by Desmond Cory
“I don’t like these little tinpot heroes,” said O’Brien sullenly. “Can’t do a job of work without making a speech about it. I know the sort.”
He rose to his feet carefully, supporting himself with one hand on the flat of the table. “Well, I’m going. I’ll tell you one thing: they’re not going to tie me down on any ruddy stretcher. They’ll have to kill me first.”
“A possibility,” said Emerald.
O’Brien stared at him. “What?”
“… They can take that thing out of you just as easily when you’re dead as when you’re alive. Much more easily, in fact.”
“So what are you getting at?”
“I should be careful, that’s all. People here are under a pretty heavy pressure, you know; and Revie, for one, hasn’t got much to lose.”
O’Brien released the table and stood erect, still gazing at Emerald from within the deep gouges of his eye-sockets. “You’re crazy, Colonel. There’s nobody here with the guts.”
“I’m beginning to think that everybody here may be crazy,” said Emerald pessimistically. “I’m not taking any chances, anyway. You stay in your room this afternoon, laddybucks.”
“But I want to—”
“No. Just this once, you’ll do as you’re told.”
O’Brien went out, without saying another word and without looking at Johnny. Emerald waited until the door had closed, then lit a cigarette. Fedora, moved, tentatively, the fingers of his broken arm.
“… Are you serious about that, Jimmy?”
“Oh yes, I’m serious enough.”
Emerald leaned forward; with his thumb squashed a small green insect that was crawling up his leg. “… That fellow’s one of the most obvious murderers I’ve ever seen. And if anything like that did happen, it’d be devilish embarrassing.”
“Hard to investigate, you mean?”
“I don’t know. It’d just be embarrassing.”
He went over to the window, and pulled up the shutters with a rattle. The rich light of the day flooded into the room. Outside, the road ran dusty between the long ranks of huts; O’Brien moved steadily down it, his head lowered in thought. By his side, tall and methodical, marched a Military Policeman.
“Well, he’s got guts, anyway,” said Emerald.
“So has Revie.”
“Yes. So has everyone.”
“When does Revie go?”
“At eight in the morning,” said Emerald.
9
Johnny woke suddenly, in a half light, to find someone shaking his shoulder.
“Come on,” said Emerald. “This is it.”
Ten to eight, said the clock on the Control Room wall.
Two men in khaki sat by the electronic plotting-table. The other chairs about the room were now all occupied by serious-looking, silent young men; most of whom were intent on testing the varied items of complicated apparatus within their immediate control. Emerald sat in his own personal chair, withdrawn from the rest, rather like a film director’s; his expression, too, suggested a certain perturbation at the antics of the supporting cast. Mr. Mitchell also sat in splendid isolation directly before the window; perched at a discreet distance from his elbows were two white-jacketed stooges, one fidgeting with a loose-leaf notebook, the other solemnly jabbing at a microphone attachment with a pen-knife. Johnny stood by the door, and at his side, Bailey.
“… I thought you were enjoying your leave.”
“So I was. I didn’t want to miss this, all the same.”
“I suppose not,” said Johnny.
Somebody passed by, leaving a huge mug of steaming tea in his hands. He sipped at it gratefully, conscious of the suppressed excitement welling up inside his stomach.
“I wanted to wish old Donald all the best, and so on,” added Bailey vaguely. “Where is he now? Has he … got in yet?”
“No. Look. There he goes.”
Everybody now was peering out of the window. In the bright orange artificial light reflected weirdly by the asphalt, a small figure was clearly visible scaling the flanks of the Bandit; it climbed jerkily, as though agonisedly, but steadily. Arrived at the platform, it paused; turned; waved. And then disappeared into the Bandit’s gullet.
The door closed. Two figures in overalls, industrious and silent ants, began to fold and to dismantle the ladder and mounting-platform. Johnny sipped again at his tea.
“Is that all he wears? Why isn’t he going to get frozen?”
“Pressurised cabin,” said Bailey. “It gets pretty hot, in fact. You keep all the heat your body gives off. And to start with there’s a lot of air friction … Actually, there’s a refrigerating system; but it’s not much help.”
