Iq: The Final Test

By Adrienne Fox

An epidemic of brain fever attacks the young people in a small town. Then the local infrastructure begins to crumble as the towns long-established building society goes into liquidation and both the education and health authorities are bankrupt. Then suddenly finance miraculously appears for an immunization program and for IQ testing of all school pupils. As the media is manipulated and the Internet disintegrates, it is IQ testing that dominates the lives of parents, children, and teachers in the area.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496992703

Adrienne Fox

Adrienne Fox is a retired musician who began her literary career reviewing concerts. This is her fifth novel. The other novels are the following: The Retirement, Starstruck, Tit for Tat, and IQ.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It had been raining.

But the rain had not cleansed either the ground or the air.

It was as if the sky had developed a fever and was sweating.

Greasy ooze coated the pavements with a black emulsion that stained the uppers of his light tan loafers.

He looked down with distaste, wondering which of the many hydrocarbons from the filthy road was wrecking his shoes. Then he speculated if the disgusting squelch contained liquidised dog-shit or the hazardous contents of the used syringe that he had spotted on the slimy grass verge.

A heavy chemical tanker tore around the sharp bend and he looked in horror at the white plastic carrier bag in his hand as it turned grey in the fine mist churned up by the roaring vehicle.

"Oh God! In my hair, my eyes, my lungs!

It’s not just the muck I can see, but whatever corrosive poisonous chemical that was last swilled into that thing."

Panic came in a wave. Then anger. Then a sinking sadness.

He could remember the road when it had been a pleasant semi-rural meander of neat terraced houses with proud gardens full of the latest plants that the local market could supply.

Then, it had been a delight to stroll along, and see how neighbours had vied with one another for the best display of roses or gloxinias. That was just after they had built the by-pass.

But now, the by-pass was uneconomic.

With the rise in the price of petrol, the short cut through the town itself made more sense to the penny-pinching road-hauliers, who cared nothing for the filth and shaking foundations that plagued the residents on this much-abused road. Each time a roundabout was injured by an oversized truck, the council capitulated into building a smaller one and eventually the ensuing mini-roundabout were no obstacle to a truck used to travelling in a straight line. The town route was shorter, and cheaper.

Sadly the gardens had lost their bright flowers, and the only colour was supplied from the tattered shreds of the torn plastic waste that draped the forlorn shrubs along with plastic remnants from fast-food outlets and packaging that had encased goods that sold in pre-planned quantities from racks in supermarkets.

Goods that were furled in wrappers that so often survived for longer than the contents they had swathed.

They were the plastic banners proclaiming the insidious, ever increasing squandering of the Earth’s resources.

On dry days there was a permanent coating of dust, and on damp days, the dust turned into this stealthy sludge that encroached across the pavement, and the garden strips, to wheedle its way up the doors and walls of the houses themselves.

Dennis had always tried to walk around the town as opposed to taking his car on principle.

Don’t be like the herd and add to the pollution. Take your exercise and stay healthy had been his theme.

Today it was a very hard task to live up to his ideals.

He wished he had brought his car.

Damn the exercise. Damn the pollution. I may as well bugger up my slice of the environment with the rest of humanity!

He turned into a small un-adopted road, - a road that the council had refused to maintain, when some irregularity had been revealed in connection with its planning permission. He avoided the hazards of the potholes and animal excrement, and made his way to a letterbox in a well-washed front door. He disgorged the contents of the plastic carrier into the slot with some difficulty, fighting the vicious double spring that operated the flap.

Why do I do this? he wondered. She’ll be back at school on Monday.

But he knew that Avril, who was attending hospital for chemotherapy would find working on her English essay the best of all therapies over the weekend.

Avril was one of his best students.

So keen, so bright and so sick.

He turned for home.

Should he make his cut across the park with its unmentionable underfoot horrors, or back along the road through the murderous slime and the deafening roar of the traffic?

He opted for the park.

In his youth it had been a large informal area of grass, shrubs, trees and places where families could picnic and games could be played. It lay on a gentle slope bordered by the canal at its lowest point. The flowering cherry in spring gave way to the horse chestnut in early summer, when fishing competitions had been a feature of the canal.

It was here that all the primary schools had held their sports days on fine June afternoons

Now he winced as he threaded his way through broken glass, litter and the vandalised branches that had been torn from the now unkempt trees.

