Along the balcony, all talk and laughter stopped. Alf glanced covertly to his right and saw Kit Ford's blue-jeaned leg and black running shoe swinging inches from his shoulder. The foreman was leaning from the open door, like a conductor from a train. Some of the knitters stared up at him with blank faces. Some turned away to look impassively into space. There was a sense in the air of obstinate denial. They were used to obeying the buzzer, obeying every order that came from above, but today, in the sun and the intoxication of their laughter, they seemd to have taken a communal decision to ignore the foreman.