“… Five minutes, gentlemen,” said the Director, in penetrating tones. One or two of the younger boffins looked up; otherwise, nobody took much notice.
“Poor old Don,” said Bailey, in parenthesis. “This is the worst part, you know. Waiting …”
He looked as though he had taken upon himself a great deal of Revie’s nervous strain. His rather long face was drawn and sallow; he had slept badly of late, and showed it. His fingers moved agitatedly around the handle of the heavy tea-mug … “Four minutes,” said Mr. Mitchell.
There was a momentary disturbance by the door; Sir Robert Sweet came in. He glanced arbitrarily round the room and then, in response to a signal from Emerald, went to stand beside Fedora and Bailey; he looked even more irascible than usual. “I’m just in time, I see,” he said. “Everything ready for the take-off, h’m? Yes. Most interesting.” He surveyed Bailey with a certain thinly veiled professional interest.
“May I present Squadron-Leader Bailey? … Sir Robert Sweet.”
“Oh,” said Bailey, looking startled. “So you’re the … How do you do.”
“Pleasure. A pleasure to meet you.” Sweet shook hands very, very firmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you, of course. Dangerous job you seem to have found for yourself.”
Bailey laughed a practised laugh that held no discernible false note. “It’s not all that bad. I’m last in the queue, you know.”
“Really? As a matter of fact, I know your father extremely well.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes, indeed. Only a few months back—”
“Three minutes,” said the Director. “Silence, please.”
“Only a few months back … Eh? Oh, sorry.”
Sir Robert relapsed, looking rather indignantly towards the Director, whose attention, however, was elsewhere. The right-hand stooge had ceased to assault the microphone with his knife and instead was now manipulating it in evident preparation for speech. “Hullo, Bandit,” he said eventually. “Hullo, Bandit. Are you receiving me? Over.”
There was the inevitable pause. Then Revie’s voice came strongly over the loudspeaker, firm and unhesitant. “Hullo, Control. Yes, I am receiving you loud and clear. Over.”
“Is everything all set, Don?”
“Yes. Everything is set.”
“Very well. Superstructure has now been cleared. I am going to give you the red at two minutes thirty seconds; at two minutes thirty.” A pause. A click. Then, “Red acknowledged,” said Revie. “Synchronisation perfect.”
“Jolly good luck, old man.”
“Thanks.”
The Director looked back over his shoulder. “All right. On tabs. On recording apparatus. Check TW connections. And stand by all.”
There was a faint murmur of acknowledgment from other corners of the room. “This seems all very tense,” whispered Sweet in Johnny’s ear. Johnny nodded, and finished drinking his tea. The mug clinked loudly as he put it down on a table.
“Two minutes,” said the Director. “Two minutes,” said his stooges simultaneously. A lighted panel on the wall jerked into life, DEAD SILENCE. Bailey passed his tongue over his lips … The silence drew itself out like a thread of glass spun from a glass-blower’s crucible, and snapped with the sound of the Director’s voice … so abruptly that Sweet gave a little jump.
“One minute. On warmers and stabiliser.”
“… On warmers,” said Revie. “On stabiliser. Checking.”
Slowly, one by one, everybody in the Control Room turned to look out of the window. At first, there was nothing to see; all was as usual; then from the tail of the Bandit there grew a little pale pearl of whiteness, a faint luminosity, that became gradually redder and redder … Within a few seconds it had swelled and steadied to a glowing patch of flame, strong enough to strike reflections from the lower part of the ship’s bullet-like hull. No sound penetrated the thick glass of the Control Room windows, but the air seemed to be throbbing slightly to an indefinable pulsing pressure …
“Thirty seconds,” said the Director.
A click from somewhere, somewhere in the room, and a momentary half-audible humming. Nobody looked towards the Bandit now; nobody except the Director, Sweet, Emerald, Fedora … Bailey … Everybody else was concentrating upon the instruments under their care, and doing so fiercely, possessively. The man nearest to Fedora wore an anxious frown; sweat gleamed in the raised furrows of his forehead …
“Fifteen seconds,” said the Director. And almost immediately afterwards:
“Counting out now. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six …”
Johnny wondered where O’Brien was. In bed and asleep, if he were sensible. But more probably staring out of the hospital window towards the east; glancing down at his wristwatch to see the minute hand hovering over the hour …
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Contact.”
