<p>1<br />
London. Some time in the imminent present<br />
It began on that day in November when Charles Rawcliff S wife，<br />
Judith， put their telephone number in the local newsagent s<br />
window in Battersea， advertising for a baby-sitter. Among the<br />
first to call that evening was a man who gave his name as Mason.<br />
After Judith had confirmed that he was ringing the right num-<br />
ber， she asked to speak to Mrs. Mason. The man apologized and<br />
explained that he was the applicant， adding that he was a bomber<br />
pilot， stationed at R.A.F. Benson， Oxfordshire， and was up in<br />
London on a six weeks training course. He didn t know anyone<br />
in town， and thought he might fill the odd evening by getting<br />
out of his digs to do some homework， and make a bit of tax-free<br />
pocket money on the side. He gave his full name as Flight Officer<br />
Terence Mason; he was married and had three children of his<br />
own.<br />
Judith was amused by the idea; after all， what was wrong with<br />
a grown-up man looking after her two-year-old son， even if he<br />
was training to drop bombs on people? He had sounded pleasant<br />
and sensible， and she agreed to see him at seven the next evening.<br />
But first， without consulting her husband， she got the number of<br />
R.A.F. Benson and checked with the Duty Officer. Yes， they had<br />
a Flight Officer Mason， but he was away from camp at the mo-<br />
ment. Yes， he was in London for a course on Aerial Control. If it<br />
was a personal matter， he would have to refer her to Mason s<br />
commanding officer. She thanked him and hung up.<br />
The candidate arrived punctually at 7 V.M. Charles Rawcliff<br />
<br />
</p>
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