sunlight. Rooks wheeled with ratchet calls in the tall trees behind the car park.          Allan thought about their meeting place. Halpern could have called Allan into his office and told his secretary not to disturb them. He didn't do that. He could have called Allan on the internal phone or send a memo in a buff envelop. He didn't do that either. He used Dianne to convey the message and he chose this toffee-nosed joint for their chat. That said a lot about MCI. And if anyone knew about MCI, Halpern knew.          ‘Of course you don't, do you?’ said Halpern veering the bottle away from Allan's glass. ‘Pity. This is rather a good wine.’          Allan's open-faced sandwich looked better than it tasted. The beef was stringy. Halpern had a stuffed cabbage leaf. It smelled spicy. He put the bottle back in its ice-bucket and said, ‘So you're off to South America. When exactly?’          It was a good act. If Dianne had not forewarned him he might have been taken in - for a while. The old assurance seemed to be there, but Halpern's eyes were constantly on the move, like a fighter pilot checking for enemy planes coming out of the sun.          ‘On the tenth....’ He stopped himself saying ‘Sir’.          ‘Looking forward to it?’          ‘Very much.’ Allan spoke quietly keeping his eyes on Halpern, wary, watching, waiting to spot the ace appearing from the sleeve.          ‘I wanted a word,’ said Halpern attacking his plate, ‘because I thought I could give you some advice.’          ‘That's very kind of you.’ Still the quiet voice, expressionless.          ‘Several bits of advice in fact...’ Halpern switched on the charming smile, ‘... and the first one is - Don't go climbing in any windows, will you?’          ‘I'll try to avoid any necessity for that,’ said Allan.          Halpern said ‘Oh very good. Very diplomatic. That's me put in my place. Hasn't it? But about that Allan, I believe, from something Dianne said the other night, that when you climbed into my study you saw something you shouldn't have seen.’          ‘I believe I saw something which should not have been there, Yes.’          Halpern studied his face for a moment and then held up a finger. A waiter materialised instantly. ‘I think my young friend would like some horseradish for his sandwich.’ He pointed, avoiding Allan's eye. Allan said nothing but pointedly ignored the sauceboat when it arrived.          ‘What you have to understand,’ said Halpern taking some wine. ‘is that in a company like MCI there are many projects being carried on and some of these are very hush-hush. It's not just the defence contracts you know. To keep our competitive edge we need to keep the opposition guessing.’ More wine. A look at Allan to check his reaction. ‘From time to time an enthusiastic employee might stumble upon one of these projects.’          Allan put his knife and fork down. He folded his hands in his lap, looking straight at Halpern, cool, in control of himself, but angry. Halpern was looking at his own plate and he was still talking.          ‘It is also necessary for a company such as ours to keep an eye on its employees, to ensure that their enthusiasm does not get out of bounds. It's been known, for example, for some employees to start up a little project of their own, quite unofficially and for that project to encroach on some official project and cause difficulties.’ Now at last he looked up and met Allan eye to eye. ‘We don't like that,’ he said. ‘It's very ill advised.’          Allan just went on looking. Halpern blinked first. He glanced round the room then went back to his plate.          ‘I am giving you this advice Allan in a friendly way,’ he said talking to the plate. ‘At the moment this is completely unofficial. I have kept what I know to myself and if the problem stops here it will go no further. However, if the problem were to continue when you are in South America, I would not be able to protect you Allan.’          When Allan said nothing Halpern added ‘Do you understand that Allan?’          Allan said, ‘I'm not sure that I do understand you but I'll think about it.’          ‘Do that,’ said Halpern. He turned his attention to his stuffed cabbage. For a moment the old confidence was back in his voice.          Allan finished his sandwich. He sat back. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What exactly have you been protecting me from?’          The last fork-load of cabbage stopped in mid air and then returned to the plate.          ‘Look Fraser,’ The facade of cool detachment was slipping. The eyes were darting about again, especially at the glass doors where a couple in ski-pants and matching Pringle jumpers had just come in. Talking in very loud voices. Putting on a performance for the other diners. Halpern lowered his voice. ‘Don't push your luck. Stop poking and prying into things which do not concern you. And drop this silly thing with Rosa Telman. You could have a future in the company. She has none. I could help you Allan. All I ask is a little cooperation.’          Bingo! That was it. Everything else was bullshit. Allan waited to let the dust settle on that one and then said very quietly, ‘To do what?’          Halpern took a drink, rather a large one. There was a tremble in his hand as he put the glass down. He met Allan's eye for a moment and then looked away.          ‘It's a pleasant afternoon,’ he said. ‘Would you care for a stroll? There is a forest path in the woods behind the inn.’          *      *      *      *      *          He had a stick in the car and walked at a military pace. He pointed out a magpie. He seemed to know about birds. Deep in the trees he said, ‘It's like this Allan. I could use an intelligent pair of eyes and ears in Ocean Springs.’          Allan played innocent ‘What exactly? ... can you explain? ... how could I do that? ... how would I communicate? ... what kind of data? ...’ and Halpern spilled. He wanted to know more about the inner workings of the Labyrinth operating system. He was particularly keen to know about anti-hacking devices. When could a user be identified and so on. Communication would be easy and secure. Halpern would be at the Ocean Springs head's conference. ‘In July,’ said Halpern. ‘It's been put back a month. I'm told the Labyrinth operating system development has hit snags. I think the delay has something to do with that.’          Allan let him believe they had an agreement. In return for information Halpern would keep quiet about Allan and Rosa's project, would make it easy for Rosa to get a Senior Fellowship at the University of her choice funded by MCI and would do his best to promote Allan's career. The career thing did not worry Allan. But he calculated that Halpern would not understand and be suspicious of a person who did not put his own career above all else. So he tried to look keen. The Rosa thing did matter. It was what she wanted.          Thinking back to their meal together Allan wondered if he should have been using a longer spoon.