Cold War in a Country Garden

by Lindsay Gutteridge

  Dilke was crushed tight between the walls of glass, held in the same crucified position as the girl; he could not move; he could not call out. A scream of rage and horror was locked inside him, the glass pressed against his bursting lungs, the heavy beat in his breast slowed… his heart stopped…

  He woke, his body rigid, his stiff arms propping him up, his head thrown back between his shoulder blades, his voice choked in his throat as if by a gag. Then he fell back on the bed with a groan.

  The rain had stopped and the moon shone full into the great oyster shell of the compact.

  He heard a low voice beside him; Hyacinthe lay curled like a black cat a little distance away. Her eyes were closed, her lips trembled in a smile, her hand reached out as if to touch someone. “Father?” she murmured.

  He fell asleep, sinking down through layers of sadness and futility.

  At five the man yawned prodigiously, got out of the car to massage the stiffness out of his limbs and then started the last lap to London.

  At nine he acknowledged the salute of the Ministry car park attendant, cut the engine, reached out and snapped shut the lid of the compact and carried it, cradled in his hand, in the pocket of his sports jacket. The darkness inside the compact was total, the cloying scent of face-powder suffocating. By their movements Dilke could trace their progress along the familiar corridors and up the stairs to his old office. The heat from the agent’s hand penetrated the walls of the compact till it was as hot as the anteroom to a sauna bath.

  They heard a click as the compact was put down on a desk top. A muffled sound of dialling was followed by the indistinct voice of the agent. A cupboard door was opened and shut, there was a thud as a heavy object was put down on the desk beside them, then the lid swung open and a blaze of light fell on them.

  “Major Price says you are to ring him at nine thirty.”

  Dilke stood up in the middle of the puff and watched the receding head and shoulders of the man vanish below the rim of the compact. The door opened and the pneumatic door-shutter gave a long asthmatic wheeze, they heard footsteps on the corridor lino and the clicking of heels descending the stone stairs. Dilke tipped a hand at the closed door, “And he didn’t even say goodbye!”

  Hyacinthe smiled uncertainly.

  They waded laboriously to the edge of the powder puff and looked over the rim of the compact. Before them was the spherical gyro-transporter. They entered it and found the radio phone on the couch where Dilke had left it. The wheel above them was motionless. Dilke lay on the couch and looked up at it, its silence and weight seemed to menace him. His depression deepened as he tried to rehearse in his mind what he was going to say.

  The plain fact was that the mission had failed and he faced a possible interview with Lord Raglen with dread.

  Hyacinthe sat for a while on the couch, then, like a bored child, she walked slowly round the perimeter of the chamber, gazed wonderingly up at the gyro-wheel and delicately touched the smooth surface of its central column with her fingertips.

  The radio phone buzzed before Dilke could ring Price. Price was at his most businesslike and cryptic, he wanted a report quickly to show to Lord Raglen, he told Dilke that he was taping their conversation and asked him to give a detailed verbal account of the mission immediately. Dilke described the events in Rumania from the moment he was put down on the Arad to Bucharest road until he was picked up almost a week later. He included everything which he thought relevant, leaving out no facts, but omitting personal comments. He finished in a flat, subdued voice; “I regret to say so, Major Price, but in effect the mission has been a failure. I especially regret the deaths of Olsen and Scott-Milne, and I wish to register the fact that they share no blame for the lack of success.” His speech had become starched with the sort of officialese which he abhorred—he thought sourly that the words could have come from the mouth of Major Price himself.

  “Thank you, Captain Dilke. Lord Raglen is returning from Scotland tonight and may wish to see you.”

  Dilke put down the radio, folded his arms and gazed listlessly at his pencil-thin reflection in the shining gyroscope spindle.

  “What will happen now, Mathew?”

  Hyacinthe’s timid question interrupted his thoughts. Without answering he picked up the handpiece and dialled Price.

  “Major Price, can you arrange for me to have clothing for Miss Kasatna and myself? If we are to stay here tonight it will be cold. In fact I’d be glad if you could let us have blankets too… We will need something to eat, please; we left our food in the tin box in which your agents brought us back from Rumania. There is also a map case in the box with a roll of film in it which you might like to have-—the box is probably still in the car.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Captain. I’ll have some things left at your transporter entrance this afternoon.”

  A ration pack and a blanket each were delivered as Price had promised. The thin padding on the couch made a hard bed after the powder puff. Dilke lay on the cold bench, an arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the bare bulb high in the roof of the sphere.

  The effort of recollection which he had made in order to give his report had sharpened his memories and he brooded over them. Though he could see no way in which he could have prevented the disaster, the knowledge that the consequences might endanger the miniaturization programme filled him with despondency. The work of chemists, engineers and mathematicians; the sacrifices of the men in the chain of miniaturization; the deaths of Henry and Bill Olsen… And—he recognized self-interest— what would happen to a failed micro-spy?

