Last Act Read Online Free

she had had the strength of mind to join the queue at the airport bank and get herself some foreign currency before she came through passport control. Too late now, and, if her plane was much delayed, no time at Zurich either. Her suburban bank had produced traveller’s cheques readily enough to the extent of her small savings, but had been able to supply neither Lissmarks nor Swiss francs at such short notice.
    Paying the fare on the bus from Schennen to Lissenberg was going to be a problem. If she caught it. An hour and a half had seemed ample time to get from Zurich airport to the station. But was it? And how did one do it? Anyway, she was not going to have an hour and a half. The figures on the board flickered and changed, now showing a half-hour delay on her flight. Would a Zurich taxi-driver take English money? And was her German good enough to ask him?
    Reminded, she went over to the bookstall to buy herself a German phrase book, and notice, as usual, how few books there were that she felt like buying. But here was a paperback she did want,
The Birds Fall Down,
by Rebecca West. She bought it, the
Guardian,
and the phrase book and went back for another look at the board.
    At least there was no further delay on her flight, though some had been indefinitely postponed and others cancelled. The lounge was more crowded than ever—children were crying, voices were rising—but she found a patch of floor where she could get her back against the wall, sat down and unfolded the
Guardian.
Headlines much as usual: a strike; a police confrontation, and, on the far right, a long ribbon of text headed
Outlook Good for Conference.
A quick look assured her that it was indeed the peace conference at Lissenberg, and she folded the paper back to read in more comfort.
    Things really did seem promising for the conference. Even the guarded
Guardian
sounded hopeful as it described the preliminary work that had already been done on a wide range of subjects. The American President had made an extremely positive statement of intent, and the Russians sounded unusually cooperative, though they had not actually named their representative as the Chinese had. The British Foreign Secretary was going, and the Queen would be represented at the gala opening of
Regulus.
Cautiously optimistic, the writer seemed to think there was a real chance of an arms limitation agreement and some kind of charter of human rights. A final paragraph described the preparations in Lissenberg itself. The Hereditary Prince, Heinz Rudolf, would welcome his distinguished guests in person. Not, surely, at the bus stop? No—Anne read on—there was a helicopter landing strip on top of the opera house. Guests would be flown there from Zurich.
    Landing on top of the opera house? She let the paper lie in her lap and thought about sound-proofing. Horrible to imagine a helicopter landing just as some unlucky singer was launching into a solo. But the architect must have thought of this. She wished, now, that she had not economised on newspapers since Robin’s death. It was absurd to know so little about the Lissenberg enterprise. The travel agent, yesterday, had mentioned the architect’s name and said something respectful about the project, comparing it, in some way, to the Sydney Opera House, but she had been too preoccupied to take it in. Oh well, if her plane ever took off, she would know all about it tonight.
    And now, at last, her flight was called. She tucked the paperbeside the books in her big tapestry shoulder-bag, checked that her boarding pass was safe in the outside pocket of her smaller purse and rose to her feet, shaking down the skirt of the lightweight Jaeger suit that had been part of her trousseau. The topcoat over her arm was lightweight too, and she had been cold leaving home. Had she been foolish to assume it would be warmer in Lissenberg?
    There was a queue already at the departure gate, and as she stood in it, the two bags surprisingly