Hilda. She pushed it across the table towards the Doctor. ‘There may be something in it that might help. I glanced through it, but I didn’t see anything...’
No password, anyway. Too much to hope for, perhaps.
‘Good grief!’ said the Doctor, as he picked up the book and gazed at the portrait on the jacket.
‘What?’
‘That’s Hilda Hutchens!’
‘Who she?’
‘Hilda Hutchens. Emeritus Professor Dame Hilda Hutchens. 1970 Nobel Prize for Philosophy. Wrote Quantum Qualia. ’
That should be a sparkling read to take on the beach.
‘Thank you, Sarah. Thank you very much. You may have provided me with the very thing I’ve been looking for. The chink in their armour!’
He looked up at her, beaming - and quickly averted his gaze. Nobody would want to dwell on the sight of Sarah Jane Smith avidly slurping on a nearly naked mango stone.
Alex Whitbread had, whenever possible, worked to make himself popular with his fellow teachers. He had been both admired and despised by those in the political know, during his time in government, for his behind-the-scenes twisting and turning, which - harnessed to the election of the previous leader of the party - had earned him his ministry.
But his populist (and handsome) public face had been badly marred by the sordidness of the scandal that had finished him.
Though he was respected in the Skang group as one who had made a fresh start, he’d found few so far to join him in his schemes to replace Hilda. In spite of knowing that the ultimate prize could be for a far bigger game than the present one, the majority clung to the built-in loyalty of the Skang community. It was as if they had guessed his plans, he’d thought after the fateful meeting with Hilda. The one thing he needed was time - time to charm, to cajole, to threaten...
There were a few, a disaffected six or seven, but he’d been unable to contact any one of them the day before. As the time for the meeting drew near, he could be seen in search of his missing supporters, almost running, casting hither and thither through the clusters of devotees blissfully and aimlessly wandering through the groves and lanes of the ashram. And then at last, standing by a group in the shadow of the great pipal tree...
‘Dafydd! Thank goodness! The very man...’
Brother Dafydd, a recruit from the ranks of the modern Druidic revival - and a former bard, renowned for his evoca-tions of the more romantic gods of nature - turned from his task of briefing his small cadre of helpers about the coming evacuation, and greeted Alex with some concern.
‘Brother Alex! Is it true?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘A moment...’
He turned back to dismiss his group of lieutenants and watched as they hastened away. Only then did he turn to Alex once more. ‘They say that...’
Alex raised a hand to stop him, and taking him by the arm, led him behind the massive trunk, out of sight and hearing; and still he lowered his voice. ‘What do they say?’
‘That she means to go the whole way.’
‘Exclusion?’
‘Worse. Excision.’
For a moment, Alex’s face betrayed him. The fear of total loss, the ultimate despair, that lurked behind his grandiose plans was all too plain to see.
‘What have you done to make her so angry?’ Dafydd went on.
Alex at once slipped back behind his political mask.
‘Nothing. It’s a ploy, a pack of lies to discredit me. She knows full well that if I had the chance to make them understand the full extent of her treachery, I wouldn’t be the one to suffer.’
Dafydd nodded as if this were too obvious to be said. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
Alex paused and shook his head. ‘She’ll have Schwenck on her side... and the two from down under. We stand our best chance with the Pakistani and the Balkan two. And Moskowicz is teetering on the edge, certainly.’ He took hold of Dafydd’s shoulders; his unblinking stare seized Dafydd’s eyes. ‘It’s up to us. We must find
No password, anyway. Too much to hope for, perhaps.
‘Good grief!’ said the Doctor, as he picked up the book and gazed at the portrait on the jacket.
‘What?’
‘That’s Hilda Hutchens!’
‘Who she?’
‘Hilda Hutchens. Emeritus Professor Dame Hilda Hutchens. 1970 Nobel Prize for Philosophy. Wrote Quantum Qualia. ’
That should be a sparkling read to take on the beach.
‘Thank you, Sarah. Thank you very much. You may have provided me with the very thing I’ve been looking for. The chink in their armour!’
He looked up at her, beaming - and quickly averted his gaze. Nobody would want to dwell on the sight of Sarah Jane Smith avidly slurping on a nearly naked mango stone.
Alex Whitbread had, whenever possible, worked to make himself popular with his fellow teachers. He had been both admired and despised by those in the political know, during his time in government, for his behind-the-scenes twisting and turning, which - harnessed to the election of the previous leader of the party - had earned him his ministry.
But his populist (and handsome) public face had been badly marred by the sordidness of the scandal that had finished him.
Though he was respected in the Skang group as one who had made a fresh start, he’d found few so far to join him in his schemes to replace Hilda. In spite of knowing that the ultimate prize could be for a far bigger game than the present one, the majority clung to the built-in loyalty of the Skang community. It was as if they had guessed his plans, he’d thought after the fateful meeting with Hilda. The one thing he needed was time - time to charm, to cajole, to threaten...
There were a few, a disaffected six or seven, but he’d been unable to contact any one of them the day before. As the time for the meeting drew near, he could be seen in search of his missing supporters, almost running, casting hither and thither through the clusters of devotees blissfully and aimlessly wandering through the groves and lanes of the ashram. And then at last, standing by a group in the shadow of the great pipal tree...
‘Dafydd! Thank goodness! The very man...’
Brother Dafydd, a recruit from the ranks of the modern Druidic revival - and a former bard, renowned for his evoca-tions of the more romantic gods of nature - turned from his task of briefing his small cadre of helpers about the coming evacuation, and greeted Alex with some concern.
‘Brother Alex! Is it true?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘A moment...’
He turned back to dismiss his group of lieutenants and watched as they hastened away. Only then did he turn to Alex once more. ‘They say that...’
Alex raised a hand to stop him, and taking him by the arm, led him behind the massive trunk, out of sight and hearing; and still he lowered his voice. ‘What do they say?’
‘That she means to go the whole way.’
‘Exclusion?’
‘Worse. Excision.’
For a moment, Alex’s face betrayed him. The fear of total loss, the ultimate despair, that lurked behind his grandiose plans was all too plain to see.
‘What have you done to make her so angry?’ Dafydd went on.
Alex at once slipped back behind his political mask.
‘Nothing. It’s a ploy, a pack of lies to discredit me. She knows full well that if I had the chance to make them understand the full extent of her treachery, I wouldn’t be the one to suffer.’
Dafydd nodded as if this were too obvious to be said. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
Alex paused and shook his head. ‘She’ll have Schwenck on her side... and the two from down under. We stand our best chance with the Pakistani and the Balkan two. And Moskowicz is teetering on the edge, certainly.’ He took hold of Dafydd’s shoulders; his unblinking stare seized Dafydd’s eyes. ‘It’s up to us. We must find
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