There were used condoms in the rough grass and ragwort dominated the cracked paths. The soles of his feet seemed to wince at the contact with the unsavoury ground, as he picked his way in his stained shoes with the lopsided gait of an injured heron.

No one in their right mind would picnic here now. Do they actually lie on this muck when they copulate? he wondered, skirting yet more contraceptives.

The poor sods must be pretty desperate to writhe about in this lot, - the local rubbish dump’s a lot more hygienic.

He made his way fastidiously, through the assortment of detritus in the park; a slightly stooping figure in a checked tweed jacket, beige trousers, and light green shirt. There was a strained expression in the keen blue eyes, but his mouth, despite being set in a grim line against his immediate environment, still held the vestiges of the smile that had characterised his features in his youth. That smile, once endearing, almost sexy was turning sardonic with age, and the effort of being polite to the people he despised.

His intelligent face was an intersection of experiences in the mixture of lines that had become ingrained there. Laughter lines, which had been gradually superseded by bitter realities.

He resembled a well-bred dog that had endured a kick or two!

Dennis walked into the lounge and flung his briefcase on the sofa.

It was quarter to six.

The house was silent.

The family were still out for their swimming trip to the local pool. The trip was reserved for Thursday because they could no longer afford the luxury of a daily swim and Thursday was the cheapest offer.

Inflation had consistently eaten into the family finances so that everything they enjoyed had to be constantly being assessed and cut back.

He knew that if the price of the pool shot up again, the family outing, which usually excluded him because of Thursday school management meetings, would arrive on the table as another sore topic for financial debate.

The debates usually culminated in a full-blown row, during which Sally would flatly refuse to see his point of view and they would eventually arrive at an awkward compromise that satisfied no one.

What I need is a whisky. He muttered aloud.

His guilt at wanting to drink alone conflicted violently with his desire to sit back in company and enjoy untroubled relaxation. He opened the door of the booze cupboard and saw that all that remained in the bottle was a decent double measure.

Shit!

Well, at least he could swear without the family present.

His boss, Peter was coming around later on a semi-social visit and he usually offered him a drink.

He tilted the whisky speculatively. There wasn’t enough for two, but it was a large measure for one.

Had he been single with more money, this kind of dilemma would never have arisen.

He had done a day’s work; waded through the fouled park and filthy road just to find himself in his own home wondering if he could afford to have a drink.

He tipped all the whisky into a glass and rinsed out the bottle to add the statutory drop of water.

Nothing went easily with him now.

It was as if a malevolent force was lurking beneath the surface of his daily routines.

He wondered if it could be a manifestation of his inability to cope with mid-life mediocrity and unfulfilled dreams.

He flung himself into a battered armchair to watch television, slurping his whisky greedily.

The Early Evening News was as depressing as ever.

The Health Service seemingly richly funded and cosseted was supposed to have been the, Jewel in the Crown of the government’s brave policies.

Now it was running into deficit.

The overnight nationalisation of all private clinics, to enable resources and expertise to be fairly shared by all the community had resulted in lightning strikes of nursing staff who saw their conditions of employment in jeopardy.

Instead of relieving the burden of overcrowding in the state-run establishments, the delicate situation had been exacerbated and talks had turned into slanging matches before disintegrating.

So much for Draconian Democracy he thought wryly, hoping that no one in the family would need any medical attention until the mess had been sorted out.

The next item came as a bombshell, The Department of Education and Science (which was to be phased out over the next eighteen months to give way to a localised administration) was having, what appeared to be a final kick at the system.

IQ tests for all children were to be introduced immediately into the National Curriculum.

Dennis choked on his last drop of whisky.

There had been no consultation and no dialogue.

Who was the instigator of this extraordinary measure?

This was a Socialist Government, or so it proclaimed itself.

IQ testing went with Means Testing, privilege through birthright and all the policies of the elderly right-wingers who were so out of date that they thought the restoration of old fashioned Grammar Schools and a two tier system with a Public School spearhead would solve the problems of the youth of the entire world.

Where were the Unions? They should have been condemning a step so fundamentally against socialist policies.

Dennis was a branch representative and there had been no whisper of a move in this backward direction.

It must be an error or some sort of joke.

The News moved on to a possible power failure caused by lack of provision for new generation sources and poor maintenance of existing plants.

Then there was an atrocity in an Old Persons’ Home where someone had relieved the inmates of their worldly goods and savings.

Lastly there was an extremely long item and analysis about the forthcoming Miss World contest.

