Unlimited Roquefort

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The room was somberly but richly furnished. The Permanent Secretary studied it with unabashed fascination. A Persian rug lay on the floor and a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth. Several thousand books lined one wall, while an up-to-date computer system occupied the opposite corner. The Permanent Secretary raised his glass of whiskey-soda and sketched a toast to the tall, gray-haired man who stood considering him.

“To being a free man, Colonel Christie.”

“Twenty years to the day.” The Colonel’s voice was thick with emotion. He raised his own glass and drank deeply. “I thought I’d been left here to rot.”

“No, no, my dear chap. That was never the intention. And it was as much for your own safety as for anything else.”

Outside, the muted tones of Big Ben tolled mournfully through the late afternoon fog. “Safety? From angry mobs deprived of their cuppas? I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” The Colonel gestured at his books and computer and uttered a weary sigh. “At least I had twenty years of uninterrupted calm to educate myself about all sorts of interesting things. Most, most interesting. Someday I’ll have to tell you about them.”

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