“Of all the filthy nights I’ve ever known,” broke out Roland Straynge disgustedly, taking his right hand off the driving wheel in order to close the off-side window of the car more securely. “Call it rain—it’s more like a wall of water. The roads’ll be flooded if it goes on like this. Hallo, is it leaking in on you too, now? Get the other rug from the back. Nothing except a jolly submarine could keep dry under this.” “For the rain it raineth every day,” chanted Steven Langston beside him. “This jolly well beats the band. Can you see anything at all?” “Nix. Wipe the screen for me again. We’re still on the road by the feel of it, but it’s an act of faith.” “Anne said take the left-hand fork after we passed the A.A. box,” said Langston cheerfully, as he re-wiped the misted windscreen, and peered out at the streaming road which shone like a river in the glare of the headlights through the torrent which ran down the glass.