The Shift Key by John Brunner Page B

that.’ He tensed. ‘You’re not going to shop me, are you? Isn’t what you tell a doctor under a seal same as the confessional?’
    Steven wasn’t listening. His attention had been caught by something being said up at the bar. While he and Stick had been talking, many of the clientele had changed. The customers now present were gathered around the section of the bar where Tom Fidger sat, conversing in low tones with Colin and Rosie. From time to time one or another of them glanced around as though afraid of being overheard.
    ‘Look, squire, I –’
    ‘Shh! Isn’t it Mr Phibson that they’re talking about?’
    And, clear into a transient silence, rose the words:
    ‘Like it or bloody not, he is our parson, ain’t he?’
    Simultaneous expressions of alarm crossed Colin’s face, and Rosie’s.
    And then, astonishingly, as though that had been the key to clinching a debate, half the drinkers turned away from the bar, not even emptying their glasses.
    ‘Good night,’ one of them rumbled.
    ‘Off to say your prayers, are you?’ Colin attempted in a bright tone.
    But the joke met with such burning disapproval that the rest of the men joined the move towards the exit.
    And were gone, leaving nobody at the bar except Tom Fidger, stirring uneasily on his stool. But he had a full pint before him and was reluctant to waste it.
    ‘What’s happened?’ Steven whispered.
    ‘Search me!’ was Stick’s reply. ‘I never saw the like. ’Course, I’ve only lived in Weyharrow a few months, but … Colin! Rosie! What’s up?’
    ‘By the sound of it,’ Colin rumbled, ‘Parson’s gone off his head.’
    Steven jumped to his feet. ‘Did he really say, at evensong, that the village is being invaded by the Devil?’
    ‘Didn’t you hear Joyce? She said as much!’
    ‘Yes, but …’ Steven clenched his fists. ‘I thought that must be due to too much gin. I –’
    ‘Wasn’t just Joyce,’ Rosie chimed in. ‘The word’s got around. And small wonder. Did you hear about the chef at the hotel?’
    Dazed, Steven shook his head.
    ‘We didn’t have anything like that happen here, did we, Colin?’ – glancing at her husband for confirmation. ‘And that’s what makes it all so odd, you see. If this were truly a stink of iniquity –’
    ‘Sink!’ Colin cut in.
    ‘Stink!’ she countered indignantly. ‘A sink is a clean place, where you wash clothes and dishes! Not that you ever lend ahand for that kind of work, do you?’
    Detecting a gleam in Colin’s eye that harbingered the resumption of what sounded like a long-established quarrel, Steven stood up hastily.
    ‘Well, thanks very much for your hospitality. I hope everything will be back to normal tomorrow … Ah! Jenny!’ – with vast relief as he saw her returning from the phone. ‘Did you get through?’
    ‘Yes.’ She wore a smug little smile. ‘And my bloody editor is never again going to be able to accuse me of not filing a story when I find it under my nose.’
    A dreadful sense of chill invaded Steven’s belly. He tried to say what had been foremost in his mind; he shaped the words: ‘Well, how about that dinner we were talking about? It’s after nine, you know! I hadn’t realized how much time had slipped away while we were chatting. But I don’t suppose they stop serving much before half past.’
    They remained unuttered. All of a sudden Tom Fidger, elbow on the bar, had said, ‘That’s her! Turn up the sound!’
    And pointed to the television set, on which was displayed the face of a pale woman in horn-rimmed glasses, about forty, wearing a navy-blue jacket with gold-braided lapels.
    Nervous, but exact, Rosie hit the set’s remote control. At once a smug announcer’s tones rang out, tinged with patronizing amusement.
    ‘– tour guide Mrs Ella Kailet. Over to our interviewer at Victoria coach station!’
    ‘Mrs Kailet!’ – in a crisp light female voice. ‘According to what we’ve heard, your tourist group ran amuck because you told