Strike from the Sea

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Commander Robert Ainslie sat very still in a cane-backed chair and surveyed the waiting-room without enthusiasm. It was painted white and almost completely bare but for a couple of chairs and a portrait of the King on the opposite wall. An onlooker, had there been one, would have imagined Ainslie to be listening, or crouching on the chair ready to leap up. In fact, he was trying to keep his spine away from the chair back, for despite the revolving fans above his head the room was stuffy and humid, and any sort of contact increased the discomfort and made his shirt cling to his skin like a damp rag.

He looked at the shuttered window through which the harsh sunlight sliced across the room with silver bars. It seemed incredible that people could breathe out there, let alone use so much energy.

Booted feet stamped lustily across some sort of square, and he heard a Royal Marine sergeant’s voice from a great distance away, controlling the marching men, manoeuvring them like a ring-master at a circus.

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