Lawrence Pritchard Waterhouse goes into battle armed with one-third of a sheet of British typing paper on which has been typed some words that identify it as a PASS to Bletchley Park. His name and some other things have been scribbled on it in some upper-class officer’s Mont Blanc blue-black, the words ALL SECTIONS circled, and a stamp smashed across it, blurred into a red whore’s kiss, with sheer carelessness conveying greater Authority and Power than the specious clarity of a forger.