I've made up my mind. I have been made-up like this because in everyone's mind I am, in fact, already dead. I whimper. My bowels, as the Bible has often put it, have turned to water. An older man, sipping a Cosmopolitan, perhaps (I'm no Mr. Boston!) puffing a cigar, appraises me meditatively, almost appreciatively, but nonetheless with blank unseeing eyes, as if he were thinking of something else entirely (which, quite naturally, he is), which would mean he wasn't appraising me at all now wouldn't it? for crissakes you're not the goddamned center of the universe, you fucking egomaniac, you!), that he was merely looking, absently, because I am absent; occasionally someone (is it Cyn?) quiets my groans by thrusting a sponge between my teeth; it's soaked, I think, with a lemon-flavored tranquilizer; the older man gets bored, resurfaces from his private meditation, gets tapped on the shoulder, knocks the ash off his cigar and extinguishes it, off-handedly, against the inside of my left. Two aircraftmen were manhandling the large hangar doors, opening up the cavernous building. "What chariot of delight have you got for me, Strangways?" Clegg called. The last time he had flown to France he'd been piloting his own racing seaplane. He'd missed flying since war broke out but even he couldn't get fuel for private flying and given the choice between dodging Messerschmitt's in RAF Fighter Command or the German night fighters and ack-ack in Bomber Command, he'd decided to avoid both.There was the cough of an aero engine starting up inside the hangar. The cough and splutter was followed by a sullen throbbing sound. As soon as he heard it, Clegg knew that what awaited him was no sleek, streamlined, high performance machine. "That's a Bristol Mercury," he called. "I'm not going over in a bloody Lysander, am I?"Strangways didn't need to answer. The ungainly looking, high winged mono-plane, taxied slowly out like a pelican in search of its lunch. Elly looked across at Clegg. She.
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