I asked, “What’s the important thing you’ve brought up with you?”
“This,” he said, and waved a sealed envelope at me. “It was too hot to send by phone or even a coded telegram. I got in touch with the Home Secretary personally and he contacted your chief at Focal House. They sent me.” He handed me the envelope.
I took it and opened it. Inside was a single closely-typed sheet of quarto with the embossed Government stamp at its head and the red warning TOP SECRET FOR UK EYES ONLY. The address was the Chemical Defence Experimental Establishment, Porton Down, Wiltshire. I read the document with the greatest care. The gist of it was this: Exhaustive tests had proved conclusively, when carried out both on human sufferers and on animals injected with serum from the sufferers’ sores, that the infection came from no known earth-bound organism. Checks with the aeromedics at Houston’s Lunar Receiving Laboratory proved the link between the sores in the experimental mice and the disease as manifested in Britain, where excessive growth had been noted in the injected animals. (All this, of course, I had expected, but at least it was now conclusive and there was no doubt that we were facing a moon-based terror.) The document stated categorically that there was no known cure, no antidote, and that on the face of it the country was threatened with disaster, and it added a recommendation that the general public should not under any circumstances be made aware of the facts. There might well be panic in any case, but that panic would be a thousand times worse, and that much more uncontrollable, if it should become known that the disease had originated in space. In this knowledge there would be unreasoning fear — I liked the choice of the word unreasoning! — in which there would be a strong element of superstition not to mention the supernatural. Then came the really interesting part. It seemed that a top man from Porton Down, a biochemist whose normal function it was to experiment with ways of killing the enemy by means of such horrors as botulinum, had recently spent some months as what I can only describe as a bio-spy in Rumania. This man had returned to Britain the day before and he had come up with quite a story. Just before leaving Bucharest he had been subjected to what so many visiting Britons had been subjected to from time to time, which was an attempt at blackmail through compromising photographs. He had of course been drugged all ready for the set piece of pornography and he had come round to hear a sotto voce discussion going on between his would-be blackmailers, who were a bunch of the local biochemical fraternity. Being a good and conscientious bio-spy, our man had kept up the drugged act and he had overheard quite a lot. His friends had been openly discussing the skin-loss disease in Britain, although at that time it had barely started and officially nothing was known of the clinical details, outside the Ministry of Health in London and a few other equally circumspect and respectable institutions of the British Establishment. In his hearing these men had gone on to discuss the delightful prospects inherent in a disease-ridden Britain and the benefits that would accrue to other nations politically, notably those nations in the eastern half of the power balance. Our man hadn’t in fact heard much more than this and there was no suggestion that he had overheard an antidote mentioned. But he had heard a name mentioned and that name was Jos Weiler.
I looked up and met Jagger’s eye. “Weiler,” I said. “Our dear old friend Weiler! I suppose I might have known!”
Jagger nodded. “WUSWIPP,” he said. “It fits, all right.”
“Back to square one,” I said bitterly. God, the number of times I’d fought that sordid, power-mad mob!
WUSWIPP stood for the World Union of Socialist Scientific Workers for International Progress in Peace. Yes — peace, the warlike bastards. They didn’t know the meaning of the word. Yet, strictly speaking, I suppose this disease approach wasn’t exactly war. No doubt there were different ways of looking at peace.
I asked, “But what do they hope to achieve, Jagger? Do we matter all that much? Why not go for the States? I don’t wish the Americans any harm at all, but this thing had its genesis there — earthwise, anyway — and they do tend to count for rather more than us these days. I don’t get it.”
“Nor me,” Jagger admitted. He looked desperately worried. I felt the same. Weiler was a little bastard, but a clever little bastard, and he was very close to the top in WUSWIPP, and in the past he’d come very close to bringing about the end for Britain — but never quite in this way. Never quite so filthily, but that was probably only because he hadn’t had the opportunity before. Now — at least this was what I assumed — he had Fesse. The prognosis was worse than ever, though I still couldn’t even begin to see the point.
I told Jagger about my brief encounter with Fesse and he gave me an astonished and accusing look. He asked, “Don’t you feel a bit of a bloody fool, sailor?”
“No,” I said blankly. “I don’t think I do, Jagger. Why?”
“That’s the second time, sailor. The second time you’ve had Fesse in your sights, and you’ve let him go! We can’t afford any more of that.”
“Listen,” I said quietly. “I see your point, Jagger, don’t ever think I don’t. But Fesse has to be got at on his own ground or we’re not going to get anywhere. If I’d followed him last night, which as it happens I couldn’t because of the horse act, he wouldn’t have led me to base. He’s not a fool, Jagger. He’d expect to be followed in the circumstances. And if I’d pulled a gun outside and taken him in, the result would have been the same in the end. Men like Fesse don’t talk.” I added, “I haven’t liked it myself. Letting him go, I mean. But you must remember, even now, we haven’t got a thing on him except circumstantially.”
He had to agree with that. He ran a hand through his overlong hair and asked dismally, “Well, so what the hell do we do now, sailor?”
