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It was an aging motor scooter,and it was being ridden by amiddleaged woman. Clutching her tightly, his eyes screwed shut, was a raincoated little man with a bright green crash helmet on. Sticking up between them was what appeared to be an antique gun with a fu
"Oh. Where are you going?"
"Lower Tadfield. I'm not sure of the exact address, but we're looking for someone," said the woman, then, in a totally different voice she said, "His name is Adam Young."
R. P. Tyler boggled. "You want that boy?" he asked. "What's he done now‑no, no, don't tell me. I don't want to know."
"Boy?" said the woman. "You didn't tell me he was a boy. How old is he?" Then she said, "He's eleven. Well, I do wish you'd mentioned this before. It puts a completely different complexion on things."
R. P. Tyler just stared. Then he realized what was going on. The woman was a ventriloquist. What he had taken for a man in a green crash helmet, he now saw was a ventriloquist's dummy. He wondered how he could ever have assumed it was human. He felt the whole thing was in vaguely bad taste.
"I saw Adam Young not five minutes ago," he told the woman. "He and his little cronies were on their way to the American air base."
"Oh dear," said the woman, paling slightly. "I've never really liked the Yanks. They're really very nice people, you know. Yes, but you can't trust people who pick up the ball all the time when they play football."
"Ahh, excuse me," said R. P. Tyler, "I think it's very good. Very impressive. I'm deputy chairman of the local Rotary club, and I was wondering, do you do private functions?"
"Only on Thursdays," said Madame Tracy, disapprovingly. "And I charge extra. And I wonder if you could direct us to‑"
Mr. Tyler had been here before. He wordlessly extended a finger.
And the little scooter went putputputputputput down the narrow country lane.
As it did so, the gray dummy in the green helmet turned around and opened one eye. "Ye great southern pillock," it croaked.
R. P. Tyler was offended, but also disappointed. He'd hoped it would be more lifelike.
– – -
R. P. Tyler, only ten minutes away from the village, paused, while Shutzi attempted another of its wide range of eliminatory functions. He gazed over the fence.
His knowledge of country lore was a little hazy, but he felt fairly sure that if the cows lay down, it meant rain. If they were standing it would probably be fine. These cows were taking it in turns to execute slow and solemn somersaults; and Tyler wondered what it presaged for the weather.
He sniffed. Something was burning‑there was an unpleasant smell of scorched metal and rubber and leather.
"Excuse me," said a voice from behind him. R. P. Tyler turned around.
There was a large once‑black car on fire in the lane and a man in sunglasses was leaning out of one window, saying through the smoke, "I'm sorry, I've managed to get a little lost. Can you direct me to Lower Tadfield Air Base? I know it's around here somewhere."
Your car is on fire.
No. Tyler just couldn't bring himself to say it. I mean, the man had to know that, didn't he? He was sitting in the middle of it. Possibly it was some kind of practical joke.
So instead he said, "I think you must have taken a wrong turn about a mile back. A signpost has blown down."
The stranger smiled, "That must be it," he said. The orange flames flickering below him gave him an almost infernal appearance.
The wind blew towards Tyler, across the car, and he felt his eyebrows frizzle.
Excuse me, young man, but your car is on fire and you're sitting in it without burning and incidentally it's red hot in place
No.
Should he ask the man if he wanted him to phone the A.A.?
Instead he explained the route carefully, trying not to stare.
"That's terrific. Much obliged," said Crowley, as he began to wind up the window.
R. P. Tyler had to say something.
"Excuse me, young man," he said.
"Yes?"
"I mean, it's not the kind of thing you don't notice, your car being on fire.
A tongue of flame licked across the charred dashboard.
"Fu
"Is it?" said Crowley. "I honestly hadn't noticed." And he reversed back down the country lane in his burning car.
"That's probably because your car is on fire," said R. P. Tyler sharply. He jerked Shutzi's lead, dragged the little dog to heel.
To The Editor
Sir,
I would like to draw your attention to a recent tendency I have noticed for today's young people to ignore perfectly sensible safety precautions while driving. This evening I was asked for directions by a gentleman whose car was . . .
No.
Driving a car that . . .
No.
It was on fire . . .
His temper getting worse, R. P. Tyler stomped the final stretch back into the village.
– – -
"Hoy!" shouted R. P. Tyler. "Young!"
Mr. Young was in his front garden, sitting on his deck chair, smoking his pipe.
This had more to do with Deirdre's recent discovery of the menace of passive smoking and ba
"Yes?"
"Your son, Adam."
Mr. Young sighed. "What's he done now?"
"Do you know where he is?"
Mr. Young checked his watch. "Getting ready for bed, I would assume."
Tyler gri
Mr. Young puffed on his pipe.
"You know how strict they are up there," said Mr. Tyler, in case Mr. Young hadn't got the message.
"You know what a one your son is for pressing buttons and things," he added.
Mr. Young took his pipe out of his mouth and examined the stem thoughtfully.
"Hmp," he said. "I see," he said.
"Right," he said.
And he went inside.
– – -
At exactly that same moment, four motorbikes swished to a halt a few hundred yards from the main gate. The riders switched off their engines and raised their helmet visors. Well, three of them did.
"I was rather hoping we could crash through the barriers," said War wistfully.
"That'd only cause trouble," said Famine.
"Good."
"Trouble for us, I mean. The power and phone lines must be down, but they're bound to have generators and they'll certainly have radio. If someone starts reporting that terrorists have invaded the base then people'll start acting logically and the whole Plan collapses."