“It is an induced malaise,” the weasel voice spoke.
“Ah, of course.”
“Might you enlighten the unenlightened?” Fothergill asked as the ornithopter lurched to the right. “Sorry.”
“John be a good fellow and tie Mister Perkins’ handkerchief to either of Sergeant Fothergill’s small fingers.”
“How did you know it was his?” the perplexed boy asked. “I didn’t say.”
“Just do it, there’s a good lad.”
“Yes, Miss. I mean, Grace.”
Grace smiled at that as John did as bidden, much to the scowled protests of Fothergill. When the boy withdrew his hands, the handkerchief swirled as though caught in a breeze, then darted out erect to point west.
“Follow that will you, Sergeant.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“And as regards your previous question, I believe the best kind of invasion, even if assisted by the
