The motorcyclist went through a quaint little gate that joins two old buildings. The gate is topped by a tiny cupola with a weathervane and a clock. Waterhouse goes through it and finds himself in a little square that evidently dates back to when Bletchley Park was a precious Buckinghamshire farmstead. To the left, the line of stables continues. Small gables have been set into the roof, which is stained with bird shit. The building is quivering with pigeons. Directly in front of him is a nice little red brick Tudor farmhouse, the only thing he has seen so far that is not architecturally offensive. Off to his right is a one-story building. Strange information is coming out of this building: the hot-oil smell of teletypes, but no typing noises, just a high mechanical whine.