Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens by Michael Gilbert Page B

beer. A man with a beard was finishing a crossword puzzle and a large port.
    “That’s just my point. Why do we have to confuse scientific research and the paraphernalia of military life? All that nonsense after dinner. Mr. Vice, the Queen, and sitting round for half an hour in our best bibs and tuckers, drinking port, when we’d all rather be down at the local or enjoying a bit of slap and tickle in the car park.”
    “Really, Rivers,” said Colonel Crofter. “I don’t think—”
    “That’s all right, Colonel. You can’t shock old Corker. I’ve seen him sneaking off down to Hurley Bottom Farm. Lechery Lodge, we call it round here. What did you think of the merry widow, Corker?”
    Mr. Calder appeared untroubled by this revelation. He said, “I had a very interesting talk with Mrs. King-Bassett.”
    “I bet. Did she tell you she thought I was a prize bastard?”
    “Yes.”
    Albert Rivers burst into a hearty guffaw of laughter which drew glances of whole-hearted disapproval from the bridge players.
    “That’s what I like about you, Corker. You tell the truth. Waiter! What’s your tipple?”
    “Scotch and water.”
    “And you, Colonel?”
    “Nothing more for me, thank you.”
    “Oh, come along, Colonel. It won’t do you any harm. Bring us three large whiskies. In fact, it’ll save a lot of time in the long run if you bring the bottle.”
    “The bottle, sir?”
    “The bottle, Moxon. The whole bottle, and nothing but the bottle.”
    The waiter shot a sideways look at Colonel Crofter but, getting no help there, pottered off. Albert stretched himself even more comfortably in his chair and prepared to ride one of his favourite hobby-horses. “As I was saying, it always seems odd to me that we have to mix up militarism and science.”
    “This happens,” said Colonel Crofter, “to be a military establishment.”
    “Sure, Colonel. But you don’t parade your scientists in the morning.” Rivers threw his head back and roared out, “Scientists form fours. By the right. Quick march.”
    One of the bridge players said angrily, “This is impossible. We’ll have to move.” They carried the table and chairs into the next room as Moxon arrived with the whiskey.
    The two beer drinkers had left and the port drinker had fallen asleep over his crossword. Mr. Calder knew very well that if he himself made the least move to depart Colonel Crofter would take himself off as well. As long as he stayed, the colonel, as his host, had to stay too. He watched Rivers pouring out the drinks. A double for each of them, and pretty nearly half a tumbler for himself. Mr. Calder reckoned that this one would do the trick.
    “Let’s face it, Colonel,” said Rivers. “Cheers! Let’s face it. You can’t conduct scientific research by numbers. Science can’t be drilled or court-martialled.” He had added a little water and now knocked back nearly half the contents of the glass in three gulps. “Science is universal, and international.”
    “I hope you’re bearing in mind,” said Colonel Crofter, “that you’ve got to drive home tonight.”
    “I’ve got my car trained. It finds its own way home. What was I saying?”
    Mr. Calder said, “You were telling us that science was international.”
    “I wonder why I said that?”
    “At a guess, you were going to say that since science was international, it no longer observes national boundaries. That the days when nations conducted their own private, selfish scientific research were over, and that the results of one should be freely communicated to all.”
    The room was very quiet. Rivers seemed to be thinking. The cool and cautious part of his mind was fighting with the fumes of the whiskey. Colonel Crofter sat watching him, his grey eyes weary.
    Rivers said, “I don’t think I like you.”
    “That makes it mutual.”
    “You’re a crafty old bastard. You’ve been leading me on. I’m going home.”
    “It’s time we all went home,” said the colonel. They got up.