'A force commander,' Mullard snapped, 'whether he's a lance-corporal or a bloody general, is never too busy to report.'

Harley smiled loftily. 'You're an old Blimp, Mullard.'

Mullard bit back a retort and instead snatched a phone. 'Get me Needham Market,' he barked, having picked one of the four 'Occupation Achieved' names at random. It took about seven minutes for him to be put through, announce himself and demand to speak to the force commander, and another two for a mere lieutenant to be brought to the radio.

'Sorry, sir, the OC's busy. The committee chairman's showing him around the place.' The boy's voice was amiably casual.

'Are you in charge in his absence, Lieutenant?'

'I suppose so, yes.'

'You suppose so.' The general's voice was pure ice. 'Then give me your own progress report.'

'Oh, we're settling in nicely, General. Nice place, nice people.'

Some instinct warned General Mullard not to react as he would normally have done to this incredible conversation, but to handle it like a nurse with a slightly delirious patient. 'Any casualties?' he asked calmly. 'On either side?'

'Oh, no. Of course not.'

'So I take it you have established control without trouble.'

'The question doesn't arise. I don't think you quite realize how things are, General. The war is over.'

This boy is mad, the general told himself. He's got to be. 'Is there any other officer with you at HQ at the moment, lieutenant?'

'Yes, sir. Lieutenant Spillman.'

'Put him on.'

After a pause, another voice. 'Spillman here.' 'Lieutenant, this is General Mullard. Did you hear the other end of this conversation?' ‘Ye-es.’

'Then you will realize that your brother officer's mind has become unhinged, for whatever reason. You will place him under arrest and have your commanding officer report to me personally by radio the moment he returns.'

Spillman's laugh was relaxed, genuinely amused. 'Oh, really, General Mullard. Get stuffed.'

The radio went dead.

Mullard stared at the telephone in his hand. In that moment, with awful certainty, he knew that he was not dealing with one mad officer or even two or even with a mutinous unit. He knew, and he could not tell how he knew, that Operation Skylight faced total, irretrievable, inexplicable collapse.

Like an automaton, he had himself connected by radio with Ashford in Kent, Ripley in Surrey and Lechlade in Gloucestershire, the three other names that had so far appeared in the 'Occupation Achieved' column. He deliberately watched his words because Harley was within hearing and he did not want to be involved with him for the moment. At Ashford he got a sergeant. At Ripley, he actually got the commanding officer. At Lechlade, a platoon commander's batman. To each, he listened carefully.

When he had finished, he put down the telephone and turned to Harley.

'Sir Reginald,' he said, 'your dream is over. Operation Skylight no longer exists.'

Harley stared at him. 'What are you talking about? Have you gone mad?''That's a question I'll have to go into with myself, later. But I am telling you. All four of those units have torn up their orders and laid down their arms. They have not merely fraternized with the local civilians – they are busy merging with them. They are not rebelling against Beehive. They have merely brushed Beehive aside as irrelevant. And you can be absolutely certain that all the other units and assault groups will be doing exactly the same. You're finished, Harley.'

Harley had jumped to his feet. 'Finished?' he hissed. 'You don't know what you're saying!… Get me the man at Stonehenge!'

Mullard shrugged and picked up the telephone. 'Get Captain Brodie, in the helicopter standing by at Stonehenge.'

While he was waiting, a stunned-looking Admiralty officer appeared at his elbow with a message in his hand. Mullard took it from him, read it, and laughed, passing it to Harley.

'Far-called, our navies melt away;

On dune and headland sinks the fire:

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre…'

he quoted softly, and then into the phone, 'Yes?… Thank you.' He laid down the receiver. 'There is no reply from Stonchcnge.'

Harley screamed 'Colonel! Take over command! General Mullard has been taken ill!'

The GSO1 came running and looked at Mullard in bewilderment. The general stood aside, gesturing towards the command chair. 'You heard the man, colonel. Take over. For what it's worth.'

General Mullard walked out of the Operations Room without looking back. He went to his quarters and changed into civilian clothes. While he was doing it his wife came in. She looked at him, at first with astonishment but then with dawning understanding, though he had said nothing, only smiled at her.

'Where are we going?' she asked.

'Wherever the sun shines, Debbie.'

Deborah Mullard nodded and started packing two rucksacks. They hadn't used them since their last rambling holiday, three years ago. Her husband had often teased her for the nostalgia which had made her bring them to Beehive.

'You're taking it very calmly,' he said.

'Service wives are always ready to move, darling!… There's only one thing worries me, a little. Your face is well known. Might someone up there feel like taking it out on you?'

'If they do, my love, I've asked for it. But do you know what? Up there, I don't think anyone will be bothered.'

The WRAC corporal let the long rake with which she had been pushing symbols about fall disregarded on to the huge map. The map had become meaningless, anyway, and it was much more interesting to watch the Big Chief going mad, bellowing that single word over and over and over again.

'How about getting out of this mess?' the young flight-lieutenant beside her asked. 'We might as well, now. Coming with me?'

Dear Ned, of course she was going with him. If he didn't know that yet, he never would… They elbowed their way out of the disorganized crowd into the corridor, Harley's monotonous cry fading gradually behind them as they went.

'What does Gotterdammerung mean, anyway?' Ned asked her, curiously. 'I never was a Wagner buff.'

In the lounge of the Red Lion at Avebury, Lenny's wife was serving her standard panacea, hot soup. The three who had fainted were still a little pale but fit. Young Jane, who 'reckoned she was a witch', was skipping around on Cloud Nine. She had begged to be allowed to join Camp Cerridwen and after a talk with Moira and Dan, Lenny and his wife had agreed.

Four of the guards had gone to fetch the vehicles; the car would pick up Bruce and his guard from near Stonehenge, keeping an eye open for drifting Dust according to Bruce's radioed warning, though on this windless day the outbreak seemed barely to have moved beyond the Henge itself. The leaderless Angels of Lucifer had disappeared at once, Bruce had reported, heading towards Savernake Forest with every symptom of panic.

The PAG and Lenny's group sat around the lounge, drinking their soup and talking animatedly until the vehicles arrived.

Dan stood up. 'Well, Lenny – all of you – thanks a lot for your hospitality. I'm sorry we had to descend on you like that and I'm sorry about the front door. We'll look after Jane, don't worry.'

'Don't you apologize for nothing,' Lenny told him. 'I ain't figured it all out yet, and maybe I never will, properly. But I know a battle when I smell one – and I reckon something happened under our roof we can be proud of.'

'Can you smell victory, too, Lenny?'

Lenny smiled. 'Like a garden full of flowers.'

'Me too,' Dan said. 'Come along, boys and girls. Time to go home.'