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Then the older man snapped 'Situation?'

Bruce smiled as his eyes met those of his superior.

'Under control, if you'll pardon the pun.'

'I wasn't aware of one.'

Bruce noticed for the first time a glass of whiskey in front of him.

'You were expecting someone?'

'Only you, Tom.' Control nudged the glass across the table towards Bruce, I have confidence in your ability to minimise the threat and deal with matters expediently. He has been dealt with, I trust?'

'With extreme prejudice.' said Bruce without emotion, draining the glass. 'I assume you have another job for me?'

Control stood, and walked to the filings cabinet at the back of the room. He was a small, inconspicuous man in his early fifties who wouldn't have been out of place in a bookshop or behind a bar. Flecks of dandruff on his grey jacket created the impression that he'd been in the shadows too long and was gently crumbling away, but Bruce knew better than to make snap judgements. The hand that reached into the cabinet was well-muscled, and there was a fading bruise over the knuckle of the little finger, as if he had been in a brawl.

Control extinguished the cigarette when he returned to his desk and dropped a bulging manila file in front of Bruce.

'UNIT,' Control said.

Bruce gave a wry smile. 'Tin soldiers playing hunt-the-alien.' There was a poorly disguised hint of annoyance in his voice. 'Give me a break, we can't be interested in those guys.

I've seen the reports on the New York HQ: it's amateur hour. A piss-ant operation.'

'True,' said Control. 'Set fire to their pants and they'd think it was Martians, but...' He paused, and it gave Bruce a chance to see something he rarely noted in Control's face: a trace of concern. 'The Agency has a specific interest in their work. And there are certain.., considerations attached to the British end of the operation.'

'England?' said Bruce, cynically. 'More alcohol-induced flying-saucer sightings at Stonehenge?'

'Britain is strategically vital to the entire programme.

You know that.'

'God alone knows why,' Bruce muttered. 'I've never met a more ignorant bunch of peasants. Goddamn country thinks it's still running the world.'

Control, well used to Bruce's outbursts, let him finish.

'That's partly the problem,' he said. 'The country's becoming unstable. They're a threat to the programme.' He opened the file and picked out the top sheet. 'This is a report from one of our men in London. The political situation has been a potential disaster area ever since the Liberal coalition took power.'

'I thought that suited our purpose,' said Bruce, remembering the shock waves that ran through the West some six months ago. The general election had seen an alliance of Liberals, various disenfranchised Tories and Socialists, and a group of minor fringe parties, enter power on a popular platform of social reform, the abolition of the death penalty, and a strong interstellar defence programme.

'In a manner of speaking.'

'Can't blame the Brits, I suppose, noted Bruce with a thin smile. 'Four invasions in the last four years. They always seem to get the bugs landing on their doorstep.'

'It's made them trigger-happy and reckless. Last night there was another National Front by-election victory.' Control glanced at a communiqué that sat in his in tray. 'Place called Walthamstow.'

Bruce nodded, having read a report on the subway. 'That's six now,' he said.

'Indeed. They give the people easy answers, and promise strength against the aliens. And, when you've seen Cybermen marching down your street, there's a lot to be said for easy answers. Control picked up another report. 'That suits us, of course. Subvert the British space programme.

Make sure they don't get their hands on any reusable technology.' He laughed, harshly. 'Let them play with their International Electromatics toys, their vid-phones and disposable transistors.'

Bruce shared in the joke, but he sensed there was something more serious coming. 'If Britain's such a disaster area, why not just leave them and concentrate