From: tstpcc@gwunix1.gwu.edu (Paul C. Chemmanoor)
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian
Subject: House of Mirrors --[VI] -- Icarus. [NEW]
Date: 17 Dec 1992 19:02:40 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu


1] And the next part :

		 Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy  - PART- I
		 ---------------------------------------

"Taxi !, Taxi !"

		George Blimey stepped out into the rain and called for a cab.
		Two giggling girls pushed past and got into the taxi that
		stopped for him. He was too much of a gentelman to argue.
		A cold drizzle was falling in london and he had a long way
		to walk. He tucked the book of german poems under his arm
		and began with a light step, stepping rather briskly for a 
		a man of his age.

		Where could Ann be now ?

"The Eternal feminine draws us upward."

		He quoted from Goethe.

		Or downward, as the case may be, he mused.

                He was getting drenched, the water had begun to run down his
		collar, and into his shirt. He kept walking trying not to 
		think of Ann.
		The problem with Ann was that she was perfect.
		In Anns words: It was difficult being Ann and being middle aged.
		In his words: It was very difficult being in love with a 
		middle aged Ann. 

		He reached ByWater street and scraped his shoes on the rug in 
		front of the door, rather noisily. He peered carefully at the 
		doornob and the hair that he had stuck across the key-hole. 
		One learns things, living his kind of life.
		You can never be too careful. Men, famous men, had died 
		telling themselves they were just doing the mind-work and that 
		they did not need to look over their shoulders. 
		Blimey wanted to live.

		The fine grey hair across the key-hole was intact.

		He turned the key and stepped in.

		There were seven letters waiting for him.
		Bills from the phone company.
		Bills from the credit card company.
		Statements from the Bank.

		Ann had drawn 1000 pounds from the bank, in a place called
		Illingtonshire. Where was Illingtonshire ?

		Blimey with an act of will forced himself not to think about
		what Ann was doing in Illingtonshire.

                One of the letters smelt of Anns cologne.
		Suddenly it began to hurt, being drenched in the rain,
		being alone on christmas day, being George Blimey.

		He tore open the envelope with trembling hands.

"Oops sorry George, I didnt know you were on vacation.
I hope you are quite all right, especially after taking that nasty fall
from the ski lift."

		The letter went on in the same vein.

		George Blimey had not taken a vacation in thirty years.
		George Blimey never skied.
		George Blimey never fell.

"A mole." 

		The words insinuated themselves into his mind, of their own 
		will.
		But Ann was in Illingtonshire. Then who was this imposter who 
		wrote on Anns personal stationery ? 
		Who was this person who pretended to be Ann ? 


"Cedar S. Atraman, thats right Atraman, please , tell him this is Blimey."
		There was a long silence interrupted with piped music.
		Blimey began to sweat.
		He hated the Jupiter Symphony. Especially over the phone.

"George! What can I do for you ?"

"I got a letter from Ann..." 

		The next day there was a fat beige folder tied with faded 
		string sitting on his desk.

		"Name: V. J. Muffet.
		 Last known alias: Little Birdie.
                 ........."

		This was going to be difficult. If Muffet was the mole than 
		things were going to be very difficult. 

		Blimey opened a new folder and wrote across it: 
		"The Hunt for Little Miss Muffet."

		He had long discovered that labelling a file "Top Secret" 
		was the best way to tell everyone.

		With the kind of staff they took in at the secretary pool, 
		the folder would be dismissed for an old mans fascination 
		for nursery rhymes.


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.    ~ ~                                                                  .
.    o o         signito ergo sum.                                        .
.     |       i sign therefore i am.               paul chemmanoor        .
.     =                                            washington d.c.        .
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