All very delightful he thought through the comfort of the Whisky just as the door burst open to reveal the family returning from the pool.

His wife Sally’s hair was dripping, as was Marianne’s, his nine-year-old daughter.

Charles, aged seven was not only dripping but also crying.

All was not well.

Sally blasted off.

"Wretched pool. Cost a quid more this week and the water was freezing. Then to cap it all there was some sort of row between the manager and the attendants, so the attendants just switched everything off, including the lights and asked us, non too nicely to leave.

There was nearly a punch-up in the changing room because no one could find their own clothes in the dark. Two women ripped a pair of knickers that they were claiming, and then it turned out that the knickers didn’t belong to either of them. They were Mrs Browns’, - you know, that lady who does all the church work.

That was really funny. Marianne interrupted. "Mrs Brown actually swore.

She said, ‘They’re my sodding pants and they may be old and sodding soaked but they’re MINE.’"

Charles began to tremble.

I was on my own in the gents’ changing room Daddy. And a man started to be very nice to me and said he would help me find my things. But he put his hand inside my shorts and … His trembling grew more violent.

Dennis leapt out of his chair.

Who was it? You didn’t let him get away with it did you Sally?

Sally flushed.

It was old Mr Batey that well known pervert.

Marianne interrupted again.

Charles ran in and told Mummy and she shot out and grabbed Mr Batey. Mummy went like this!

She did a vigorous demonstration of someone being kneed in the testicles.

It was really funny. Mr Batey made such a funny noise and he…..

Sally cut her off.

"That’s enough Marianne. That sort of thing is never funny. Never!"

Dennis looked at Charles.

Are you sure that was all that happened?

Yes Daddy. I ran very fast. I used to like Mr Batey because he played the piano at Sunday School and was nice to me.

Dennis and Sally exchanged looks.

Charles continued, You always warned me about nasty men, but I thought that he was nice and I got such a shock,

He had stopped trembling as the telling of the experience took its Cathartic effect.

Yes. Said Dennis.

That sort always try to be nice. So now you know the problem. Just don’t trust anyone.

Sally was still flushed and agitated.

Well, that’s the last of our visits to the pool. I shall write to the Town Clerk and make a formal complaint not only about this afternoon’s debacle but also the filth. God knows what nasty things are lurking in those wretched wooden slats.

What about Batey? Dennis looked at Charles who said, quite brightly, I think Mummy probably wounded him enough.

You bet she did Marianne chimed in.

"He went ‘Aaaargh!’ just like in the cartoons.

Despite himself, Dennis could see the funny side of the situation.

He could never have thought Sally capable of such a rapid response; she always gave the impression of tranquillity bordering on lassitude.

He thought of the female pelican that in times of famine ripped open her own breast to feed her young.

Just when he thought that Sally was about to assume the role of a vegetable her behaviour was alert and astonishing.

But he wondered why it always had to be triggered by the children. He reckoned that if he and half the adult population of England had been at risk, she wouldn’t have even noticed.

But when it came to a child!

Her maternal instinct was immense.

Her voice cut into his musings.

Is that Whisky? Can I have some please to warm up?

He was ridden by guilt.

I’m sorry love. I’ve finished the Whisky but there’s some gin left.

He cast his mind back to the drink.

Was it his imagination but had it tasted less palatable than usual?

Was it going the way of most of the foods that were processed and tasteless after the first bite?

Was it full of complex chemicals that had so far been allowed to pass unnoticed because the E numbers had not yet been tabulated?

Meat reared on antibiotics.

Fruit and vegetables that were grown to a standard pattern, shape and complete lack of flavour.

New scares.

New epidemics for the Tabloids to exploit.

He slid further down into the blackness of his soul searching.

The only thing that is in excess on this planet is people.

He reasoned.

"The only significant Horseman of the Apocalypse is humanity.

Greed, pollution and disease are by-products of our fecundity and we have come full circle as we extinguish our species in desire of survival.

But try as he might, he couldn’t reconcile his Global perception with his own domestic situation and Sally’s maternal instinct.

His family was still the all-important motivator for his life and purpose.

The Fairisle pattern of Sally’s home-knitted sweater emphasised the droop of her shoulders when she caught sight of the empty bottle.

Her small eyes darted around the room, avoiding his guilty look.

She brushed her damp hair from her face as she bent to pick up his briefcase from the sofa, and then she plumped up the cushions with her capable square hands.

He visualised the hands retrieving the clothes from the lockers in the swimming pool.

