Temple of the Winds

by James Follett

  `But how were these manual exchanges actually powered, Mr Harding? 1908 was long before Pentworth had mains electricity.'

  `Ah... Lead acid batteries. Big buggers in coffin-size wooden cases with rope handles.'

  `Ah! So that's what those things are,' Foxley exclaimed. `Follow me, Mr Harding.’

  Chapter 59.

  `REMARKABLE,'SAID MALONE WHEN Cathy Price did a pirouette for him.

  `Remarkable?' Cathy exclaimed. `It's a wonderful miracle!' She bounced onto the settee beside Malone, her breasts nearly falling out of her cat suit. `Bloody neurologists. Would you believe that they could be so wrong?'

  `You certainly caused a stir in the town centre last week.'

  `I know,' said Cathy happily. `Aren't people wonderful? All the problems and misery that everyone has and they wanted to celebrate like that.'

  `It was quite an impromptu party.'

  `Looks like it's going to be a big one in the square next Saturday.' She clasped her hands together in anticipation. `A street carnival and barbecue! I'll be dancing till I drop.'

  `The council decided that the people deserved a special party after a month so they brought the Mayday Carnival forward by two weeks,' Malone commented. `Also there'll be a full moon so that people will be able to find their way home. Social events and special parties always used to be held on moonlit nights.'

  Cathy's eyes twinkled mischievously. `Do you reckon that you and me deserve a little special party, Mike?' She cursed herself hardly had she finished the sentence. Such a crass, juvenile remark.

  Malone regarded her levelly. `You have a short memory, Miss Price. My visit is in connection with your statement about the spyder. You gave Dr Vaughan permission to mention to me about your dream.'

  `You're cross with me for not saying anything about it when you first took a statement from me?'

  `No. You stuck to the facts. I can understand your thinking that I might not be interested in a dream. But I am now. So perhaps you'd tell me about it please.'

  Cathy recounted the events of the night of the Wall when she had imagined or dreamed that she saw the spyder in her bedroom.

  `Would you show me your bedroom please, Miss Price.'

  Cathy met Malone's hard gaze and decided that a suggestive response would not be well received. She stood and led the detective up the spiral staircase to her studio-bedroom. Malone took in the bed, the workstation and the remarkable views from the windows at a glance. He peered through the Vixen telescope. Cathy Price's bedroom would be an ideal stakeout.

  `These octagonal rooms are fun but awkward,' said Cathy. `It was easier to combine my sleeping quarters and workstation in this one room because of the wonderful views and good natural light.'

  `You were in bed when you dreamed that you saw the spyder?'

  `Yes.'

  `And the spyder was where?'

  `At the end of the bed.'

  Malone stood where she indicated. `Here?'

  `Yes.'

  The police officer measured distances with his eye, and moved around the perimeter of the room, examining each window in turn, drawing aside the vertical blind louvres. `These are excellent windows, Miss Price.'

  `Top quality glass. Optically flat. They cost a fortune.'

  Malone squatted and examined one pane closely where it abutted a mullion. `You should've asked for your money back with this pane.'

  `What?'

  `Take a look.'

  Cathy looked closely at the window that Malone indicated. `What's wrong?'

  `Look down at your Jaguar.'

  `Yes.'

  `Now move your head from side to side.

  Cathy did so and was astonished at the rippling effect she saw. `Good God -- that's quite serious distortion. I've never noticed it before.'

  `And some slight discolouration, too, if you look very closely,' Malone added. His forefinger traced the outline of a large area of faint discolouration in the glass that could be seen only at a certain angle. He rapped the centre of the flawed area and an adjoining pane. They sounded different.

  `Extraordinary,' said Cathy. `I suppose I never noticed it before because the louvres are always in the way.'

  Malone straightened. `When was it you discovered you could walk?'

  `It must've been a day or so after the start of the crisis. Yes -- when my wheelchair had a flat battery.' Cathy's eyes widened. `You don't think--?'

  `Right now I don't know what to think. Miss Price,' Malone cut in, regarding her steadily. `But I don't think your spyder close encounter was a dream. Somehow, it made and repaired a hole in the window pane, and it was right here in the room with you.’