And with the last word they all heard it; the sudden smooth aggressive purr of unrestrained power, of energy seeking release. The steady flame at the root of the Bandit leapt into new life, growing so swiftly and so strongly that in three seconds’ time the entire ship’s frame was bathed in sullenly sparkling light; it began to rise, slowly, awkwardly, waggling from side to side as though to shake off the light that clung to it. Almost indiscernibly, it gathered impetus, gained in confidence; the flames behind it turned from a phosphorescence into a fiery wake; it climbed, labouring but with a gathering ease, into the sky. As it diminished in size the thrumming of its passage died …
“Hullo, Control,” said Revie with startling suddenness. “Take-off steady. Acceleration normal. Monitor reading four-two-zero. Confirm. Over.”
The stooge to the Director’s left raised one hand; “Monitor reading four-two-zero,” repeated the other. “Correct. Continue climb at two gee; I say again, at two gee. Over and out.”
… There was a momentary lightening of the tension; even a subdued scrape as Emerald lit a cigarette. Something, at any rate, had been accomplished; the Bandit had left the ground. The bright red second hand of the wall clock scurried stealthily round; as it attained the vertical …
“Build-up steady at two gee,” reported Revie distinctly. “Monitor reading eight-two-four. Eight-two-four.”
“I confirm eight-two-four correct.”
“Preparing to level and coast. She’s behaving pretty well so far. Slight tendency to yaw as usual, but no trouble at all. Watching out.”
Revie’s voice seemed confident enough, though strangely disembodied. Johnny unfastened the top button of his shirt and wiped his neck. Nobody else moved.
“Now,” said the left-hand stooge inadvertently. His voice blended with the initial opening of Revie’s:
“Nine-zero-zero.”
“Nine-zero-zero.”
“Cut rockets. I am levelling now.” A pause. “Yes. She’s coming round beautifully.” Another pause. “She’s on level flight. And coasting. I am moving on to jets.”
“Confirm transference to jets. Course zero-nine-four.”
“Zero-nine-four.” A pause. “She’s responding well. Very well. Steady on course.”
“On radar,” said the Director, glaring back over his shoulder again. “On E.S.I. And hold.”
“… Jets on,” said Revie. “Jets on.”
Johnny looked again at the wall clock. Revie had been airborne for fifty seconds now; it seemed incredible that that was all.
“Change-over smooth,” said Revie. “Flight bar steady. Steady as a rock. She’s beginning to build up again now. Monitor reading six-nine-zero. Nine-two. Nine-four. Nine-six … Beginning to shake a bit now. Yes, she’s jarring noticeably. On full power, and monitor now appears to be steady. Steady at nine-six. Confirm.”
“Confirm six-nine-six, and steady.”
“Right. I’m going to commence my dive. I shall try to build up to required velocity on a shallow dive of two degrees. If that fails, I’ll increase angle to five degrees and whip up the velocity as quickly as possible. Commencing dive now.”
Bailey whispered to Fedora, his lips hardly moving.
“That’s what Benthall did. I was wondering myself—”
“Oh, we’re building up quickly again. Seven-one-six, one-eight, twenty … Two-five … Thirty, and she’s shaking like a bastard now. That’s the trouble with these heavy crates. But holding course well enough … Monitor increasing on seven-forty …”
“Seven-forty-plus, confirm.”
“Blimey. If she holds through this, she’ll hold through anything. Don’t know why she’s … she’s … Well, seven-fifty. Fifty-two.” A catch in Revie’s breath. “Ah, and she’s beginning to ease. She’s easing a lot. She’s through.” A long and eloquent pause. “Through the disturbance area. Right, now I’m going to steepen the angle of descent for a quick build-up. Increasing angle of descent on monitor seven-eighty. Here we go.”
A longer silence. It lasted perhaps five seconds. Then:
“Well, she’s building up all right. Phenomenally. I’m now approaching change velocity. Reading nine-twenty and increasing bloody fast. Thirty … Forty … Am beginning to straighten out …”
“Switch on stabiliser, Don.”
