by Desmond Cory
“And what speed are you doing then?”
“Three hundred miles a minute.”
“Mother of God,” said O’Brien.
“Oh, she could do a bit more. She won’t build up to escape velocity, but she doesn’t fall so far short. The point is that at that speed we’re going fast enough.” Revie gave the control-column an affectionate slap. “We just level into free orbit, cut the motors and drift for fifty-odd minutes. Then we mosey on down at a reasonable lick, and do the last few thousand feet on the little parachute tucked away in her tail.”
O’Brien nodded and licked his lips. “How d’you compensate for the absence of gravity?”
“Well, of course, you only get that when you’re in orbit. There’s no fancy equipment. I’m well strapped into the seat, that’s all; so I can’t actually float away or do anything witty like that.” A muscle jerked in the side of Revie’s throat.
“I see. What really interests me is the throw-over to the ramjet drive. I don’t quite see how that can … work.”
“I don’t know, either,” said Revie simply. “I just drive the bloody bus. Levison will explain it, if you like.”
“Yes. Of course. Gladly. Well, the principle’s elementary. The only thing that might be called mildly ingenious is the—”
“I’ll get out, if you don’t mind. Could do with some fresh air.”
Johnny and Emerald hurriedly retreated; Revie clambered over O’Brien’s thrust-out feet and stepped out on to the platform. He stood looking up at the bright sky with one hand on the guard-rail; there were drops of perspiration on his upper lip, and the corners of his mouth seemed pinched and white.
“What’s the matter, Don?” asked Emerald. “You look a bit rocky, all of a sudden.”
“Nothing. I’m all right. Just wanted a breath of fresh air, that was all. Got a bit close in that rat-hole, with all of you people barging in.”
“It was rather stuffy. Not much ventilation.”
“Ought to fit in a french window,” said Revie between his teeth. He turned and began to descend the ladder slowly; Emerald watched him nervously.
“Take it easy,” he suggested. “Be a bit of an anticlimax, to go and break your crazy neck from forty feet.”
“Oh shuddup,” said Revie tiredly.
Emerald and Johnny looked at one another. They, too, began to descend the ladder. And, arrived at the bottom, they walked over to where Revie was feeling awkwardly in his pockets.
“Either of you got a cigarette?”
He took one from Emerald, and lit it without raising his eyes. “Thanks,” he said. “See you some time.” And strolled off, moving towards the sleek upraised hull of Bandit Number Three. The spiral of smoke that he had exhaled moved lazily upwards, disappeared at last.
“It must be rather like trying on an electric-chair,” said Johnny softly, “for size.”
“Oh yes. He’s beginning to feel it a bit. Not surprising.” Emerald looked down at his wrist-watch. “He takes the high jump in twenty-one hours’ time now … poor old devil.”
“Is there really no chance of a postponement?”
“I don’t see one from where I’m standing,” said Emerald shortly. “Come on, let’s take a look at Control.”
They walked off, side by side. The Control building stood at the far end of the great open hangar; wide plate-glass windows gave a clear view of the asphalt flat outside and of the two aircraft parked upon it, seemingly close together, in appearance more like outlandish architectural towers of the future than like machines capable of motion. Only something in their attitude, in their delicate balance and poise, suggested the deep scorn they felt for the earth on which they stood. The main Control Room itself was empty; a plotting table, great plastic switchboards, filing cabinets were placed about it with a mathematical precision; its overall air was of simplicity, and one had the feeling that it had never really been put to use. Yet on the near wall, a blackboard bore the neatly chalked inscription:
S/Ldr. Benthall T/O 0800-00
There was space for further entries; but no further entries had been made.
“Nice place,” said Johnny. “Cosy. I feel myself at home.”
