in mary holmes' garden the first narcissus bloomed on the first day of August, the day the radio announced, with studied objectivity, cases of radiation sickness in Adelaide and Sydney. The news did not trouble her particularly; all news was bad, like wage demands, strikes, or war, and the wise person paid no attention to it. What was important was that it was a bright, sunny day; her first narcissus were in bloom, and the daffodils behind them were already showing flower buds. "They're going to be a picture," she said happily to Peter. "There are so many of them. Do you think some of the bulbs can have sent up two shoots?"

"I shouldn't think so," he replied. "I don't think they do that. They split in two and make another bulb or something."

She nodded. "We'll have to dig them up in the autumn, after they die down, and separate them. Then we'll get a lot more and put them along here. They're going to look marvellous in a year or two." She paused in thought. "We'll be able to pick some then, and have them in the house."

One thing troubled her upon that perfect day, that Jennifer was cutting her first tooth, and was hot and fractious. Mary had a book called Baby's First Year which told her that this was normal, and nothing to worry about, but she was troubled all the same. "I mean," she said, "they don't know everything, the people who write these books. And all babies aren't the same, anyway. She oughtn't to keep crying like this, ought she? Do you think we ought to get in Dr. Halloran?"

"I shouldn't think so," Peter said. "She's chewing her rusk all right."

"She's so hot, the poor little lamb." She picked up the baby from her cot and started patting it on the back across her shoulder; the baby had intended that, and stopped yelling. Peter felt that he could almost hear the silence. "I think she's probably all right," he said. "Just wants a bit of company." He felt he couldn't stand much more of it, after a restless night with the child crying all the time and Mary getting in and out of bed to soothe it. "Look, dear," he said, "I'm terribly sorry, but I've got to go up to the Navy Department. I've got a date in the Third Naval Member's office at eleven forty-five."

"What about the doctor, though? Don't you think he ought to see her?"

"I wouldn't worry him. The book says she may be upset for a couple of days. Well, she's been going on for thirty-six hours now." By God, she has, he thought.

"It might be something different-not teeth at all. Cancer, or something. After all, she can't tell us where the pain is…"

"Leave it till I get back," he said. "I should be back here around four o'clock, or five at the latest. Let's see how she is then."

"All right," she said reluctantly.

He took the petrol cans and put them in the car, and drove out on the road, glad to be out of it. He had no appointment in the Navy Department that morning but there would be no harm in looking in on them if, indeed, there was anybody in the office. Scorpion was out of dry dock and back alongside the aircraft carrier waiting for orders that might never come; he could go and have a look at her and, as a minor side issue, fill up his petrol tank and cans.

On that fine morning there was no one in the Third Naval Member's office save for one Wran writer, prim, and spectacled and conscientious. She said that she was expecting Commander Mason on board any minute now. Peter said he might look in again, and went down to his car, and drove to Williamstown. He parked beside the aircraft carrier and walked up the gangway with his cans in hand, accepting the salute of the officer of the day. "Morning," he said. "Is Commander Towers about?"

"I think he's down in Scorpion, sir."

"And I want some juice."

"Very good, sir. If you leave the cans here… Fill the tank as well?"

"If you would." He went on through the cold, echoing, empty ship and down the gangplank to the submarine. Dwight Towers came up to the bridge deck as he stepped on board. Peter saluted him formally. "Morning, sir," he said. "I came over to see what's doing, and to get some juice."

"Plenty of juice," said the American. "Not much doing. I wouldn't say there would be now, not ever again. You haven't any news for me?"

Peter shook his head. "I looked in at the Navy Department just now. There didn't seem to be anyone there, except one Wran."

"I had better luck than you. I found a lieutenant there yesterday… Kind of running down."

"There's not so long to run now, anyway." They leaned on the bridge rail; he glanced at the captain. "You heard about Adelaide and Sydney?"

Dwight nodded. "Sure. First it was months, and then it got to be weeks, and now I'd say it's getting down to days. How long are they figuring on now?"

"I haven't heard. I wanted to get into touch with John Osborne today and get the latest gen."

"You won't find him in the office. He'll be working on that car. Say, that was quite a race."

Peter nodded. "Are you going down to see the next one-the Grand Prix itself? That's the last race ever, as I understand it. It's really going to be something."

