what kind of mood the Japanese had been in: she had met them before and had bitter cause to remember the meeting, and scars that would bear witness of that meeting, for the rest of her life. The further away from the Jap's immediate blood-lust the better: besides, as the Major had pointed out, none of them was in a fit state to remain any longer where they were. Unknowingly, almost, the girl shook her head, quickened her pace again and turned off down another dark and empty street.
Fear and dismay, sickness and despair -- such were the things that coloured and dominated the entire existences of the wandering band of soldiers, the little boy and the nurses, and tens of thousands of others on that midnight of 14th February, 1942, as the exultant, all-conquering Japanese crouched outside the last defences of the city, waiting for the dawn, waiting for the assault, the bloodbath and the victory that must inevitably come. But for one man at least fear and hurt and despair did not exist.
The tall, elderly man in the candle-lit waiting-room of the offices some way south of Fort Canning was conscious of none of these things. He was conscious only of the rapid passage of time, of the most overwhelming urgency he had ever known, of the almost inhuman burden of responsibility that lay in his hands alone. He was conscious of these things, consumed by them to the exclusion of all else, yet no trace of them showed in the expressionless calm of the lined, brick-red face beneath the shock of thick white hair. Perhaps the tip of the Burma cheroot that jutted up jauntily past the bristling white moustache and aquiline nose glowed just a little too brightly, perhaps he sat just that little too relaxed in his cane-bottomed arm-chair, but that was all. To all outward appearances Foster Farnholme, Brigadier-General (Ret.), was at peace With the world.
The door behind him opened and a young, tired-looking sergeant came into the room. Farnholme removed the cheroot from his mouth, turned his head slowly and raised one tufted eyebrow in mute interrogation.
"I've delivered your message, sir." The sergeant sounded as tired as he looked. "Captain Bryceland says he'll be along right away."
"Bryceland?" The white eyebrows met in a bar-straight line across the deep-set eyes. "Who the devil's Captain Bryceland? Look, sonny, I asked, specifically, to see your colonel, and I must see him, immediately. At once. You understand?"
"Perhaps I can be of some help." Another man stood in the doorway now, behind the sergeant. Even in the flickering candle-light it was possible to see the badly bloodshot eyes, the fever-flush that stained the yellow cheeks, but his soft Welsh voice was civil enough.
"Bryceland?"
The young officer nodded, said nothing.
"You certainly can help," Farnholme nodded. "Your colonel, please, and right away. I haven't a moment to lose."
"I can't do it." Bryceland shook his head. "He's having his first sleep for three days and three nights -- and God only knows we're going to need him with us tomorrow morning."
"I know. Nevertheless, I must see him." Farnholme paused, waited until the frenetic hammering of a nearby heavy machine-gun had died away, then went on very quietly, very earnestly. "Captain Bryceland, you can't even begin to guess how vitally important it is that I see your colonel. Singapore is nothing -- not compared to my business." He slid a hand beneath his shirt, brought out a black Colt automatic -- the heavy.45. "If I have to find him myself, I'll use this and I'll find him, but I don't think I'll need it. Tell your colonel that Brigadier Farnholme is here. He'll come."
Bryceland looked at him for a long moment, hesitated, nodded, then turned away without a word. He was back inside three minutes and stood aside at the doorway to let the man following him precede him into the room.
The colonel, Farnholme guessed, must have been a man of about forty-five -- fifty at the most. He looked about seventy, and walked with the