a Teasmade? Busner moves to intercept and so help her, but she evades him by slipping behind the wooden cabinet of a twenties vintage foldaway bed. — I have. . Sir Albert says as the elderly woman kneels to plug the Teasmade into a socket hidden by the skirts of the velvet curtains. . a conviction that tea should be drunk as soon as possible after it has been made — both for reasons of taste and health. He flashes his compound eyes at Busner, clearly wishing to solicit a Why? but Busner sticks to his own professional agenda: You did see her during the First War, though — I’ve read your entry in Who’s Who, sir, and I know from Miss Death that she worked at the Arsenal as well —. True enough, Sir Albert’s flat tone hacks in, but I assure you I didn’t see her more than once or twice — we were at polar opposites to one another, she a cog, so to speak, in the machine, while I was concerned with the administration of all shell production — and latterly the entire Arsenal —. He is interrupted by the alarm going off on the Teasmade, and they wait in silence while Missus Haines concocts two cups of tea, adding a large slop of milk to both together with one, two, three. . four! lumps of sugar. Busner doesn’t object — he’s grateful to be getting any refreshment at all, and wonders if he’ll have her disinfect the cup when I’ve gone . .The teas distributed, Missus Haines unplugs the device and retreats with it — both men suck on our tooth rot, Sir Albert noisily so. Once cup and saucer are reunited, he says, apropos of everything! I owe my longevity to my messery. Pardon? Busner says, nonplussed. Mind motors on serenely: My messsery, it’s an adjuvant of my own devising, a mixture of raw cane molasses, Bemax, vitamins and milk stout — although this last ingredient has become problematical, with only Mackeson’s to be had. Of course, when I first hit on it — during the Great War as it happens — I wasn’t yet aware of what is was an adjuvant for, I thought it simply an efficacious stimulant-cum-dietary supplement — but in recent years, prescribed really quite toxic compounds for my blood pressure and so forth, I’ve come to understand that it also functions to boost their therapeutic effects while also reducing their side ones. Sclerosis. . he remarks sententiously. . being endemic in the males of my line, I should’ve been dead long ago without it — and, if not dead, my mental capacities would undoubtedly be in decline. If, Doctor Busner, you had a more practically useful specialisation, you might find it profitable to research my messery’s pharmacological properties —. Well, Busner puts in, sensing a possible source of merit, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t run some preliminary tests on your, um, messery — we have a basic laboratory at Friern, and a. . um, reasonably biddable pharmacist. Mind considers this from on top of his gabardine mountain, then he says: Yes, Friern Barnet Road to here, assuming you took the most direct route and came under the river via the Rotherhithe Tunnel — what motor car do you have? Busner replies bemusedly: An. . Austin. Yes, yes, Mind raps back, but what model? Busner dutifully offers up: A Maxi, the new five-door hatchback. Mind pauses, and Busner braces himself for a swerve into the follies of government policy, the farrago of British Leyland. . and who knows what else! But Mind takes an unforeseen turn: In that case your wheels are sixty-nine point eight inches in circumference, resulting in thirteen thousand, two hundred and eighty-nine point three six three nought five seven three two four eight four nought seven six four three three one two one nought one nine one six eight three revolutions of them throughout the journey — approximately. Marvelling at his own sangfroid, Busner says: Why only approximately? Mind ruffles: Well, obviously I can know neither your exact route, nor how conscientious you are regarding tyre pressures — they might be variable. If I knew how variable I could give you different results for each wheel — quite possibly to greater than twenty-seven places. It is markedly stuffy in the big room, so full is it of everything that Sir Albert retains, but where on earth could he have seen a technical-specifications manual for an Austin Maxi? Trapped behind the closed curtains, it’s impossible to tell if the rain has stopped — Busner wishes to believe it has, and that a summery evening will ensue, featuring wine poured on a damp, cooling terrace, and small but witty talk among good friends. These are not desiderata that he, personally, pursues — but in a voyeuristic fashion I want them to be going on . .with the understanding that at some unspecified time in the future. . I’ll make the effort needed to have them in my own life, rather than. . this weirdness. His hand twitches to the row of Biros along his breast pocket, and the old man scythes in: Not much of a display handkerchief, eh, colour-coded according to subject matter, I assume? Green for poetical tropes, blue for reminiscences, black for your own insights — and the aperçus of others — red for observations picked up in the exercise of your medical duties, am I right? Busner says, You’re right — although I’m at a loss to understand how you knew —. Come, come, Mind chides him, you knew it, and it isn’t that complex a system. Busner says, The other thing — calculating the car-wheel revolutions, that’s not too unusual an example of eidetic memory, you being, Sir Albert, what’s termed in the literature, a savant —. So, the red pen? Mind offers up. The psychiatrist laughs: No, I might use the red one if your messery were responsible for your calculating ability, but I don’t think you believe that any more than I do. No, the blue pen, Sir Albert, for my memories of a superior mnemonist — not the only one in your immediate family either — Miss Death, is, I’m convinced, similarly gifted, and perhaps has an advantage over you, given that for the past fifty years there has been scarcely any new data —. Explain, Mind utters, and if it will aid your concentration help yourself to another cigarette. Busner says, I’d rather sit down, Sir Albert, and as the old man raises no objection, he does, after removing a stiff-legged and mouldering stuffed dog from a wooden swivel office chair. Your sister. . he begins, and then. . lays it all out for him: the encephalitis lethargica epidemic, the characteristic form of Audrey Death’s collapse, her hospitalisation and long, long period of effective misdiagnosis and mistreatment. He glosses his own arrival at Friern, then moves swiftly on to the discovery that L-DOPA could have a therapeutic application for these long-since-abandoned patients. Busner has no idea what to expect from Sir Albert when he has finished speaking. Viciously erect in his wing armchair, his lenses shining forth from his oppressive cranium, his expression presumably unchanged from when he