Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

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“I am the Lord thy God,” said Air Commodore Bletchley. “I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh… Do sit down. Cup of tea?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“Good decision, it’s pure poison. How d’you fancy a posting to Greenland?”

Bletchley had an office in the Air Ministry. If he lost any more weight he would be too thin. His hair was grey and years of brushing had beaten any insolence out of it. His hands rested on his desk, one of top of the other; his body didn’t move. His eyes were as bright as his buttons and his voice was crisp and brisk. He made Silk nervous.

“I don’t know much about Greenland, sir.”

“It’s towards the north. Somewhat icy. Sunstroke is not a problem. You’d be an airfield controller. Last chap got killed by a polar bear. They stand nine feet tall and run like the wind.”

“Good God.”

“The chap before him went insane. He kept seeing animals at the foot of his bed. Guess what they were.”

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