  Chapter 60.

  PRESCOTT WAS SITTING IN HARDING'S workshop, listening to the scientist's report in some astonishment. Even Harding's assistants, trying to breathe life into long defunct radio receivers, had stopped work to listen. `You mean the batteries actually took a charge? After the best part of a century?'

  `After I'd topped them up -- yes. Luckily they'd been well-sealed and hadn't lost any acid.'

  `Amazing.'

  `Not really,' said Harding. `You remember the Holland submarine that was on show at Pompey? Well, she'd lain underwater in mud for a nearly a century, yet her batteries turned out to be in good working order when she was raised.'

  `Wasn't there was a flashlight from the Titanic that started working again when it was fitted with a new bulb and its battery cleaned out?'

  `There was indeed.'

  `The Victorians built them well.'

  `Edwardians,' Harding corrected.

  `Will modern telephones work with this exchange?'

  Harding looked doubtful. `Up to a point. They'd be able to receive calls but not make them. They can't send out fifty volts to signal the operator -- the juice was generated by a crankhandle on old phones. But there's at least thirty of them in the tea chests I looked in -- possibly more.'

  `How about using existing lines?'

  `No problem. We'd have to rig up some trunking from the main box in the High Street to the museum. About a fifty metre run. At least a hundred man hours and that's without checking all the handsets. Some are certain to need attention. But it wouldn't be too difficult to make some. Selby Engineering can knock out anything.'

  `Manning the switchboard sounds like excellent work for the disabled,' said Prescott thoughtfully.

  `That's a very good idea, Mr Chairman.'

  Prescott grinned and stood. `Well done, Bob. Drop everything and get stuck in. Get Government House, the fire station, the hospital, the police station, and doctors' surgeries and vets hooked up first.'

  `What? Put all my team on it?'

  `All of them. I'll sign the funding authorizations. Amazing. We're actually going to have a working telephone system.’

  Chapter 61.

  MALONE DECIDED THAT Anne Taylor was the second most beautiful woman in Pentworth. The extraordinary length of her golden-tanned legs just had to be an optical illusion due to her position.

  `Good morning, Mrs Taylor.'

  Anne gave a start and nearly fell off the stepladder that gave access to her new cooker: a four metre diameter papier mache parabolic dish mounted on a stout framework of cross-braced chestnut saplings. The huge, lightweight contraption was sitting in the middle of her lawn, aimed at the southern sky. She stopped stirring the contents of a large saucepan on the dish's cooking shelf and jumped down from the ladder. `Good morning, Mr Malone. Still jogging, I see.'

  `It's a good way of getting around. My apologies. I didn't mean to make you jump. I thought you would've heard my whistling.'

  Anne smiled at the police officer and gestured to the silver-painted dish. `It's amazing how that thing collects sound as well as the sun's energy. There's a skylark up there somewhere -- I couldn't even see it, yet it was deafening me.'

  `How are you coping with it?'

  `I'm getting the hang of it now. The first time I used it, it melted the knobs on my saucepan lids.'

  Malone
chuckled.

  `These dishes seem to be mushrooming all over the place,' Anne continued. `Hideous things, but they certainly work well at this time of day.'

  Malone looked at the old central heating radiator, still in the same position on the lawn, but now painted black and tilted at a more efficient angle to the sun. `And your hot water system?'

  `Absolutely brilliant. You were right about painting it black. And it said the same thing in a leaflet from the council. What a difference! Luckily we've got a big, well-insulated hot water tank so we have hot water round the clock now.'

  `I'm delighted to hear it.'

  Anne pulled a face. `You have to remember to turn it off at night. Otherwise it works in reverse and radiates all the heat back into space. And no proper tea or coffee. Probably a good thing -- I'm sleeping better. And I've had to give up smoking --not that I smoked that much.'

  `I think we're all in better health now,' said Malone.

  `Well -- I certainly feel on top of the world. And everything's growing like mad. Look at the apple and pear blossom. We're in for huge crops if we don't get any frosts.'

