The Human Factor by Graham Greene

suspended above the hammock on a string, and after every swallow she removed a piece of clothing with an air of ginny abandon. At long last they could see her naked buttocks outlined by the net like the rump of a chicken seen through a Soho housewife’s string bag. A party of businessmen from Birmingham applauded with some violence, and one man went so far as to wave a Diners Club card above his head, perhaps to show his financial standing.
    â€˜What do you fish?’ Castle asked.
    â€˜Mainly trout or grayling,’ Percival said.
    â€˜Is there much difference?’
    â€˜My dear fellow, ask a big-game hunter if there’s a difference between lion and tiger.’
    â€˜Which do you prefer?’
    â€˜It’s not really a question of preference. I just love fishing – any fly fishing. The grayling is less intelligent than the trout, but that doesn’t mean he’s always easier. He demands a different technique. And he’s a fighter – he fights until there’s no fight left in him.’
    â€˜And the trout?’
    â€˜Oh, he’s the king, all right. He scares easily – nail boots or a stick, any sound you make and he’s off. Then you must place your fly exactly, the first time. Otherwise . . .’ Percival made a gesture with his arm as though he were casting in the direction of yet another naked girl who was striped black and white by the lights like a zebra.
    â€˜What a bottom!’ Davis said with awe. He sat with a glass of whisky half-way to his lips, watching the cheeks revolve with the same precision as the wheels of a Swiss watch: a diamond movement.
    â€˜You aren’t doing your blood pressure any good,’ Percival told him.
    â€˜Blood pressure?’
    â€˜I told you it was high.’
    â€˜You can’t bother me tonight,’ Davis said. ‘That’s the great Rita Rolls herself. The one and only Rita.’
    â€˜You ought to have a more complete check-up if you are really thinking of going abroad.’
    â€˜I feel all right, Percival. I’ve never felt better.’
    â€˜That’s where the danger lies.’
    â€˜You almost begin to scare me,’ Davis said. ‘Nail boots and a stick. I can see why a trout . . .’ He took a sip of whisky as though it were a disagreeable medicine and laid his glass down again.
    Doctor Percival squeezed his arm and said, ‘I was only joking, Davis. You’re more the grayling type.’
    â€˜You mean I’m a poor fish?’
    â€˜You mustn’t underestimate the grayling. He has a very delicate nervous system. And he’s a fighter.’
    â€˜Then I’m more of a cod,’ said Davis.
    â€˜Don’t talk to me about cod. I don’t go in for that sort of fishing.’
    The lights went up. It was the end of the show. Anything, the management had decided, would be an anticlimax after Rita Rolls. Davis lingered for a moment in the bar to try his luck with a fruit machine. He used up all the coins he had and took two off Castle. ‘It’s not my evening,’ he said, his gloom returning. Obviously Doctor Percival had upset him.
    â€˜What about a nightcap at my place?’ Doctor Percival asked.
    â€˜I thought you were warning me off the drink.’
    â€˜My dear chap, I was exaggerating. Anyway whisky’s the safest drink there is.’
    â€˜All the same I begin to feel like bed now.’
    In Great Windmill Street prostitutes stood inside the doorways under red shades and asked, ‘Coming up, darling?’
    â€˜I suppose you’d warn me off that too?’ Davis said.
    â€˜Well, the regularity of marriage is safer. Less strain on the blood pressure.’
    The night porter was scrubbing the steps of Albany as Doctor Percival left them. His chambers in Albany were designated by a letter and a figure – D.6 – as though it were one more section of the old firm. Castle and Davis watched him pick