  4

  In the morning, and without warning, the sphere lurched and became airborne. In a little while it landed and the radio phone said, Trice here. Lord Raglen is waiting, please step outside.”

  It was like all his interviews with headmasters, appointments boards and disciplinary committees rolled into one.

  As he walked down the ramp on to Lord Raglen’s desk he became aware of a scratchy voice talking against a hissing background.

  “…in effect the mission has been a failure. I especially regret the deaths of Olsen and Scott-Milne and I wish to register the fact that they share no blame for the lack of success.”

  The hiss went evenly on; Dilke looked up at the huge revolving spools and the belt of tape which moved between them; Raglen’s white hand reached out and stabbed the recorder’s “stop” button. There was silence broken only by the heavy tick of a Big Ben wrist-watch.

  Today’s blotting paper colour was tan. Today, Dilke was not in the Siberian glare of a prison camp desk light; the blotting-pad on which he walked was lit by the late September sun. The hand knocked down a lever on the intercom—“Price, I want you to listen to this. Where is Dilke? Is he here?” The great face bent over the pad, the jowls swelling over the high white collar. “All right, all right, I can see him.” The massive torso straightened, the head receded, the hand rested on the desk on each side of the brown carpet on which Dilke stood.

  “Captain Dilke.” There was a long House-of-Lords’ pause.

  “Captain Dilke. I have listened to the report on your Balkan trip. It is true that you did not achieve the object of your mission—and to this extent it has been a failure. You have, however, returned with a deal of information about the state of Communist miniaturization which this department finds valuable. Moreover, by killing the man Batzar you may have held up their programme. Batzar, we have discovered, was not merely a counter-agent but had a considerable scientific reputation and it is possible that he was in charge of their miniaturizing programme.”

  Dilke was dazed, he could not yet grasp the implications of Lord Raglen’s words.

  “But you have, in fact, returned with something which I value even more than the successful accomplishment of your given mission…”

  Dilke stared up; the god-head smiled distantly.

  “…the film with which you returned has given us information of a particularly valuable nature.” The soft hand
passed over Dilke’s head and lifted from the desk a black-and-white photograph. It held the huge print curved between finger and thumb for Dilke to see; the sun made a streak of reflected light down its glossy surface and the grain was as big as bricks—but Dilke recognized the marble top, the hand with the Cuban cigar, the battered steel box and the papers within it.

  “What you have brought to us, Captain, is a military code now used extensively in Russia and the Balkans. It has enabled us to decipher much material which we already held… and there is no reason why it should be changed yet.

  “You gave us thirty-six excellent pictures of it—it was in the dispatch box lid.”

  Dilke had come before Jehovah to be destroyed by words.

  Now Raglen’s approbation transported him from a mood of apprehension to one of flushed elation. He glanced back at Hyacinthe but she had remained in the shadow of the transporter.

  “We will continue with miniaturization. You have headed the pilot scheme and I want you to control the next phase; Major Price has the details.”

  Lord Raglen’s hands came together on the blotter six inches from Dilke. His moon face loomed above the massive interlaced fingers. For a moment the eyes gazed across the room, then they returned to the tiny figure on the tan paper.

  “I wish to take this opportunity, Captain, to express my regret that no official recognition can be made…” he cleared his throat… “please accept my sympathy for the loss of your men.”

  The awkward phrases offering condolence gave a new turn to Dilke’s emotions; he gazed up into the pale eyes and swallowed hard. The interlocked fingers parted, a hand reached out and cut off Price on the intercom: the interview was finished.

  5

  Dilke yawned, cupped a hand across his face and squeezed hard. The wide table at which he sat was littered with papers and box files. He raised the mug which had been placed at his elbow and sipped hot coffee.

  From the miniature pre-fab which rested on the window ledge of his old office he looked out on St. James’s Park.

  It was after seven. The ranks of civil service cars had left the car park, queued to cross Westminster Bridge and dispersed to the southern suburbs. The side lights of a cab travelling towards the Mall moved beneath the trees which shadowed the road. The dim flash of a wing marked the island where the park pelicans were settling for the night.

  For a fortnight he had worked with Price on the plan for a micro-community; the plan had already existed in outline but not in detail. A corps of a hundred micromen was to be trained in a six month’s period. Dilke had picked ten key men from the file of volunteers, to train as instructors to the remainder.

  He had ordered stores and equipment and had checked the typescript of his survival manual.

  He would continue to use his garden and the allotment as a training ground and men and equipment would be delivered directly to the base of the old shed—Lord Raglen had relented and raised the absolute secrecy on the Kremlin. His preparations were finished: tomorrow he would arrange transport.

  Above the trees a geometric pattern of lights built up on the dark rectangle of the Hilton.

  A jet whistled hoarsely overhead.

  Dilke became aware of the silence within the room. He turned and looked at Hyacinthe.

  She lay back on the divan in the fading light, a cup between her hands, gazing past him at the sky. Her expression was pensive—almost melancholy.