Emerald, who had been strolling idly round fingering things, sat down beside the plotting-table and crossed his legs. “It should be good. The equipment in here’s fantastic; all-electronic. If you had any idea how many top-line electrical engineers—”
“Well, switch on the TV and let’s have some cheerful music”
Emerald rose obligingly, wandered across the room and depressed a switch. Instantly, an invisible radio began to emit a Tommy Dorsey recording. “Good Lord,” said Johnny, impressed … A rabbit-faced person in white overalls poked his head in at the door, hooted vaguely and vanished.
“Good idea of yours,” said Emerald, snapping his fingers rhythmically. “I was beginning to feel a little bit depressed myself, if you want to know the truth. Can’t think why. I suppose one tends to get smothered by all this science.”
He sat down again. “So O’Brien’s going to play ball?”
“It looks that way,” said Johnny.
“The Director’ll be pleased. And so will Bailey. Of course, it’s too late to help Don Revie much.” Emerald looked out of the window. “Still, things may pan out all right, in any case. Maybe Benthall did something wrong … You just can’t make any mistakes at that kind of a speed. If you start going downhill instead of forward, it’s about two eye-blinks before you … Quite.”
He listened with an air of connoisseurship to a trombone solo, emerging unhesitantly from a troubled sea of muted brass. “You were wrong about O’Brien, it seems.”
“Yes. But if I were you, I wouldn’t feel happy about it till I had him strapped down on the table.”
Emerald nodded. “He’s taking quite a keen interest in our little project.”
“Well, it’s something to occupy his mind.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Besides, it’s rather in his line. He’s a pilot himself, I mean.”
“Yes. A cracking good one, too, from all accounts.” Emerald’s brows furrowed slightly. “To judge by his record, that is. After the war, he could have had just about any job in aviation he wanted; yet he has to go and … I can’t say I really understand a feller like that.”
“Just another cynic. Like me.”
“You, you’re just notoriously a half-wit. When are you going to settle down, anyway? You’re getting too old for these sort of capers.”
“I want to make just one more million before I retire.”
Emerald snorted and laced his fingers over his tummy. Revie came in; followed by the Director. Outside, over the asphalt, four white-clad men walked briskly.
“D’you mind switching off that noise?” said Mr. Mitchell clearly. “The people downstairs are finding it something of a disturbance.”
He extended a precise finger; the orchestra stopped in mid-wail. “Where is Mr. O’Brien? I expected to find you all here.”
“O’Brien’s still over there,” said Emerald.
“Over where? Could you be a little more exact?”
“Examining the Bandit’s entrails. With Dr. Levison. I shouldn’t be surprised if they haven’t taken the whole thing to pieces by now.”
“Taken to … But good God! No - you must be joking.” Mr. Mitchell breathed out heavily. “Really, Jimmy. This is no time to be facetious.”
He crossed the room, seated himself with a little flourish at a table directly in front of the window. “Hullo,” he said, addressing himself resolutely to the microphone before him. “Hullo. Are you receiving me, Levison? This is Mr. Mitchell. Come in.”
There was a pause. Then Levison’s voice, acoustically magnified, emerged in a high bleat from some hidden loudspeaker. “Good morning, Mr. Mitchell. Yes, I am receiving you. Over.”
“Ah, Levison. I believe you have Mr. O’Brien with you. He is urgently required in the Control Room. Please instruct him to come
here immediately. Over.”
There was a slightly longer pause. Then another voice, deeper, marked with a certain asperity. “O’Brien here. And who the sweet hell are you?”
“Who …?” Mr. Mitchell swallowed visibly. “My name is Mitchell. I happen to be the Director of this Establishment.”
“All right. Well, what’s on your mind?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” said Mr. Mitchell, with evident sarcasm. “We merely chance to be waiting for you to put in an appearance. Sir Robert Sweet is anxious to make his preliminary examination.”
“Tell him to go jump in the Mediterranean.”
“Tell him …?”
“I’m busy. So is Levison. I’ll see that fellow later; this afternoon, maybe.”
“Now listen here, O’Brien.” Mr. Mitchell rose to his feet on the tide of his wrath, fortunately remembering to take the microphone with him. “Sir Robert is an extremely busy man. And so am I. I don’t propose to waste—”
“You jump in the ocean, too.”
