Omega

by Stewart Farrar

  Something about the tone of the BBC news added to his unease. It was too smooth, too reassuring. Even compared with yesterday's newspapers, there was too little about actual damage and too much about confident officials. Yesterday there had been estimates of the number dead or injured and Philip had expected more authoritative figures today, but the question of numbers was ignored. Overseas news, too, devoted more minutes to reporting that the Western Hemisphere was unaffected than to amplifying yesterday's information from Europe – with the exception of heartening shots of the speed and ingenuity with which the Dutch were repairing the Ijsselmeer dyke. One new significant item did emerge: Russia had cancelled all Intourist visits from abroad for the time being 'for meteorological reasons' – a characteristically obscure explanation but couched in terms of uncharacteristically courteous apology for the inconvenience.

  The Soviet announcement meshed in Philip's mind with the recall of an incident that had puzzled him during the day. He had been passing the offices of the Chief Administrator – the Great God Harley himself – when a group came out who were obviously VIPs, from the deference with which they were being escorted. Two of them had been conversing earnestly in Russian and two others, though ^ silent, looked Chinese. He had wondered to himself: 'Diplomats? – surely not'… because an emphatic part of his pre-Beehive briefing had been that he should be constantly on the watch for the slightest hint of Eastern espionage sniffing at Beehive, and report even his most improbable suspicions at once. Had the situation now changed? Were national establishments becoming a world establishment, closing its ranks in the face of a common danger? Were Western diplomats now conferring in the Beehives that doubtless existed under Moscow and Peking?… If so, the situation was far worse than even Beehive personnel were being told. He glanced across at his wife, who was watching the TV screen intently. He had no idea at all what thoughts were passing through her mind. Ever since they had walked in that door, last night, her eyes had looked more alive… No, he told himself immediately, that was absurd. Betty had never lacked life or warmth; she was an introvert, certainly, but a calm and loving one with a gentle but refreshing sense of humour. Something had changed in her, though, in the past twenty-four hours. The only way he could express it to himself, in his own technician's terms, was that her voltage had been stepped up.… It could not be that she liked it here. She had loved their home and looked after it devotedly and she had been torn out of it at one hour's notice with nothing but two suitcases and a rolled-up poster; yet after that almost cataleptically silent journey, not only had she not mentioned it – she had shown no signs of grieving over it, and puzzled by her though he was, Philip felt he would have known if she had been.

  Could it be, he wondered suddenly, that under her suburban exterior (and Philip was well of his mother's view of her) there lurked the unexpressed potential of a pioneer wife? She was intelligent, she must know that their future was unpredictable, that even this concrete cell offered only a provisional security, beyond which lay… what? Had the sudden challenge (more than sudden – traumatic, surely) resonated some chord in her of which even she had been unaware until now?

  Or had she been unaware? He asked himself a question which he realized he had always taken for granted; why was she studying for a geography degree, of all things, working hard at it too, even though she had no plans to earn her living by it? The unfulfilled pioneer again, urged to conquer and understand the round world, even if only from her suburban armchair?

  He knew that only time would give him understanding.

  Betty was still watching the screen, apparently unconscious of his scrutiny. Her legs were draped over one arm of her chair, her hands clasped round her knees, her head relaxedly erect.

  Another novel thought came into Philip's mind, on the heels of the others; my wife is beautiful.

  He turned his attention back to the news, inexplicably shy about being caught watching her.

  Next morning he made his scheduled weekly inspection of the ventilation system of the Royal Apartments. During the Amber phase, he had been told, the Family would only be sleeping in Beehive; presumably their daytime presence on Surface would be a necessary part of the pretence of normality, until Beehive Red abandoned that pretence. So during the day the Apartments were manned only by a skeleton staff, presided over by a gentleman whose official appointment Philip did not know, but whom he heard addressed as Sir Wilfred. Admittance to the Apartments was through a military guardroom, manned today by the Coldstreams (in functional battledress – Philip had half expected the ceremonial scarlet) whose officer carefully checked Philip's fingerprinted identity card against a list of 'Technical Personnel – Authorized Access'. Behind the guardroom, two sentries stood rigid but watchful in front of an elevator door; Philip knew, because it was on his ventilation charts, that the elevator rose in two stages to the Palace, the stages being separated by a steel-shuttered airlock.