  Malone said that frosts seemed unlikely and added that the sudden explosion of blossom added to his enjoyment of jogging.

  Anne breathed deeply. `It is wonderful, isn't it? The air seems so clean. I can hang washing out now without having it end up smelling of paraffin from jets going in and out of Gatwick. I started my seedbed two weeks ago and it's romping away. My tomatoes have reached the top of the greenhouse already and some are ready for picking.' Anne's cheerful expression faded. `Only one thing missing... But -- Oh well...' She pushed the sad thoughts aside. `I can offer you some of Ellen Duncan's nettle tea, Mr Malone. It actually tastes very good if it hasn't been brewed for two hours.'

  `How long has yours been brewed for?' `Three hours.'

  They both smiled. Malone said that he would take a chance.

  `I suppose you've come to see Vikki again about her clockwork crab?' said Anne a few minutes later when they were sitting at the picnic bench. `I'm sorry, but she and Sarah are in town helping get the Mayday carnival ready. As they're both in their sixteenth year, they're allowed to take part in the main dance. Vikki's volunteered to be this year's witch.'

  `Good luck to her. I hope she's a good runner,' Malone replied, smiling. `No. It's nothing to do with that. I expect you've heard on the radio about the increase in break-ins?'

  `It's awful. Everyone's trying to pull together, and we have this to put up with. Mr Prescott said how over-stretched the police were.'

  Malone grimaced. `An understatement if ever there was. But prevention is better than cure, so I'm going around to outlying houses to check and advise on security.' He finished his mug of tea. `Would you have any objection to my checking your house, Mrs Taylor? It'll only take a couple of minutes.'

  `Of course not, Mr Malone. Please help yourself. I apologise in advance for the state of Vikki's room. With Sarah staying with us, there's now two girls to keep it in the manner to which it's accustomed. You'll know what I mean when you see it.'

  Under the watchful gaze of a life-size poster of a Zulu warrior that dominated Vikki's bedroom, Malone found the same faint discoloration in a window pane that he had seen in Cathy Price's bedroom. The affected area was about the same size and was big enough to admit the spyder that he had nearly caught. So... Two definite visits by the device and two remarkable cures. There was no doubt in his mind now that Vikki Taylor's left hand was genuine and that the spyder, or rather, its controllers, were responsible.

  The police officer returned to the garden after a few minutes. `No problems with your windows, Mrs Taylor. All good catches. And your doors are fine. As you haven't got a door on your garage, I suggest you reverse your car in there hard against the wall. That'll make it difficult for thieves to get at the battery.'

  `I'll do that,' said Anne, adding: `Sorry about Vikki's room. I never go in there unless I have to. Was it bad?'

  `It's hell in there, captain,' said Malone, his face contorted in mock anguish. `It's taken a direct hit from a salvo of Klingon photon torpedoes.' He was quite captivated by the way Anne Taylor's eyes sparkled like emeralds when she laughed. He added: `The poster's interesting. A pen friend?'

  `That's Dario. Vikki's name for him. Most girls go for pop stars -- my daughter likes Zulus.'

  `Actually, I've got two girls who refuse to accept that the dirty laundry basket has been invented. Not as old as Vikki and her friend, but trouble enough.'

  `Outside the Wall?'

  Malone nodded, his face suddenly impassive. His daughters were always in his thoughts.

  `I understand,' said Anne sympathetically. `It's the same with my husband. Jack's in Saudi Arabia. Or was. I don't where he is now... I don't suppose I'll...' She made a small, dismissive gesture to minimise the pain. `Well -- he used to spend a lot of time overseas, and when he was here, he was fanatical do-it-yourselfer.' She smiled wanly. `So I never really saw much of him anyway.' `Are you going to the Mayday carnival, Mrs Taylor?' Malone asked abruptly.

  `I don't think so. I'll listen on the radio. It sounds like it's going to be a youngsters do.'

  `It's not,' said Malone seriously. `It's for everyone -- of all ages. I've made sure of that.'

  `Oh? How?'

  `Other peoples hobby horses can be boring.'