Mr. Mitchell’s mouth opened, then closed again.
“Out,” said O’Brien with uncompromising firmness. There was a click. And silence. Johnny and Emerald and Revie looked at one another.
“Dear me,” said Emerald mildly.
Sir Robert Sweet was a tall, lanky person with a V of nervous irascibility between his eyes and the expression of one who has just swallowed his own back collar stud. But he had fine, slim, delicate fingers; the kind of fingers that an eminent surgeon ought to have; and a voice of surprisingly mellow timbre. “You know,” he said, adjusting the set of his grey silk tie with meticulous accuracy, “Dr. Wray is perfectly right. I take up my stand with him. In such a case as this, it would be quite unthinkable to operate without the patient’s written permission. Without any such permission, I’m afraid that I must categorically decline.”
He smiled a far-away little smile and went on fingering his tie. Everybody else seated round the table - Emerald, Fedora, Wray, O’Brien and Revie - looked expectantly towards the Director. Who was wiping his mouth cautiously with a clean white handkerchief. The shutters, lowered over the windows, creaked slightly in the desert breeze.
“I see,” said Mr. Mitchell. “I see.”
“And I suppose there is no chance that Mr. O’Brien will change his mind?”
O’Brien cleared his throat. “No,” he said, rather awkwardly. “No chance. I’m going to stick this thing out.”
“Well, I think you are ill-advised.” Sir Robert shook his head gently from side to side. “But you are now acquainted with the facts, and I shan’t try to influence your decision in any way. I really think, Mr. Mitchell, that I can do nothing other than request to be returned to England immediately; I am obviously wasting my time here.”
“Sir Robert …” The Director spoke as though the words were paining him. “I can only repeat that your decision is going to affect most strongly the lives of two excellent young men and an enterprise of national importance. It is not a responsibility to be considered lightly. I must really ask you to take a little more time, at least, to think the matter over.”
“I can only reply, Mr. Mitchell, that if questions of indirect responsibility had to be weighed before we treated each patient, then we doctors would never get anything done at all. Medically speaking, a murderer is entitled to receive exactly the same consideration from us as a millionaire. And all other circumstances are, after all, no business of mine.”
“But—”
“If you are unsatisfied with the airworthiness of this - er - craft, then the flight should not take place. If it does and if anything goes wrong, then the responsibility is clearly yours. But I am passing an opinion on a matter that has nothing to do with me personally.” Sir Robert sighed lightly and looked up at the ceiling with a martyred expression.
“We are committed to this experiment and it can not be cancelled.”
“In that case, I can only say—”
“As in all experimental flights, there is an obvious element of danger. Squadron-Leader Revie is fully aware of the risks involved; and, if he wishes to, he can retire at any point in the proceedings. He knows that perfectly well. I don’t know, Revie, whether in the light of these developments you’ll wish to make way for Bailey …?”
Revie shook his head.
“Bailey?” mused Sir Robert pensively. “Air Vice-Marshal Bailey’s boy? Heard he was out here, somewhere. But I didn’t realise he was mixed up in all this.”
“He is third pilot here,” said the Director stiffly. “He is, in fact, the man whose safety is your direct concern.”
“Indeed? Indeed?” A spasm of irritation crossed Sir Robert’s face. “You seem remarkably ready to depute your responsibilities, Mitchell. Why the devil you should suppose—”
“There is no question of deputing responsibilities—”
“Look,” said Revie; and rose clumsily to his feet. “You’ve got to take that dam’ thing out, doc. That’s all there is to it.”
As had happened once before, his sudden irruption into the conversation had left everyone else silent. Suddenly a centre of earnest attention, he fidgeted nervously with his feet and directed his gaze to a point on the farthest wall of the room.