  Philip had rather disliked having to wear battledress himself – the dark green of Technical Services, with the shoulder tabs of Civilian Officer Grade Two – but today he decided he was glad of it. Life and work in Beehive was going to be as compact, crowded, and busy as that of its natural namesake, and with as rigid a division of functions; indeed, individual and function would merge, so it would save a lot of time if one were seen to be what one was…… He deliberately tried to suppress his natural aversion to regimentation; here he was and he might as well make the best of it.

  He set about checking the air-conditioning methodically – it was the first time he had seen it but his task was made easier by the fact that his own firm had installed it, so equipment and system were thoroughly familiar. He discovered a slight malfunction of the thermostat in the bedroom of one of the Princesses; correcting it took about twenty minutes and the chambermaid who had been hovering warily got bored after a while and left him alone. On the dressing-table Philip noticed a vase of about two dozen roses, the first flowers he had seen in Beehive; down here, they would obviously be a rare luxury…… His hand moved ahead of his thought and he was shocked to find himself committing his first conscious theft since he was a sweet-pilfering schoolboy; but the single bloom was inside his battledress blouse before he could stop himself and the bunch as quickly rearranged to hide the gap.

  On his way out through the guardroom, later, he was gripped with a sudden terror that outgoing 'Technical Personnel' might be searched; but he was passed straight through, and his outbreak of sweat cooled on him in the safety of the corridor.

  He was able to get to Married Quarters in time to collar Betty for a Mess lunch, and he did not dare to take the rose from its hiding place until he was inside their cubicle. He presented the slightly crushed bloom to her with a smile that was as much relief as gallantry. For a moment Betty was speechless, her bright-eyed control wavering; then she said with a quiver in her voice 'That's lovely, darling' and turned her back to put the rose in a tumbler of water. It stayed on the little shelf which served her as a dressing-table for days, until long after it was shrivelled and dead.

  'But I don't want to be in bloody Beehive,' the tall girl said. 'I'm an American citizen…'

  'What's that got to do with it?' Her bureau chief was beginning to sound exasperated. 'You're an Associated Press correspondent, is what matters as of now.'

  'With a duty to tell the folks back home what's happening – right?'

  'Right. And Beehive is where it's happening.'

  'Oh, come off it, Gene. This is where the handouts are, is all. Down here, the AP bureau could be run by any high-school kid who could write his own name.'

  'Thank – you – Tonia – Lynd.'

  Tonia grinned, suddenly. 'Sorry. Eugene Macallister, genius diplomat-quizzer, plus one high-school kid… Honestly, Gene, you know the score as well as I do. Till after Beehive Red, we can't even admit publicly that Beehive exists, let alone that it's operating already. And nobody down here's going to say anything,… Even if somebody did, by mistake, old Blue Pencil next do
or would kill it. Censorship, for God's sake! Anybody'd think this was Moscow.'

  'Necessary censorship, honey. You got to admit that.'

  'Oh, sure, it's necessary. So's a crutch, if you've got a broken leg. But my legs ain't broken, and I want to go walkabout.'

  'Metaphor Minnie, at it again.… Look, Tonia, I know Vox Pop's your thing – and sure, you're feeling frustrated. But Beehive Red could happen any day and when it does I want you right here. Until then I want you right here because it'll take both of us to nose out even what news there is.'

  'Take it in turn to say "thank you kindly" for the handouts?' Tonia snorted. 'What news there is, is up there on Surface. This witch-hunt thing, for instance…'

  'What witch-hunt thing?' 'Actual, not metaphorical.'

  'Oh, the nutters… No one's hunting them, as far as I can see.'

  'Didn't you read the inquest report on that Beacon Hill shindig?'

