Free Out of the Blackout by Robert Barnard Page B

hairdresser’s. Simon continued on to the tube.
    That tube station, the Angel, now had an added interest for him, but it was not one it was easy to satisfy. It was hardly a place where one could stand around and gawp—one passed through it on the way to the platforms. There was a dim little hall, with ticket office and ticket machines, with a couple of lifts to your left. There were no signs of offices, and you were not very likely to see a Deputy Station Master on the platforms. The most one could do was go through it more slowly than before, fumble for change by the machines, display interest in a poster. On the way back the possibilities were even more limited. For several days Simon was on the alert without ever catching a glimpse of Len Simmeter. His irregular hours were now explained: he worked on some kind of shift, so there was no calculating times when he might leave in the mornings or come home at nights. Simon was beginning to think that the best thing would be to start leaving for work at the same time as Connie, the sister, when, five days after his chat with his neighbour, he got out of the lift in the evening and saw the back of Len’s head through the grimy glass of the ticket office. He had his overcoat on, and seemed to be giving instructions to the man on duty. Simon dawdled outside, buying a chocolate bar at the kiosk, and as he counted out the money Len Simmeter came out of the station and turned towards home.
    â€˜Signing off for the day?’ said Simon, coming up behind him in the sunny evening street. Leonard Simmeter jumped, as perhaps it was in his nature to do.
    â€˜Ah—Good evening, Mr Cutheridge! Lovely evening, eh? Really warm and nice. Yes, I’ve just knocked off. So you’ve found me out at my place of work?’
    â€˜That’s right. I saw you coming out from behind the scenes. Nice quiet little station, is it?’
    â€˜Not bad. Not too bad. I’m used to it now—worked here for years. Used to be in a much busier set-up, but you don’t wantthat as you start getting older. No, this suits me fine. And what about yourself? Settled in nicely at the Zoo?’
    â€˜Yes, I think so. I’m enjoying it, at any rate.’
    â€˜That’s good. That’s very satisfactory. Because it’s what I call a good job—satisfying, responsible, with a bit of class. And o’ course, being on the scientific side you’d be one of the bigwigs, wouldn’t you?’
    He was looking at Simon in an ingratiating way, trying to flatter his youthful ego, but not having the subtlety to do it successfully. Simon had rarely seen eyes that spoke more definitely of calculation.
    â€˜Not one of the bigwigs by a long chalk, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜You shouldn’t sell yourself down,’ urged Len, and added with an uneasy laugh: ‘You’re certainly not one of the shit-shovellers.’
    â€˜No—you could say I’m betwixt and between.’
    â€˜Like there’d be some sort of Board over you, running the place?’
    â€˜That’s right. They keep out of the limelight, but that’s what happens. They’re Establishment men: retired politicians, eminent scientists, civil servants. And business men—rich as Jews, mostly, and they’re very useful because they advise about marketing, investment, promoting the place in one way or another. It’s the Board who are God Almighties at the Zoo. We on the scientific staff cut a pretty poor figure.’
    â€˜Ah well—you do get some pretty funny people running things these days.’ Len shot Simon a nervous glance, then clutched the old mac he was carrying over his arm in spite of the warmth of the sun. ‘Still—I can see you’re one young man who’s going to the top. That’s for sure. I can tell.’
    Simon laughed.
    â€˜I don’t know that I’m all that interested in getting to the top. So long as I’ve got a job I