spots were end-of-season ones.'

'Then you aren't impressed by the official optimism?'

David jerked his stick towards the bare earth. 'I'm impressed by that.'

They'll beat it. They're bound to.'

'There was an Order-in-Council,' David said, 'stating that all land previously cropped with grain should be turned over to potatoes.'

John nodded. 'I heard of it.'

'It's just been cancelled. On the News last night.'

'They must be confident things are going to be all right.'

David said grimly: 'They can be as confident as they like. Next spring I'm planting potatoes and beet.'

'No wheat, barley?'

'Not an acre.'

John said thoughtfully: 'If the virus is beaten by then, grain's going to fetch a high price.'

'Do'you think a few other people haven't thought of that? Why do you think the Order's been rescinded?'

'It isn't easy, is it?' John asked. 'If they prohibit gram crops and the virus is beaten, this country will have to buy all its grain overseas, and at fancy prices.'

'It's a pretty gamble,' David said, ' - the life of the country against higher taxes.'

'The odds must be very good.'

David shook his head. 'They're not good enough for me. I'll stick to potatoes.'

David returned to the subject on the afternoon of Christmas Day. Mary and young David had gone out into the frosty air to work off the effects of a massive Christmas dinner. The three adults, preferring a more placid mode of digestion, lay back in armchairs, halfheartedly listening to a Haydn symphony on gramophone records.