  Gene shrugged. 'A local riot got out of hand. What's so special about that? Untypical, I'll agree. These screwy festivals of theirs are usually pretty quiet. This one happened to blow up, is all.'

  'Did you read it, Gene?'

  'Sure. Some demonstrators busted in, the nutters reacted, the party got violent, a kid was run over, somebody stuck a spear in the boss-woman and in revenge a few of the nutters blood-sacrificed a demonstrator. AH very dramatic, for a one-off story, and singularly nasty. But a freak phenomenon – could happen any time with these religious jamborees. Not significant?

  Tonia nodded. ‘I thought so. You read the story as published, not the full PA tape.'

  'So?'

  'I did read the tape. Local riot getting out of hand, my ass. That demo was planned, like a military operation. And as for the "blood sacrifice" – that yarn came from two witnesses only and the coroner as good as called them liars. Which did not get into the papers.'

  'Tonia, honey,' Gene sighed, 'you've got a good nose for telling you when something stinks. None better. And sure, you could be right. But here and now, history's being made – and as journalists, we've got to get our priorities right, keep a sense of proportion, you know? Any ordinary time, you could chase this wild goose of yours and get some good copy out of it. But in the context of Beehive Amber -potentially the biggest story of our lifetime – that witch riot's nothing. Nothing. And you and I haven't got time for nothings.'

  Tonia looked stubborn. 'I don't think it's nothing. My nose, that you're so flattering about, tells me the Beacon Hill attack was planned. Planned right here in Beehive – or topside in Whitehall. Act One of a deliberate diversion. And the curtain-raiser to Act Two was that Ben Stoddart man on the "Paul Grant Hour", on BBC

  'Didn't see it.'

  'I did… You talk about "the context of Beehive Amber". Know what, Gene? I think, in that context, this Government was up to something on Beacon Hill. And I want to know what and why.'

  Gene began flipping through a pile of copy on his desk. He said casually: 'Keep an eye on it, then.'

  Two years of working under Gene Macallister had taught her the danger signals, the lowering of the shutters, but she persisted. 'Topside, Gene. If I'm right, that's where the story is. Get me a Surface pass, huh?'

  He did not look up. 'Sorry, honey. No.'

  'Please, Gene.'

  He laid his palm flat on the top sheet of copy, deliberately; danger signal number two. 'No, Tonia. In words of one syllable – we have Beehive accreditation and I will not have you endangering it by stirring up mud against the Government or by letting yourself appear to champion the witches.'

  'Even if what my nose tells me is right?'

  'For Chrissake, even more so if you're right! If the Department of Dirty Tricks, for its own good reasons, wants to make a scapegoat of the witches – and you start throwing spanners in the works – the Department of Dirty Tricks could have us out of here in no time flat. Persona rum bloody grata, and no reasons would have to be given. You know that.'

  'In the context of Beehive Amber,' Tonia said tonelessly.

  'Or even Beehive Red, any day now! That's what it's all about, Tonia. AP has a job to do here and AP is you and me and no one else. If we lost our Beehive status, AP would be unrepresented in Britain, as good as.'

  Tonia said nothing. Gene seemed to take her silence as acquiescence, and after a while he continued with the paternal air which always infuriated her: 'One other thing to remember. AP correspondents do not identify themselves, in either the public or the official mind, with screwballs. So if you have any private sympathies with those naked pagans and their subversive ideas, for God's sake -and AP's-keep 'em private.'

  Tonia, who had no particular feelings about the witches one way or the other, could not resist asking: 'Subversive of what?'

  'Christianity, decency, Western civilization – you name it,' Gene said impatiently. 'And I'll tell you something. If they are being set up as scapegoats, they've asked for it.'

  'Nero must have found the early Christians equally convenient'

  'Now you're just being smart. Run along and let me work, there's a good girl. Go and watch "News at Ten". One of us ought to.'

  Tonia went, her lips pursed. Out in the corridor she laughed to herself, suddenly: perhaps it was just as well Beehive doors didn't lend themselves to slamming.