They were the safe, sensible hands of a practical woman and they matched her short stumpy legs.

He found himself thinking unkind thoughts about how very ordinary and boring she was.

The afternoon’s fracas had deeply upset her, and sent her into mother overdrive

He wondered if her own deeper feelings had been shunted into a distant corner as she came to terms with life’s unacceptable elements.

She had taken refuge in trivia and the intellectual bond that had initially formed the basis of their relationship had almost vanished.

Her response to the absence of the Whisky restored Dennis to earth.

Oh, never mind. I’ll make some tea. If you’ve drunk all the Whisky, what are you going to offer Peter tonight?

It was a rebuke rather than a question.

I’ll nip round to the off-licence now you’re home. Is there any cash in the housekeeping?

No.

Again he sensed the rebuke.

He went upstairs to the wardrobe where he kept ten-pound notes in his back trouser pockets for emergencies like this.

He ferreted through several pairs and realised that he must have been having quite a few emergencies of late.

Inflation. He muttered as a kind of panacea for all their financial ills and went out to buy the Whisky.

There were quite a few people hanging around the shop.

To his surprise he identified two as members of the Upper School where he worked. They were not pupils renowned for their academic prowess and seemed unable to come to terms with the prospects of an uncertain academic future. They were seeing out an extended adolescence in the upper school and that seemed to be their only reason for being there.

Hello he said. Not a bad evening

They stared at him stony-faced.

He tried again.

What’s wrong. It’s only me, Mr Earl, and I’m not going to shop you just for loitering.

Again there was no response apart from the dead eyes and the silence.

He went into the shop and bought his Whisky from a young man, who he assumed was the same age as his pupils.

He was also conducting a one sided transaction with silence and dreadful dead eyes.

Dennis left the eerie premises and made his way past the silent young people.

There’s no spark at all. He thought. "Just blankness and a break in the message line with the outside world.

God alone knows what they are thinking. They must be on something a helluva lot stronger than Whisky."

A rare police car sped past and the crew surveyed the scene. The car didn’t even decelerate to observe the scene. Dennis shrugged his shoulders.

So many on drugs. I suppose it doesn’t matter as long as they don’t get punchy and create a problem. We could be approaching Brave New World with everyone on SOMA.

When he got home he found that Sally had made the usual healthy tea.

Her preoccupation with unsaturated fat, red meat, refined sugar and all the things that he regarded as comfort foods was embodied in the beans and wholemeal on the table.

He remembered the compromise when they had decided that red meat was no longer either in their budget, nor was it healthy.

The compromise had coincided with the death of Woofer the dog.

No more pets had been part of the financial cutbacks. Life was certainly becoming a lot more clinical.

I wonder what will be the next thing to go? he wondered. The television, the car, the computer, me? A quick trip to the vet and a little prick?"

Sally broke into his thoughts.

Seeing the swimming was cut short, how about a walk?

The children rushed out of the room in search of anoraks.

Marianne had inherited Dennis’s long bones and Sally’s clear skin. Her brown eyes were limpid and expressive and her hair, dark and very curly. Despite her youth, she had an air of calm gravity that was often disconcerting to her peers.

Yet when she laughed she was transformed into an uncontrollable bundle of joy. Dennis worked hard on the humorous side of her nature partially because he wanted to distract himself from his own deeply seated gloom. It gave him the greatest joy to see her laugh.

Charles was different.

He was a grand disorganisation of arms and legs with fast moving moods of tears and smiles.

Despite this, his mind was sometimes so logical that Dennis felt inferior.

Charles perceived situations with naïve clarity and a sharpness that belied his youth.

He had inherited Dennis’s intense blue eyes plus Sally’s soft hair and clear skin.

As brother and sister there were times when their temperaments were mirror images and he assumed it was that which accounted for the harmony between his children.

Dennis sighed.

Count me out. Peter will be arriving at any moment and I think we’re in for a long session.

As usual he was denied the pleasure of being part of his family by the task of having to provide for them.

He wondered if cave men had felt the same when they had been forced to go in search of meat, when all they really wanted to do was to stay at home and decorate the walls.

Sally looked at him sympathetically.

It’s that blasted budget, isn’t it?

I’m afraid so. Nothing, but nothing can help us save a huge cash injection and every day it looks less and less likely.

But surely the cash was promised when Tranthams amalgamated? They can’t renege on that can they?

