patrolling a harbour were unlikely to be trapeze artists.
'Yes, that is obvious, I agree. Let us take a look at their vessel.'
By the time we got to the first corner, they were just rounding the next one, two yards ahead. When we reached that comer, they were disappearing up the gangplank of a dirty grey trawler.
'Fishermen- that's all?'
'I'd say so.'
They were men, they were off a fishing-boat, so that was fair enough. What he meant - and what I knew perfectly well he meant - was that they weren't fishermen. From what little I could see of their heads, their hair was too well trimmed. They were too sprucely dressed. They were too clean. They moved with short twelve-inch steps, clipped, quick, purposeful. It's a style that stays long after you've forgotten your drill sergeant's name. Whatever they called themselves now, they were military men.
But just this once I thought it wouldn't do any harm for Petursson to be doing the guessing.
'Very well,' he said. 'Now see what you can tell me about their ship.'
This time, instead of playing stupid, I decided to show him what a bright little fellow I could be.
'Isn't it an AGI?'
Under the brim of his hat, he looked surprised. 'How do you know about such things?'
'Aliens Gathering Intelligence,' I intoned heavily, and I won't say that I wasn't enjoying his surprise. 'Oh, I've written about them.'
I looked over the grey hull with the white superstructure and the name Pushkin in Cyrillic lettering on the bows and English on the side of the bridge. The only smartly-painted bit was the hammer and sickle in red on the funnel. That figured. The Russians knock hell out of their trawlers for a few years and then flog them to some poor unsuspecting Third-World country.
'What makes you think it's a spy-ship?' he asked.
Now I really did let myself go. 'Look at all those aerials and DF loops. Christ, you could get the BBC's News at One half-an-hour early with that lot. Even so, I'm surprised it's not got the Hydrographic Service flag flying- you know, blue with a white lighthouse.'
He was just about to give me ten out of ten when a sound above made us both look up.
A fat old man with eyes like holes poked in grey pastry came up to the side to have a look at us. He dragged on a cigarette butt with the urgency you always feel for the last pull, then watched it fall into the oily sea below.
'You are very well informed,' Petursson said admiringly.
'You are correct about the flag though. But don't you think those nets are curious?'
I looked where he was pointing. The deck was covered in a jumble of nylon netting. Why would a spy-ship want nets?
'And this is a stern trawler. So far as I know, the Russians have not yet used a stern trawler as an AGI.'
'So what is it then?'
Again, he ignored my question, as we strolled alongside the scarred grey flanks of the trawler. 'We thought as you did, at first. And of course for the Russians to bring a spy-ship in here even for. repairs, as they insist would be provocative. As a fulltrui of the government, I sought permission to board her and have a look around.'
'Christ!' From a bit closer, I'd suddenly realised that the fat fisherman who was watching us wasn't a fat fisherman at all. It was a fat fisherwoman. Although how I managed to detect some vestige of femininity in that waddling bundle of rags, I couldn't say.
'A woman, yes. It is not so uncommon. So, as I say, I sought permission to inspect this vessel.'
'And did you?'
'Yes.' He stopped and looked down at me and I saw the twinkle of amusement in his face as he enjoyed telling his story.
'They were most helpful, the