  'News at Ten', my ass.

  Brenda Pavitt locked the last card-index drawer and straightened up, flexing her shoulders and stretching. It had been a long and tiring day but she was happy. As Chief Librarian of London Beehive, she had been commuting with Surface for the past year, building up the remarkable collection of books, documents and microfilms which now surrounded her; and it had been the kind of assignment librarians dream about. A staggering budget and a virtually free hand. She had had, of course, to request, collate and cater for departmental requirements – but these had been in amplification, not restriction, of her own judgement. Realistically, she admitted to herself that being the Chief Administrator's mistress had helped a lot; Reggie Harley had cut several corners for her and smoothed several paths. But she did not feel in the least guilty about it. She had never taken advantage of their relationship for her personal gain (she considered herself too well paid to need it), but the Library was something different; for that, she would exploit God himself. And Reggie had indulged her.

  But Brenda was a librarian by vocation as well as by appointment, and once the Library had come as near to comprehensive perfection as Brenda could make it, she had found herself fretting over its virgin quietness and longing for the consummation of readers. Now at last with Beehive Amber, the consummation was beginning; the coming and going of faces, the vague or precise requests, the telephoned queries, the appeals for help from less knowledgeable assistants, and Brenda felt fulfilled. She and her system had stood up well to the first rush, with very few teething troubles. Come Beehive Red, and they would be able to cope. She knew that now.

  She took a last unnecessary look around, said good-bye to the night duty girl, and left the Library to walk the hundred metres of corridor to her cubicle. Another favour from Reggie; her home-cell was not in Bachelor Quarters, half a kilometre away, but was one of the privileged few

  which were close to their occupants' workplaces. Also, of course, easier for Reggie to visit discreetly. Their affair was hardly secret any more, after six years, but one still went through the motions.

  He was already there when she let herself in, sprawled in the armchair and talking to someone on the phone. He waved his free hand at her and continued his conversation. 'Very well, Professor. I get the picture. Your admirable tuition is turning me into quite a knowledgeable seismologist myself.' Smooth little laugh. 'I cannot stress too clearly that what we must have at once is any hint of the process accelerating… Yes, quite… I very much appreciate your daily written reports and please continue to phone me with your elucidations of them – they are most enlightening. But if you notice any symptoms of a change in the pattern – even if it's merely, shall we say, a hunch on your
part, and your hunches, Professor, are worth a dozen lesser men's calculations – please don't wait till evening to tell me. Use the priority number at any hour of the day or night and speak to me personally '

  As she poured herself a drink and renewed the one at Harley's elbow, Brenda reprimanded herself for her initial flash of resentment. She was only too glad for Reggie to have his own key, of course – he had had one on Surface, after all – but this leaving of her cubicle telephone number at the switchboard galled her. On Surface, Reggie's housekeeper (a friend of hers, fortunately) had come between them and urgent calls; she would simply phone the message to Brenda's flat and Reggie would ring the caller back. That arrangement had been acceptably personal. But now, she was sourly aware, anyone on the 'priority number' list could ring them up in the middle of an orgasm… Still, she was also aware that Professor Arklow, for instance, might at any time be the bearer of news on which instant decisions, even the fate of nations, depended. Beehive was not Chelsea. Don't be a spoiled child, Brenda.

  She gave vent to her self-reproach by kissing him extra warmly as he laid down the phone.

  'Brenda, my dear. A good day?'

  'Tiring but rewarding. My Library is actually being used.' She did not ask about Reggie's day; she had learned very early in their relationship that any such initiative on her part was taboo. Her function was to be a good listener once he had decided when, and how much, to talk about his work. Her comments were expected to be sympathetic but non-committal unless he actually asked her opinion. He did sometimes ask it: she knew he did not undervalue her intelligence but he had a devious set of criteria for defining the areas in which he should avail himself of it. She could talk about her own work as much she liked – it seemed to relax him, and to begin with she had believed he had welcomed it merely as a soothing noise until she discovered how shrewd his occasional comments were.