“Give me time,” I said. I had taken Jagger up to my room and now I began pacing the floor, seeking inspiration. I looked out of my window at the view. It was strikingly beautiful. Already there were the preliminary colours of sunset cascading over the mountains beyond Strath of Kildonan. Somewhere out there was Fesse. It was too ridiculous. I felt that the answer to all this lay within a few miles of me and there was no way I could see of making any headway at all. At least, not along the lines of my methods as used hitherto. I began to wonder if the time hadn’t after all come to use a blunt instrument. By blunt instrument I meant the army. They had a more comprehensive bludgeon even than the police. Send a highland regiment along to scour their native hills and glens, with all the latest guns and tanks and whatnot, to ring the area and then move in, closing the circle on Fesse. That would have to be done as a last resort, naturally, but I didn’t want to have to do it yet. Fesse would evade the net somehow or other and we would be no better off, and if caught like that he still wouldn’t offer up his secrets, I felt certain.
Following out my train of thought I asked, “How many eyes have in fact read this document, Jagger?”
“My boss, your boss, the Minister of Health, the P.M.”
“Chiefs of Staff?”
Jagger shook his head. “No. But they’ll have to be alerted ultimately.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. How long have we got?”
“I can’t say. I haven’t been told anything about that. What I said was just my own feeling. They can’t keep the troops out for long, in face of that report and what we believe about Fesse.”
“I still feel my way is better.”
“I agree — it would be, if we could get to Fesse. Or get the Yanks to mount another moon probe, fast, and try to bring back a cure.”
“Be sensible,” I said.
“Sorry. I feel like a drink.”
I said, “The bar won’t be opening again. The girl who ran it died an hour or so ago. She had the disease. It’s here in Balnachan, Jagger. God, it’s dirty.” I clenched my fists, hard, passionately, screwing down on Jagger’s document which I was still holding. I felt utterly powerless to help anyone. It was a terrible feeling of frustration. So short a time ago Morag had been standing in this room, talking to
me about Fesse, then washing her hands in my basin. She had been a nice girl, young, healthy, full of life and hope and happiness, and now she was gone, and I knew just how she would have looked when she died, because I’d seen Tam McFee. I felt Jagger’s hand on my shoulder. He seemed to understand because he said quietly, “Don’t take it all too hard, sailor. I’ve had the same thing with Claire. I was there. We have to go on, you know. And we’re doing our best, doing what we can anyway. We can’t do more.”
“Platitudes,” I said harshly. “Dope. Analgesics. We’ve got to do more.” I stared out of the window again, looking for I knew not what, and certainly not looking for what I did see, for it was then that I saw the monstrous thing, the great shaggy form that was belting as if for its life towards Balnachan over some rising ground, coming in from the direction of Loch Cuillart, and I could have sworn I heard some reports that sounded to me remarkably like sub-machine-gun fire, though I could see no sign of human life under the darkening sky.
8
I HAD dashed down for the field-glasses I always keep in my car and when I got back I let Jagger have a look. I heard him catch his breath and say, “My God.” I went on staring from the window, not taking in at first what I was seeing. I snatched my binoculars back. It was a huge animal, running fast and in obvious terror, and it was covered with hair, dirty white hair, and it had a long-shaped dark face. At least, so far as I could make out — it was some distance off. Even so it looked to me about the size of a steam locomotive and it was some little while before I realized it wasn’t covered with hair but with wool, and that in spite of its size it was a sheep. At the same moment as I ticked over, four tiny human figures appeared on the skyline, coming over the rise of the hill, and once again I heard the distant sound of shots and the monstrous animal keeled over. I didn’t hear any more after that but I saw the men run forward towards where the beast had fallen.
Jagger’s voice was hardly more than a whisper “I must be going mad,” he said. “That thing looked like something from Mars.”
“Not Mars,” I said. “The moon might be a little nearer.”
“What d’you mean, for God’s sake?”
“I told you, when I got back from Houston. The growth-pattern of the treated mice — remember? It looks as though that sheep got out of the experimental pen and they had to destroy it before it gave the game away. And if we follow a line from here through that hill, I reckon we’re going to find Fesse.”
I put the flame of my butane-gas lighter to the Porton Document and when it was all burnt up I moved for the door. Jagger followed me through, looking white and seedy.
*
I took the hired Maxi in a wide circle, along a road leading west from a turning a couple of miles south of Balnachan. The day was darkening now, and the hills looked wild and unfriendly; I had a sense of the desolation inherent in those highland hills. It was suddenly cold, and I saw big black clouds banking up, and I heard the whine of a rising wind. Soon there were spots of rain on the windscreen and then the downpour came. It rained harder than I’d ever seen it before and the wipers had a job to cope. It was like driving in a river. Fesse, I thought savagely, had all the luck. This was going to make it a damn sight easier for him to remove the dead body of that sheep. I drove on much slower now, for the roads up here could be treacherous in such conditions and I could barely see the sides. For all I knew, I could be heading for where the road ran along a mountain-side, with a sheer drop into a glen on the other edge. Jagger was hanging on tight to the sides of his seat, as though he had the same mental image as me, and he was keeping up a low and monotonous cursing under his breath.
