Puppet on a Chain [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONE 'We shall be arriving in Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, in just a few minutes.' Mellifluous, accentless, the Dutch stewardess's voice could have been precisely duplicated on any of a dozen European airlines. 'Please fasten your seat-belts and extinguish your cigar^tes. We hope you have enjoyed your flight: we are sure you will enjoy your stay in Amsterdam.' I'd spoken briefly to the stewardess on the way across. A charming girl, but given to a certain unwarranted optimism in her outlook on life in general and I had to take issue with her.on two points: I hadn't enjoyed the flight and I didn't expect to enjoy my stay in Amsterdam. I hadn't enjoyed the flight because I hadn't enjoyed any flight since that day two years ago when the engines of a DC 8 had failed only seconds after take-off and led to the discovery of two things: that an unpowered jet has the gliding characteristics of a block of concrete and that plastic surgery can be very long, very painful, very expensive and occasionally not very successful. Nor did I expect to enjoy Amsterdam, even though it is probably the most beautiful city in the world with the friendliest inhabitants you'll find anywhere : it's just that the nature of my business trips abroad automatically precludes the enjoyment of anything. As the big KLM DC 8—I'm not superstitious, any plane can fall out of the sky—sank dov,^n, I glanced round its crowded interior. The bulk of the passengers, I observed, appeared to share my belief in the inherent madness of flying: those who weren't using their finger-nails to dig holes in KLM's upholstery were either leaning back with excessive nonchalance or chattering with the bright gay animation of those brave spirits who go to their impending doom with a quip on their smiling lips, the type who would have waved cheerfully to the admiring throngs as their tumbril drew up beside the guillotine. In short, a pretty 5