"Well, I don't know. Moira didn't like the last one so much. I think women look at things differently. Like boxing or wrestling." He paused. "You driving back to Melbourne now?"

"I was-unless you want me for anything, sir?"

"I don't want you. There's nothing to do here. I'll thumb a ride to town with you, if I may. My Leading Seaman Edgar hasn't shown up with the car today; I suppose he's running down, too. If you can wait ten minutes while I change this uniform I'll be with you."

Forty minutes later they were talking to John Osborne in the garage in the mews. The Ferrari hung with its nose lifted high on chain blocks to the roof, its front end and steering dismantled. John was in an overall working on it with one mechanic; he had got it all so spotlessly clean that his hands were hardly dirty. "It's very lucky we got those parts off the Maserati," he said seriously. "One of these wishbones was bent all to hell. But the forgings are the same; we've had to bore out a bit and fit new bushes. I wouldn't have liked to race her if we'd had to heat the old one and bend it straight. I mean, you never know what's going to happen after a repair like that."

"I'd say you don't know what's going to happen anyway in this kind of racing," said Dwight. "When is the Grand Prix to be?"

"I'm having a bit of a row with them over that," said the scientist. "They've got it down for Saturday fortnight, the 17th, but I think that's too late. I think we ought to run it on Saturday week, the 10th."

"Getting kind of close, is it?"

"Well, I think so. After all, they've got definite cases in Canberra now."

"I hadn't heard of that. The radio said Adelaide and Sydney."

"The radio's always about three days late. They don't want to create alarm and despondency until they've got to. But there's a suspect case in Albury today."

"In Albury? That's only about two hundred miles north."

"I know. I think Saturday fortnight is going to be too late."

Peter asked, "How long do you think we've got then, John?"

The scientist glanced at him. "I've got it now. You've got it, we've all got it. This door, this spanner -everything's getting touched with radioactive dust. The air we breathe, the water that we drink, the lettuce in the salad, even the bacon and eggs. It's getting down now to the tolerance of the individual. Some people with less tolerance than others could quite easily be showing symptoms in a fortnight's time. Maybe sooner." He paused. "I think it's crazy to put off an important race like the Grand Prix till Saturday fortnight. We're having a meeting of the Committee this afternoon and I'm going to tell them so. We can't have a decent race if half the drivers have got diarrhoea and vomiting. It just means that the Grand Prix might be won by the chap with the best tolerance to radioactivity. Well, that's not what we're racing for!"

"I suppose that's so," said Dwight. He left them in the garage, for he had a date to lunch with Moira Davidson. John Osborne suggested lunch at the Pastoral Club, and presently he wiped his hands on a clean piece of rag, took off his overall, locked the garage, and they drove up through the city to the club.

As they went, Peter asked, "How's your uncle getting on?"

"He's made a big hole in the port, him and his cobbers," the scientist said. "He's not quite so good, of course. We'll probably see him at lunch; he comes in most days now. Of course, it's made a difference to him now that he can come in in his car."

"Where does he get his petrol from?"

"God knows. The army, probably. Where does anybody get his petrol from these days?" He paused. "I think he'll stay the course, but I wouldn't bank on it. The port'll probably give him longer than most of us."

"The port?"

The other nodded. "Alcohol, taken internally, seems to increase the tolerance to radioactivity. Didn't you know that?"

"You mean, if you get pickled you last longer?"

"A few days. With Uncle Douglas it's a toss-up which'll kill him first. Last week I thought the port was winning, but when I saw him yesterday he looked pretty good."

They parked the car and went into the club. They found Sir Douglas Froude sitting in the garden room, for the wind was cold. A glass of sherry was on the table by him and he was talking to two old friends. He made an effort to get to his feet when he saw them, but abandoned it at John's request. "Don't get about so well as I used to, once," he said. "Come, pull a chair up, and have some of this sherry. We're down to about fifty bottles now of the Amontillado. Push that bell."

John Osborne did so, and they drew up chairs. "How are you feeling now, sir?"

"So-so, so-so. That doctor was probably right. He said that if I went back to my old habits I shouldn't last longer than a few months, and I shan't. But nor will he, and nor will you." He chuckled. "I hear you won that motor race that you were going in for."

"I didn't win it-I was second. It means I've got a place in the Grand Prix."