“Right. I hadn’t forgotten. On stabiliser, then. And am levelling now … at monitor nine-eighty … Holding jets steady on full power and cutting in nuclear drive. Wow, she’s going like a bomb now, I tell you … Level flight. Flight bar steady, but jumping a bit … Beginning to fall.”
“You’re at change velocity, Don.”
“Monitor not steady. Not at all steady. I … Sweat in my eyes.”
“Don, your reading’s falling. You’re at change velocity, I tell you. But be quick.”
A pause. “Nine-eight-zero and steady.”
“Yes, nine-eight-zero and falling, get on with it.”
“Right. Right. Here we go. Stick back and on change.”
A pause. Johnny felt the pressure of his fingernails driving into the palm of his own hand. And then, “God!”
Quickly:
“She-kicks-like-a-bloody-horse. Acceleration’s phenomenal. Can’t move. Christ, I can’t bloody lift her. She’s-so-bloody-heavy, I haven’t got …”
“Steady, Don. You’re building up right on plan … No, you’re not. Come on, Don - lift her. Commence your climb.”
Silence.
“Don, you’re running away from our screen. The transmitter’s going haywire. It says … Look, you’ve got to climb. Why don’t you …?”
The assistant’s voice faded away. No reply came from the loudspeaker. There was a stir of movement within the room; people were no longer looking at their own personal panels, but at the plotting-board in the centre of the floor. “What’s he doing, reader?” demanded Mr. Mitchell suddenly.
“Running wild, sir. Completely wild; he’s miles off course. And going hellish fast.”
The Director rested his chin on one cupped hand and gazed out of the window. “Monitor?”
“Nil, sir. Right off beam.”
“Well,” said the Director. Then again, “Well.” And then, “Come on, S.R. You still tracking him? Where’s he going?”
“Swung round north-west, sir. Seems to be diving more deeply. He’s going to hit South Italy on the present track …”
“Good God,” said the Director.
“But it’s changing e
very second,” said the S.R. operator hopelessly. “He’s going too fast to be … Now he’s …”
He stopped short. “He’s hit?”
“Yes, sir. Instrument’s dead.”
“Where?”
But the Director did not wait for a reply. Instead, he launched himself away from his chair and towards the plotting-table. The small metal disc that marked the Bandit’s position had indeed come to a halt; almost in the exact centre of the Adriatic Sea.
“In the Adriatic,” said Mr. Mitchell. “Well. That’s that.” Unhurriedly he walked out of the room. The closing of the door behind him heralded a sudden outburst of conversation; all instruments were left unattended and inactive; only the clock on the wall stuck ruthlessly to its job. DEAD SILENCE, said the lighted panel beside it.
“That’s how it was last time,” said Emerald, coming across the room to Fedora. “Just the same thing happened … or precious nearly.”
Bailey, fumbling for a handkerchief, left in pursuit of the Director. As he went, his skin gave Johnny the impression of having suddenly become too tight for his face … “My goodness,” Sweet was saying to himself. “My goodness. This is really … My goodness.”
“It looks to me,” said Fedora bluntly, “as though the thing’s a ruddy death-trap.”
“It’s a quick end, anyway. He must have hit the sea at about five thousand miles an hour … Hell, the damned thing would have been incandescent long before he hit.”
Emerald wiped his hands on the pockets of his shirt. “For God’s sake, Johnny. For God’s sake.”
“It’s rough all right,” said Fedora.
The Director made an alteration to the figures chalked on the blackboard. Levison, notebook in hand, nodded. O’Brien, idly pushing a piece of chalk to and fro with his forefinger, took no notice.
Emerald paused in the door. “Well, what’s O’Brien doing here?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea,” said Johnny.
They went in; sat down on the long laboratory bench behind O’Brien. The Director was writing again; a long string of complicated equations whose significance remained unguessed - at any rate, by Johnny. “You see,” said Levison to O’Brien in a whisper. “The thrust factor remains absolutely constant. So our symbol EN-4 remains identical at any reading.”
