Towards the End of the Morning [antikvár]

ONE The sky grew darker and darker as the morning wore on. By the time the coffee came round it was like a winter evening, and there were lights in all the windows that looked down on Hand and Ball Court. Bob stood at the window of Dyson's department, gazing out dreamily at the apocalyptic gloom, and eating toffees from a paper bag. He was watching the people emerging from the passageway which connected Hand and Ball Court with Fleet Street. Some of them he knew; colleagues, arriving at their various different times to start the day's work—Ralph Absalom, Mike Sparrow, Gareth Holmroyd. In the strange mid-morning darkness their familiarity seemed slightly ridiculous. It was like seeing one's fellow-countrymen abroad. 'Oh God!' said Dyson, flinging himself back suddenly in his chair. 'Oh God, oh God, oh God\ Will somebody put the lights on in here before we all go blind?' Apart from Bob, the only other person in the room was old Eddy Moulton, who was sitting over a tatter-edged Victorian newspaper file, picking out items for a daily column called 'In Years Gone By.' He was long past retiring age, and not expected to pay any attention to Dyson. In any case, he was asleep. 'Bob!' said Dyson plaintively. 'Will somebody for God's sake put the lights on?' 'All right, John,' murmured Bob automatically, not moving, still intent upon the dark figures in the Court. /