  `Well I'd like to hear it. Look, Mr Malone -- it's lunchtime. I've got some chicken stew in that pot. There's plenty for both of us. Surely there's nothing in regulations to say that you can't eat chicken stew on duty?'

  Malone would've politely refused but for Anne Taylor's captivating green eyes. A few moments later he was sitting opposite her at the picnic bench and complimenting her on her cooking. The stew was superb.

  Anne nodded with pleasure and glanced at the huge papier mache solar dish. `You wouldn't have said that last week when I was getting used to it. Several disasters. You were going to tell me about your hobby horse.'

  Malone dipped a piece of homemade bread in his bowl. `Most people tend to look on the English pub as a cornerstone of English culture. It is in a way, and yet it has created the terrible alienation between age groups that has become a feature of English society. Pub bars are always self-service. The bartenders have no idea who is drinking what because they never venture out from behind their bars unless they're running out of glasses. The Rogers and Darrens of this world can ply their under-age girl friends with endless Barcardi and Cokes without the publicans having the slightest idea of who is drinking what on their premises.'

  `In France and Spain most bars take your order at the table and you're served at the table,' said Anne.

  Malone nodded emphatically. `Exactly. They retain control by having a waiter service therefore it isn't necessary to exclude children. But in this country, as kids get older, they're excluded from just about everything their parents enjoy. Nightclubs for example -- not because it's illegal for them to dance -- but because they have to be protected from the total lack of control of the English bar self-service system. So English kids don't go out with their parents and we imported the babysitter habit from America. They grow up accepting the alienation of age as normal and we've ended up with a stratified society that doesn't mix. Youth have their youth clubs; young adults have their pubs; the middle aged, their clubs. Young adults are the most vulnerable. They're allowed to drink and do so -- heavily because that's what their fellow drinkers expect and encourage. They don't have the moderating influence of the young or old around them.'

  `You make ageism sound worse than racism,' said Anne.

  `In a way it's far worse,' said Malone seriously. `It divides society at the family level. We've forgotten how to enjoy ourselves unless we're with people in our own age group and other age groups are excluded.'

  `A sad indictment.'

  Malone wiped his bowl clean. `I told the same thing to the council and the carnival committee. Both agreed with my point of view that in Pentworth we have a clean slate and that it wo
uld be a pity not to use it. So no bars tonight. Waiter and waitress service at the tables. Well -- Elizabethan serving wenches.' Anne laughed. `You should've heard Vikki complaining about the blouse she's got wear.'

  `She'll be waitressing as well?'

  `Oh yes. She and Sarah are hoping for good tips. She'll be interested to discover that it was all your idea.'

  `She copes remarkably well with her left hand,' Malone remarked casually. He expected a sudden chilling but it never came.

  `She's had over ten years' practice,' Anne answered lightly and changed the subject by adding that Malone's banning of bars sounded like an interesting experiment.

  Malone accepted the warning off and smiled. `I'd consider it an honour if you'd accompany me to see it how it works at first hand.’

  Chapter 62.

  PRESCOTT SAT AT HIS DESK in Government House, contentedly admiring his impressive new office which had been the judges' chambers, now knocked into one room. It still wasn't quite right; the large, south-facing windows meant that the room tended to get uncomfortably hot. Underarm sweat would eventually rot the immaculate white safari suits that he now favoured as his working dress. Diana said they lent him an air of relaxed distinction. Blinds or air-conditioning were the answer. Preferably both. He made a mental note to find out if the uninterruptable power supply that consisted of banks of car batteries in the basement would be capable of running an air-conditioning unit.

  He swivelled his chair and watched the bustle of activity four floors below in Market Square. He was sure that this was going to be an excellent Mayday carnival and congratulated himself on his foresight in bringing it forward. His intercom buzzed.

  `Father Adrian Roscoe wishes to speak to you, Mr Chairman,' said Diana.

  `Splendid -- put him through.' Prescott pulled the antique telephone carefully across the french polished expanse of that symbol of a vain man -- an unnecessarily large and over-ornate desk which had belonged to his father. He picked up the headphone. `Good morning, Adrian. What can I do for you?'