But Brenda was a librarian by vocation as well as by appointment, and once the Library had come as near to comprehensive perfection as Brenda could make it, she had found herself fretting over its virgin quietness and longing for the consummation of readers. Now at last with Beehive Amber, the consummation was beginning; the coming and going of faces, the vague or precise requests, the telephoned queries, the appeals for help from less knowledgeable assistants, and Brenda felt fulfilled. She and her system had stood up well to the first rush, with very few teething troubles. Come Beehive Red, and they would be able to cope. She knew that now.

She took a last unnecessary look around, said good-bye to the night duty girl, and left the Library to walk the hundred metres of corridor to her cubicle. Another favour from Reggie; her home-cell was not in Bachelor Quarters, half a kilometre away, but was one of the privileged few

which were close to their occupants' workplaces. Also, of course, easier for Reggie to visit discreetly. Their affair was hardly secret any more, after six years, but one still went through the motions.

He was already there when she let herself in, sprawled in the armchair and talking to someone on the phone. He waved his free hand at her and continued his conversation. 'Very well, Professor. I get the picture. Your admirable tuition is turning me into quite a knowledgeable seismologist myself.' Smooth little laugh. 'I cannot stress too clearly that what we must have at once is any hint of the process accelerating… Yes, quite… I very much appreciate your daily written reports and please continue to phone me with your elucidations of them – they are most enlightening. But if you notice any symptoms of a change in the pattern – even if it's merely, shall we say, a hunch on your part, and your hunches, Professor, are worth a dozen lesser men's calculations – please don't wait till evening to tell me. Use the priority number at any hour of the day or night and speak to me personally '

As she poured herself a drink and renewed the one at Harley's elbow, Brenda reprimanded herself for her initial flash of resentment. She was only too glad for Reggie to have his own key, of course – he had had one on Surface, after all – but this leaving of her cubicle telephone number at the switchboard galled her. On Surface, Reggie's housekeeper (a friend of hers, fortunately) had come between them and urgent calls; she would simply phone the message to Brenda's flat and Reggie would ring the caller back. That arrangement had been acceptably personal. But now, she was sourly aware, anyone on the 'priority number' list could ring them up in the middle of an orgasm… Still, she was also aware that Professor Arklow, for instance, might at any time be the bearer of news on which instant decisions, even the fate of nations, depended. Beehive was not Chelsea. Don't be a spoiled child, Brenda.

She gave vent to her self-reproach by kissing him extra warmly as he laid down the phone.

'Brenda, my dear. A good day?'

'Tiring but rewarding. My Library is actually being used.' She did not ask about Reggie's day; she had learned very early in their relationship that any such initiative on her part was taboo. Her function was to be a good listener once he had decided when, and how much, to talk about his work. Her comments were expected to be sympathetic but non-committal unless he actually asked her opinion. He did sometimes ask it: she knew he did not undervalue her intelligence but he had a devious set of criteria for defining the areas in which he should avail himself of it. She could talk about her own work as much she liked – it seemed to relax him, and to begin with she had believed he had welcomed it merely as a soothing noise until she discovered how shrewd his occasional comments were.

On the whole, she found him soothing, too. She had never wanted to marry him; she had in fact refused his one proposal, years back, and neither of them had mentioned it again. Marriage, for her, would have been too total. Their present relationship, with its well-defined if unspoken agreement on the areas of intimacy or independence, seemed to suit them both. Even their sex-life was similarly subdivided. Harley, wiry and grey and well groomed as he appeared, was a surprisingly efficient lover; erotically, he could play her like a violin, as she could him; but they left each other's souls alone, so to speak. He had never called her anything more than 'my dear', and she had confined herself to 'Reggie', in or out of bed. And that, Brenda told herself, was the way she liked it. They gratified each other physically and they relaxed each other mentally. More than that would be a mutually unwelcome intrusion.

She was about to ask him if he had eaten, when the phone rang. Harley picked it up and said 'Yes?'

Brenda said 'Damn' but under her breath.

Harley went on: 'Of course, Chandler. Be on hand yourself, will you? You know what data he's likely to ask for. The Cabinet Office? Right.'

He rang off and stood. 'Dreadfully sorry, my dear. The Prime Minister – probably half the night… The man's a fool, Brenda.'

Invitation to comment, she knew. 'It won't help your work down here, will it – being right in his pocket all the time?'

Harley smiled. 'It will be a question of who is in whose pocket. The – er – "democratic process" is a Surface plant. I doubt if it will take root in Beehive soil. *… Have you ever studied a real beehive, Brenda? It is a highly efficient community, unhampered by pretence.'

'And you,' Brenda risked, 'propose to be Queen Bee?'

His eyes were inscrutable and she wondered if she had overstepped the mark. But he merely asked pleasantly enough: 'Did I say that?' and laughed.

After he had gone, she shivered, unaccountably.

7

'I thought those two were going to be pinched for perjury,' Dan said, dropping the Guardian.

'Which two?' Moira asked absently.

'Wharton and the whatsername woman – Chalmers. At the Bell Beacon inquest.'

'Oh…' Moira dragged her attention away from the book she was reading and asked: 'Can you be sure they haven't?'

'The Guardian wouldn't miss a thing like that. They reported the inquest – badly, for them, but they did report it. So they'd report any follow-up.'

'The papers haven't been exactly themselves recently,' Moira said. 'Not even your sea-green incorruptible Guardian.'

*Yes, but…' Dan plunged in, then hesitated, his battle-ready shoulders slumping. 'I wish I could say you were wrong, love,' he admitted finally.

Moira dropped her book on to her lap and stared through the open French windows at the bright little garden. 'Me too… Something's going to happen, Dan, and soon – but what is it? More earthquakes? A full-scale witch-hunt?'

'Both?' Dan wondered, and when she did not reply, he went on: 'What do your cards say?'

She smiled, a little ruefully. 'That shows how worried you are.'

He looked surprised. 'But, Moira – you know how I trust your Tarot readings. You're bang on, time and again. I'm always asking you – I don't wait till I'm worried!'

T know you don't, darling. But this time you have. You've been dying to ask me for days – but you've been afraid to. Not like you at all. Which means you feel it, too.'

'Of course I bloody feel it.'

'Then why don't you read the cards? You're as good as I am, if you'd let yourself be. If you'd trust yourself.'

It was Dan's turn to smile. 'Stop changing the subject. You haven't answered me.'

She was silent for what seemed to him a long time. Then she said 'Yes, I've read them. And they frighten me even worse… Darkness and evil and I can't see the shape of it.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Because you looking cheerful and confident keeps me going. Sometimes I don't want to disturb it.'