tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-304944162011-04-27T18:08:11.361+01:00A novel in progressMartin Locockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17198668398629742974noreply@blogger.comBlogger11100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30494416.post-1151704354723571982006-06-30T19:13:00.000+01:002006-07-01T09:45:44.386+01:00The heavy brass keys swung in Geoff's hand as he swaggered, in his security guard gait, up to the doors. The pavement was empty; students would have been a rare sight at this hour anyway, but this was vacation time, and they were far away. Not that the University stopped: it hardly needed students for its work. His fingers instinctively selected the three keys required, and he unlocked the door. The authorities worried about break-ins, but it was hard to see why. There was nothing inside but books, worn-out furniture, threadbare carpets. Even the computers were antiquated, of value only to museums. He pushed into the lobby against the fat wedge of post; he picked it up and carried it to the desk.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/30494416-115170435472357198?l=nightofthespirit.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Martin Locockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17198668398629742974noreply@blogger.com0