“I mean - all this is just words, really. I don’t know whose responsibility it is, and I don’t care frightfully. It doesn’t make much difference, not to Bailey an’ me; if anything does go wrong, we’ll be just as dead. So … Well, all we want is a decent chance. You’ve just got to give us that chance, doc, and never mind the ethics.”
It had probably been a long time since Sir Robert had last been addressed as “doc.” His expression had softened visibly. “My dear boy,” he said, “clearly, your point of view—”
“Yes, and to hell with that.” O’Brien jerked the words straight across Sir Robert’s mellifluous sentence and cut it off as though with a buzz-saw. “If they cut me up it’s not going to help you any, Revie. It’ll be far too late to do you any good.”
“I know. But if it helps Bailey—”
“Let him speak for himself. And why should I give a tuppenny damn what happens to Mister confounded Bailey?”
“Maybe you don’t give a damn.” Revie turned to glower fiercely at his antagonist. “There are other people who do. An’ if you had any decent feelings—”
“And leave out the sermonising, too.”
“Sermonising? To hell with that! You listen to me, O’Brien—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen!” And Mr. Mitchell beat loudly with his knuckles on the table; this usurping of the conference by the men of action was not, he clearly felt, in the best of taste. “Please, please. No squabbling. Kindly sit down, Revie.”
Revie did so, with none too good a grace. “Wish I’d left the bastard to rot in the desert,” he said in an audible aside to Emerald.
“It’s all right, old man. You’ve made your point.”
… And certainly, Sir Robert was now looking at O’Brien more thoughtfully than before.
“I think,” said Mr. Mitchell, “we may as well adjourn this meeting until after lunch. We seem to have covered, ah, a great deal of ground. So I feel that … Eh, Sir Robert?”
“Oh, quite.” Sir Robert arose with a certain amount of alacrity, Wray deferentially pulling back his chair.
“Come along, then. You too, Wray. And Revie … would you care to join us …?”
Fedora and O’Brien alone remained seated. The others filed rapidly out, leaving them alone at the table; Emerald, fiddling idly with the pulley-strings of the shutters, seemed lost in meditation. O’Brien sat without looking up, completely devoid of movement; his shoulders hunched, his chin resting on his chest. He looked extremely ill.
“… Fedora?”
“Yes?”
“I want to know something. Whose side are you on?”
“Well.” Johnny pushed back his chair. “I’m really on yours, I suppose. But I think you were wrong to change your mind.”
“Because it is like you said this morning. You’re up against something you just can’t beat.”
“Well, there’s no disgrace in that. To give in without fighting … That’s what would be a disgrace.”
Johnny shook his head, but sympathetically. “What made you change, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Maybe … seeing that Bandit thing. What a beaut; what a lovely, lovely beaut. It’s the most gorgeous job I’ve ever seen in my life.” O’Brien’s eyes momentarily took on a curious near-lustre. “You could feel you were dying for something, flying a kite like that. And if anything slips, then you can still fight like a wildcat right up to the end. They’ve got it the easy way, those boys … All the same, if they’re willing to take the easy way, then I’m not going to be afraid of the hard one.”
Emerald walked heavily across the room and sat down beside Fedora. “It’s not common sense,” he said. “You know it’s not common sense.”
“It’d be common sense for Revie to stay right here with his two flat feet on the ground. But he’s not backing out. I’m not going to, either. I’m damned well going to fight this thing as long as it can be fought.” O’Brien’s cheeks creased and jumped with the vehemence of his words; they seemed no longer attached to the line of the bones, but hanging from his temples. His fingers pressed hard, hard, on the surface of the table.
“It may not come to that,” said Johnny.
“How d’you mean?”
“Other people besides you can change their minds.”
O’Brien’s lower lip drooped. “Yes. I saw that, too. I saw the way that Sweet bod looked at me. They’re going to work on him, aren’t they? Those bastards Mitchell and Revie. I could see the idea all right.”
“It’s your own fault,” said Johnny bluntly. “You should have kept your mouth shut. Revie made a good impression, and you made a bad one; that’s all there is to it.”