Tranthams had been a failing school that came under the jurisdiction of the same authority. The Government Inspectors had issued an ultimatum, Amalgamate or re-build.

Re-building was a non-starter because of cost and so the two establishments had formed an uneasy liaison which had pleased no one and antagonised a large slice of the community.

Yes. The promise was made. Dennis winced as he thought of the highly inflated words that had been bandied about so easily.

Quite frankly he continued, "It meant bugger all. But bigger, more politically damaging promises have been broken recently, so there’s not much hope for us, a mere school taking care of Britain’s future!

Peter and I are going to try to take stock. That’s why we shall need the Whisky."

Sally spoke with more compassion and understanding than Dennis could have expected.

I fear, my love that you will need more than Whisky to solve this lot.

She didn’t usually focus on School business.

Her mind, which had once focused on World affairs, had contracted with the birth of her children and she had become increasingly preoccupied with what Dennis regarded as domestic trivia.

He had seen her gradually slip into a routine that barred her from everything except her immediate circumstances, to an extent that when they made one of their rare social sorties she had enormous difficulty in raising herself above the level of potty training and lavatory cleaner.

He partially blamed himself and his preoccupation with work.

What could he do now?

His own mental state was precarious enough without considering Sally.

When the children no longer needed her, how would she cope?

Would she have any reserves left to return to the real world, or would she go down some obscure primrose path to immerse herself in feline protection or the preservation of the fleas that pervaded the society of the cats she seemed to value more than her fellow men?

He remembered a distressing episode when they had been invited to join Peter and his wife Zena at the Opera.

Sally had monopolised the conversation in the car with a tirade about the local supermarket. She had banged on about service, location, hygiene and quality for so long that Zena had gone to sleep and Peter had assumed the air of a Headmaster under the tirade of loopy parent so that he had eventually suggested that she write to the Chamber of Trade

She had sat through the Opera in a kind of sneering detachment as though Puccini’s creation was a sub-standard product purchased from the establishment she was criticising.

She re-mounted her hobbyhorse as soon as they left the theatre and had returned to her ranting monologue.

Then she had suddenly veered from her supermarket theme and drew their attention to the scruffiness of the venue; the ill perfumed lavatories and the frayed cuffs of some of the orchestral players.

Peter had attempted a humorous diversion by suggesting that as well as the Chamber of trade she could become a patron of the Opera and work towards the renovation of cuffs, lavatories and the theatre in general.

She had replied with the utmost seriousness that she had two children and a husband who needed all the attention she could give them. Theatres were extensions of the delusions of unreality.

Dennis had never known whether her reply had been serious. They had all laughed nervously, he the loudest, to disguise his discomfort.

When they arrived home he had gone straight to bed, not to sleep, but to brood and to lie as far from her as the double bed would permit.

Her snuffly breathing, her soft heavy body and her own peculiar smell, - a mixture of soap, toothpaste and the inevitable cleaning materials, suddenly repelled him.

CHAPTER TWO

In the morning, he had felt better, but there was a subtle transformation in his relationship with her.

He saw her in a new light, not so much the sharing partner, but as a carer for the children or a domestic helper. He asked himself again, how on earth would she survive the smallest of crises when a couple of pence increase on a household item threw her into paroxysms of dismay?

His mind jerked to the present.

"I think that the School is in real trouble." Sally was saying.

What makes you say that love?

Well. I was listening in the changing room at the pool. You know how the cubicles are supposed to be soundproof, but you can hear every word if you happen to be standing still and quiet.

He nodded.

Yes. He certainly knew. He had eavesdropped on some very interesting conversations his pupils had engaged in when they were unaware of him listening.

Sally continued.

I heard someone say that the whole County Treasury is broke because they had invested in that bank that went bust and the lump sum investment was more than the actual amount in the county treasury.

What do you mean? Where did the extra money come from?

"They borrowed it at a lower rate of interest.

That Far East Bank was giving 12 per cent, and they borrowed from a British Bank at 11 per cent."

How much did they borrow?

I don’t know, because all I heard was a mutter that ended in `millions’

Well if you heard a plural, it’s a helluva lot.

"So you see there’s no money in reserve, no insurance for anyone, just a huge debt. They’re belly up!

Oh yes, and I heard the words, ‘corruption’ and `fraud’. Still, as long as they keep paying your salary, we’re OK."

She spoke so lightly that he could hardly believe his ears. Did she know what she was saying? What seemed to him to be her blinkered misunderstanding of the financial facts was mind-boggling.