  The jet dropped a wing and slanted off towards London Airport, sailing down the sky into the dirty pink band of air which submerged Hammersmith. Her eyes followed its blinking wing lights: red, green—red, green—red, green…

  Dilke suddenly realized that the affection which had grown between them had faded. His preoccupation with planning had turned his thoughts inwards; for days he had hardly spoken to her and his taciturnity had driven her back into silence.

  “Hyacinthe.”

  His low voice roused her from her reverie.

  “Mathew?”

  “Tomorrow I must go into the country.”

  She remained silent.

  “If you wish, you can stay behind. You could help by checking stores through and that sort of thing, but…” he hesitated… “I would like you to come with me.”

  The room was almost dark, he could not see her face. “It will be hard to begin with. But I will have to set up an office at the base camp and you could run it…”

  She smiled in the darkness, “And teach you all Political Science?”

  On an impulse Dilke arranged to be dropped at the window seat and not at the shed.

  Dust lay thick on the mesh of spider’s webs in the window and covered the packing case which stood at the centre of the seat. Dilke ran his hand across the half-obscured lettering: THIS WAY UP—Charlie never did get his motor.

  They left the house, climbed the rockery and walked along the disused ant track. Haze obscured the bright autumn sun, filling the familiar landscape with soft light.

  As they passed beneath the dying hollyhocks and travelled across the plains and through the plantation, Dilke’s mood was buoyant. Hyacinthe smiled at his air of proprietorship but was a little alarmed by his description of the hazards which he had met when he was first a micro-man.

  At the end of the day they descended the last slope and stood before the huge shed.

  An agent had leased the allotment and removed the boards which had been nailed across the door; a heavy new padlock secured it.

  They climbed the threshold and walked under the door. A neat civil service hand had been at work; the box had been lifted from the sacking in the corner and set down in the middle of the hut.

  Dilke’s eyes travelled up the grey façade to the platform.

  Bill Olsen’s trophies still hung above the sliding door, its brass surface was blackened by smoke from the fires which had burned on the ledge. A hole cut in the back of the lock would give access to the interior of the box. He would have floors put in… a lift installed… dormitories, dining halls, kitchens… an armoury, a laboratory, a gymnasium…

  The light was fading perceptibly, the October wind hit the cliff face of the hut and moaned under the door; suddenly it felt cold; he pulled the collar of his padded grey jacket up round his ears and thrust his hands into its deep pockets. Outside, the wind hustled yellowing leaves against the side of the hut. A single dead leaf was blown under the door and cartwheeled slowly past the two tiny figures.

  Dilke felt a cold hand slip into his pocket; their palms came together, their fingers interwined; they walked towards the box, following the spinning leaf down the long perspective of planks.

  copyright

  PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS NEW YORK

  COLD WAR IN A COUNTRY GARDEN

  Putnam edition published July, 1971

  POCKET BOOK edition published February, 1973

  This POCKET BOOK edition includes every word contained in the original, higher-priced edition. It is printed from brand-new plates made from completely reset, clear, easy-to-read type. POCKET BOOK editions are published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., 630 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10020.

  Trademarks registered in the United States and other countries.

  Standard Book Number: 671-77623-1.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 72-161534. Copyright, ©, 1971, by Lindsay Gutteridge. All rights reserved. This POCKET BOOK edition is published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Cover art by Norman Adams.

  Anticopyright

  Title: Cold War in a Country Garden

  Author: Lindsay Gutteridge

  Genre: science fiction

  Source: Pocket Books paperback edition, published February, 1973

  Process: Scanned, OCR'd and proofed.

  Date of e-text: February 10, 2014

  Prepared by: Antwerp

  Comments:

  As far as I know, this is the only existing e-text of this book.

>   Thoughts on Scanning:

  Good books often get overlooked. Maybe they weren't Fan favorites (I'm not a “Capital-F" science fiction Fan. I just read a lot of the stuff). Maybe they were poorly marketed, "one-hit-wonders", or out of character for an author. Many exist in the grey areas between science fiction and fantasy, or between sf and general fiction. And, of course, a lot have just been forgotten. Publishing companies aren't going to invest the time and money to digitize a book unless they have a guaranteed return-on-investment. Authors (or their heirs) often don't have the resources or the interest. Even when they do, they face the problem of getting the publisher to release the title. In the move to digitize books, these lonely gems are very likely to be lost forever to the world.

  So, that's my standard for selecting books for scanning - 1) A good read, that 2) is likely to be overlooked.

  Notes about scanning:

  I'm hardly an expert, but for what it's worth here's what I've learned so far:

  1. The hardest part of scanning a book is steeling yourself to unbind your book. It may help to remember that standard mass-market paperbacks were never made to last. If your bookshelf is anything like mine, paperbacks more than ten years old are already showing signs of age. At fifteen to twenty years, the pages are yellowing and the binding is starting to crack and loosen. They won't last much longer as a readable book, and may no longer be available in any format.