Terror's Cradle

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I like working for the rough ones. Human nature being perverse, that's true of most of us. Give us a considerate, liberal boss and after the first start of surprise, we gradually take ever greater liberties and finally begin to call him an amiable weakling as we linger over idle lunchtime drinks. But show us a real brute, an untrustworthy, ruthless, slavedriver who hounds men to heart attacks and mental collapse, and there's something in us that makes us prance excitedly to every tune he plays. Even his vicious quirks are somehow transmuted into almost affectionate jokes.

I work for one such, I'm usually glad to say. His name is Alex Scown and he's a bastard of the premier cru. Every-body's agreed on that, but when they talk about him, it's an inadequate description. There's always something else to add. They say, he's a bastard, but . . . but talented, but shrewd, but brilliant. But watch your back. Brooding about Scown, I half-listened to the interrogation of the witness, aware that there would now be no revelations. The big Senate committee room was handsome, woodwork and lawyers were polished, witnesses and atmosphere were sweaty, but the earlier tension had gone. The sharks had escaped the net and were swimming gracefully away to offshore sanctuaries, grinning shark grins and, thinking about their next sharky bites.

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