He wanted to yell, You silly cow. They’ll never be able to meet their debts, so my salary’s gone down the tubes for ever.

But as he tried to process the information she was talking again.

I think it’s a huge rumour. I don’t believe a word. Such a dreadful thing couldn’t possibly happen in Britain. I’ll get the kids in from the garden for their walk.

She went out, leaving him struggling in a sea of dread.

How could she come up with such a story and not see its implications? She must have lost the ability to put any facts together and draw a logical conclusion.

But Dennis couldn’t possibly have guessed that she was all too well aware of her family’s predicament and was trying to stop the tears running down her face as she walked into the garden. She was all too certain of what faced them if this was indeed the reality but she had no intention of letting Dennis into her misery.

He had enough to cope with at work.

Come on kids she called and then muttered to herself, I must never let any of them see that I’m afraid.

As it was, Sally didn’t know that it was the problem of financing salaries that had been planned as the topic of discussion between Dennis and Peter that evening.

They had long ago given up the battle for computers, textbooks and the little necessities like chairs and desks that didn’t fall apart during lessons. Everything had been pared down to the bone for so long, that it was now simple day-to-day survival.

When the school had first gone on to the Local Management Scheme that had forced teachers to become amateur administrators and run their own finance, things had been tolerable. But a change in the science curriculum had meant new equipment and more space for GCSE groups. From that point on, the budget had been a nightmare.

When Tranthams School had become no longer viable, what was left of its pupil population and some staff had been crammed into Ellerdene Comprehensive. At which point the County Council had promised to double the budget.

But there had been no money to date. In his capacity of Headmaster, and a powerful force in local education, Peter Chaytors had tried every venue for added funding, without success. And so they had increased the class sizes in the lower school to 36 and offered only the most basic selection of `A’ Level subjects.

This had led to several redundancies, and a lot of disgruntlement.

The atmosphere in the school had changed from friendliness to wariness, and still they faced disaster at the end of the financial year.

Sally’s words rattled in Dennis’s head about the County going, ‘belly up’ and the need for his salary. His old faith in education struggled to the surface - schools just couldn’t fold up.

Anyway, what about the announcement he had heard on the news a few weeks ago about IQ tests? Someone somewhere must have a plan, and the plan would have to be implemented at the grass-roots level. Thankfully there had been no more about the testing and so he had assumed that it had either been laughed out of court, or there wasn’t enough cash to fund it. Education was like a pendulum that swung between Finance and Fantasy. He deposited the IQ solidly on the fantasy side.

Deputy Heads like Dennis Earl were the ground-level administrators who put such plans into action and despite his educational principles, he felt fractionally more optimistic.

At least there’s a chance of me having something to do, even if the task sticks in the crop of my professional values, he thought. "But at a time like this, I can’t afford to have any elevated ideals.

Charity begins at home, even if it stays there. It’s children first and if any high-minded individuals can’t see that, it’s tough!"

A knock at the door halted his speculations, and Peter Chaytors his headmaster was jogging up and down on the spot, looking hot.

"Sorry Dennis, I’ve been running.

A couple of muscles had tightened up again, so I thought I’d better give them a work-out and give the car a rest."

Dennis smiled to himself.

Peter made no attempt to excuse his idiosyncrasies.

When you took Peter, you got the full package.

He stood on the doorstep, a compact man in an orange tracksuit. He spoke slowly, ran quickly, and his deep-set eyes missed little of what was going on around him. He invariably wore casual clothes, despite his formal role as headmaster, and was a well-known figure in the town, where he jogged almost every day.

His few very expensive suits and silk ties were seldom in use, and consequently seemed all the more impressive when worn, given their rarity value alone. Several individuals, overly concerned with visual self-image had misjudged not only the depth of his perception but also the speed and appropriateness of his actions. They had invariably come off badly in any argument with Peter.

Quite the opposite of me. Dennis compared himself to Peter for the umpteenth time.

I have been called a rapid thinker, but it’s all play-acting. My reaction bank comes from literature, not from the real world. If I haven’t read about a situation, I’m a dead loss.

To Peter he said, Come in. Have you seen the News? I can’t make out what the Devil’s going on.

Peter gave a twisted smile. I take it you are referring to Miss World, with Miss GB uppermost in your mind.

Peter often took refuge in levity to give himself thinking time.

Dennis knew immediately that Peter must have seen it all, and probably had more information than the screen had given out.

"I think