The London shuttle was two hours late at Aylesbury, anthropoid driver having succumbed to a severe attack of residual G-bend intoxication shortly after leaving Birmingham.  By an administrative oversight his co-driver happened to be a member of a rival union whose rules expressly forbade him to touch any control other than the emergency brake on odd days of the month.  The automatic Network Pilot having been specifically programmed never to intervene in any inter-union dispute, promptly switched itself into neutral and went into temporary hibernation.  The whole South-bound Inter-City Expressway system between Glasgow and London was thereby effectively paralyzed for the 120 odd minutes it took to locate a replacement driver and ferry him out to the point of the breakdown.
Norbert and Alvin, ignorant of the hold-up, assumed that the shuttle which whined into Aylesbury at 1502 hours was the 1500 from Birmingham running, remarkably, only two minutes later.  They were informed of the true situation by an irate passenger.  Fixing Norbert with an ill-tempered eye as the chimp clambered into the compartment behind Alvin, he added gratuitously that it was high time he and his bloody hairy mates got their bloody plastic thumbs out and started doing an honest bloody day's work for their bloody living.

Curiously enough this was Alvin's first personal experience of anti-anthropoidism though he had often overheard the apes at Aldbury discussing it among themselves.  Turning, he remarked that he was sure the gentleman would wish to know that Norbert had the reputation of being the hardest and most conscientious worker on the whole Aldbury Station.

The man's thick lip wrinkled in a sneer.  "You his boy friend or something, darling?"

"Of course I am," said Alvin.  "Norbert and Doctor Pfizier are my two best friends in the whole world!"

"Another bloody monkey-lover!  No wonder the country's on its bloody knees!  You ginks are a bloody disgrace to the human race!"

Alvin was puzzled by this exchange and would gladly have prolonged the discussion had not Norbert drawn him forcibly away up the compartment and installed him in a seat well out of casual conversation range.  Having placed their luggage and his hat on the overhead rack, the chimp sat down and showed Alvin how to secure his lap belt.  Then he extracted a well-thumbed copy of Jeremy Taylor's Holy Dying from his pocket and settled down to read.

Alvin looked about him with interest.  The seats, which were rather similar in design to those of a 20th Century jet airliner, were grouped in fours around small tables.  Those opposite to his and Norbert's were occupied by two elderly ladies, one of whom now leant across and stage-whispered to Alvin: "I think it was most commendable of you to speak up for your friend like that."

Alvin blushed.  "Oh well," he said, "that gentleman wasn't being at all fair.  After all, Norbert's our branch leader of the A.T.S.W."

"Is he indeed?  Did you hear that, Peggy?"

Norbert turned over a page and frowned.  "Doctor Pfizier says I couldn't be in better hands," Alvin informed them.  "Norbert's taking me down to Croydon.  Do you know Croydon?"

"Oh yes.  We live in Wimbledon.  It's very close.  By the way, my name's Margaret."

"Mine's Alvin."

"Well, Alvin, and what are you and Norbert going to do in Croydon?"

"We're going to see Professor Poynter about my libido."

A buzzer sounded in the compartment and, a moment later, the landscape had begun to drift murmurously away past the port-hole.  The woman named Peggy produced a round metal dish which she placed on the table before her.

"I think we still have time for another game, Margaret.  I wonder if Alvin and his friend would care to join us?"

"Yes, do," urged Margaret.  "It's so much more fun with more than two players."

"All right," said Alvin.  "How do you play?"