I snapped, “Shut up, Jagger. You’re getting on my nerves.”
“Sorry.” He stopped, but his voice had sounded ragged and unnatural. This whole damn thing was thoroughly unnatural. After a while, as we were not climbing, so far anyway, I pushed the Maxi on faster. Then the rain eased off a little and I was able to hear a sound I hadn’t picked up earlier, a mechanical sound as of machinery on the move. It wasn’t a car, I felt certain of that.
I stopped the Maxi. “Listen,” I said to Jagger.
We listened.
The visibility was clearing with the easing rain and we could see quite a lot of the surrounding country. Ahead of us there were low hills, and soon we would indeed be climbing. But there was a road junction some way ahead and below us, around several twists of the track, and way beyond the intersection I caught the gleam of water. That would be Loch Cuillart. I’d driven around the far side of the loch already, looking out for signs of Fesse, but hadn’t seen a thing. And I still couldn’t see a thing although I could hear that mechanical noise, growing a little fainter now, and, I fancied — though sounds could be very confusing directionwise as I knew from my days at sea — it was coming from our right. I had a pretty fair idea what that sound might be: a tractor, dragging away that grotesque sheep’s body.
I told Jagger this.
“Could be,” he said. “If it is, and if they come this way, we’re going to be spotted. Does Fesse know this car?”
“He does now.” I said, remembering the ironic look through my windscreen from the back of the horse. “But I doubt if he’ll be manning any tractors personally. All the same, you have a point.” I looked around. There was no cover anywhere. We would stand out for miles even in the twilight, and after, too, if a moon came up. I shivered: the moon had a hell of a lot to answer for! If there was a man in it, he would be laughing like a demon now, thinking that his light was going to help to frustrate our earthbound attempts to rid ourselves of his filthy plague. I said, “I’m going to drive on a little way. That mechanical whatsit isn’t in sight yet so we’re safe for a while —”
“Someone else may be watching.”
“I know that,” I said testily, “but we’ll have to chance it.” I started up again and went forward for the intersection I’d seen ahead. It was farther than I’d thought, but we made it without seeing the source of the sound, which was still with us and still, I believed, somewhere to the right of the road. It was still to the right when I turned into the intersection. By this time, beyond the main road and behind us now, I could see quite clearly the shimmer of Loch Cuillart. I stopped again and switched off the engine.
“What now?” Jagger asked.
Frankly, I didn’t know the answer. The sounds were coming closer now and undoubtedly we were going to be seen soon. If we got out and hid, the Maxi would still be there. There was only one thing for it, so I said, “We drive right on, all nice and open, as if we’re out on a simple bit of sightseeing … or going from A to B, for a drink in Balnachan. Farther on, we creep back.”
Jagger said wearily, “For God’s sake, sailor, you’re not going to do it a third time in a row, are you?”
“Do what?”
“Get a line on Fesse and then let it drop.”
“No,” I said, starting up. “I’m not. We haven’t quite got a line on Fesse anyway — yet — but I think we may see something interesting quite soon. When we do, we leave the car and follow it. All right?”
Jagger nodded and fished out a packet of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth without offering the packet to me. We had gone no more than a quarter of a mile when the mechanical noise increased and as we came round a bend with a high bank on the right-hand side I saw that my theories had been spot on. There was a tractor some distance off, and four men plus the driver, and something large and horrible and woolly was roped to the tractor and was bumping along behind. I said, “Eyes front, Jagger. Show no interest at all. We haven’t seen the sheep. Tractors are common enough not to be worth a second glance, all right?”
We drove past at a good speed and I didn’t suppose those men on the tractor gave us much of a thought. They would hardly have expected the roads to remain empty throughout the whole recovery operation in any case. I kept up the speed, looking out for somewhere to shove the car and hoping such a place would turn up before distance meant a long, long walk
back. Luck this time, if not exactly with us, gave us a fair spin of the coin. Four miles beyond where we had seen the tractor I found a small forest of firs, or maybe they were pines, with several spaces between the trees where I could run the car in; which I did.
“Now we go back,” I said.
“It’ll be a long walk,” Jagger grumbled.
“No, it won’t,” I said. “It’ll be a long run. I know tractors don’t move very fast, and that one had a hell of a load, but this time we’re not going to miss out on Fesse. I know I’ll have your support on that!”
Jagger managed a smile. “Touché,” he said, and we started running, or anyway loping, back along the road. It was quite dark enough for cover by this time, and if anything came along we could get off the road and lie low till it was safe to go ahead. It took us fifty minutes to cover that four miles; we were pretty puffed at the end of it but because the tractor was out of sight now we knew we had to press on. We stopped to listen and when our breathing eased we both thought we heard faint mechanical sounds coming from beyond the intersection and towards Loch Cuillart way. So we followed our ears in that direction, making right across the main road for the loch, and after half an hour I saw, or thought I saw, the outline of the tractor a long way ahead and outlined against the water which, like most large stretches of water, was lighter than its night-shrouded surroundings.
Hartinger's Mouse (Commander Shaw Book 12) Page 10
