by Unknown
Lancelot thumped the wall in frustration. ‘Nothing is troubling me.’
‘Fine, then. Fine. Don’t see a shrink.’ Ian wished he had never mentioned the word.
Later that morning the Colonel called Lancelot to his office.
‘What shall I say?’ he asked Ian.
‘Tell him the truth; you were sleep-walking and you didn’t know what you were doing. You weren’t responsible.’
Lancelot seized on the word. ‘Not responsible? What is that supposed to mean?’
Ian sighed. For his friend’s sake he had to stay calm. ‘It means what it says. You were not responsible for your actions. Nothing he can do about that. Nothing anyone can do.’
Lancelot paced the room restlessly. ‘I shall have to resign.’ ‘Nonsense! You’ll be a general one day, everyone says so.
Where would the army find another man like you?’
‘Where would I find another friend like you?’ To Ian’s astonishment Lancelot put his arms round his shoulders and hugged him. It was so unexpected that he had to turn away his head to hide the tears.
Colonel Marsden was sympathetic, almost too sympathetic, which was hardly reassuring for Lancelot. Anger would have been easier to deal with. ‘Sit down, Bancroft.’ For a few moments the C.O. fiddled with a paper knife. ‘That incident last night on the parade ground. What’s the story?’
‘I have no recollection of it. I’m told I was sleep-walking.’ ‘So I understand.’ The C.O. looked concerned. ‘You’re a fine
officer, Bancroft. I hope you will make the army your career. We need men like you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘This business, though. I think you should take it seriously.’ ‘I do. I’m ashamed of myself.’ Lancelot looked down at the floor.
‘No need to be,’ the C.O. assured him. ‘It was not your fault.
No blame can possibly be attached to you. What happened was obviously entirely beyond your control.’
Lancelot studied his boots. Beyond his control. The last thing he wanted to hear.
The C.O. shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I’m no doctor, but, er . . . ’ – A diffident cough – ‘may I suggest you have a medical check-up?’
That meant a doctor, not a shrink. Something of a relief. ‘I’ll do that, sir.’
‘Excellent.’
With his hand on the doorknob, the C.O. added, ‘Mind you, sometimes these sort of things . . . it might not actually be a physical problem. Could be some kind of, well, not mental disturbance exactly, but that sort of thing . . . if you know what I mean.’ He extended his hand. ‘Alright, Bancroft?’ Lancelot nodded dumbly. ‘I am not very well up on these matters,’ the
C.O. continued, shaking Lancelot’s hand vigorously. ‘Very sympathetic, though, I assure you, very sympathetic indeed. Today’s army is most understanding about these things, as I’m sure you know.’
Lancelot took a week’s leave and had a check-up. In a couple of days the results came through: there was nothing wrong with him. The doctor gave him a reassuring smile: ‘As perfect a specimen of manhood as ever I’ve seen. I’m happy to give you a clean bill of health.’
A clean bill of health. What should have been a reason for celebration was, on the contrary, cause for profound concern. Nothing was wrong with him. Nothing physical, that is. He went back to his flat and tried to think . . . not mental disturbance exactly . . . his father had told him so little about his mother. He looked like her, that much he knew. He had
her brown eyes, her long face, her high forehead. Physically they were apparently much alike; and in one other respect too; they were both what Ban called ‘highly-strung’. He had hinted as much without going into details. What kind of inner torment made someone take their life? Why was his father always so reluctant to talk about his wife, more especially the circumstances leading to her death? It wasn’t what his father had told him that troubled him, it was what he hadn’t told him.
Lancelot had never been frightened of anything before but he was now; so frightened that he could not sleep for worrying – not that night, nor the next, nor the next. There were endless questions and no answers. How could there be? In the end rational thought was overwhelmed by fatigue, leaving him drained and without the will to resist. The following day Lancelot was due back at camp. He had planned to take the train.
By chance Ian Duncan had driven up to London for a friend’s party. Sleeping until noon after a late night, Ian guessed Lancelot would already be on his way to camp, but decided to pass by his flat anyway. There was no answer when he buzzed the street door intercom. He had missed him. But as he was walking back to his car, something caught his eye – an unexpected glimmer of light from the second floor – Lancelot’s flat. It was two o’clock on a sunny winter’s afternoon and the lights were on in the front rooms. Lancelot must have forgotten to switch them off before he went out.
Ian got in his car and for a few moments sat staring ahead. It didn’t make sense, Lance was one of the most meticulous and organised people he knew. Would he leave the flat and forget to turn the lights off? One light, perhaps, but all of them? He went back and buzzed the intercom a second and a third time, long, insistent rings. Still no answer. He was about to give up when a middle-aged lady opened the door.
‘May I help you?’
‘I was ringing Captain Bancroft’s bell. He must have gone out.’
‘Lancelot?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. At least he was up there a few minutes ago. I heard him walking about.’
‘He doesn’t answer.’
‘The intercom is always giving trouble. Why don’t you go up and knock on his door.’
Upstairs Ian knocked twice. No answer. He rang the doorbell. Again no answer. He was just turning away when he thought he heard a voice inside Lancelot’s flat. He knocked again. Silence. He left his finger on the bell for a full thirty seconds. Again he thought he heard a voice, and this time he was certain that it came from Lance’s flat. He made up his mind. One of the useful things he had learned in the army was how to pick a lock, though until now he had never had the occasion to test his skill. The lock clicked. He pushed the door open. Lancelot was lying on the floor, deathly pale, muttering incoherently. By his side was an empty box of sleeping pills and a half-empty bottle of whisky.
When he recovered consciousness a few hours later, Ian was at his bedside; but it was a couple of days before Lancelot was willing to talk. The doctors accepted that the overdose had been accidental. Ian knew differently.
‘That sleep-walking business preyed on my mind.’ Lancelot stared ahead, addressing his comments to the wall of his room. ‘I made a fool of myself. I let down the army. I let everyone down.’
‘That was no reason to try and kill yourself,’ Ian said angrily. He could not understand why his friend had done such a stupid and selfish thing. Yet at the same time he also blamed himself. He had not been there for Lancelot.
‘Put it down to hubris and ego,’ said Lancelot humbly. ‘That all?’ Ian badly needed to understand what had driven his friend to attempt suicide.
Lancelot folded down his top sheet and smoothed it carefully. ‘Not entirely.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
Did he? How much did he want to tell Ian? He decided on a partial explanation, without going into details. ‘You were the one who said it first.’ ‘Said what?’
‘That I didn’t know what I was doing. That I was not responsible for my actions.’
‘Forgive me, Lance.’ He should never have said such a thing. ‘That was grossly clumsy of me. I didn’t mean that at all.’
‘Yes, you did,’ insisted Lancelot. ‘And you were right. I was out of control. That’s the one thing that has always scared me – ever since that business at University. I wanted to kill that man. I nearly did.’
Ian was beginning to understand. ‘Absolute nonsense! That was a freak accident.’
‘It’s not what I did,’ said Lancelot, ‘it’s what was in my mind
that scares me.’
‘You never touched him. That’s all that matters,’ said Ian reassuringly.
‘I wish it was.’
‘You are the sanest person I know.’
In that moment Lancelot realised that Ian understood him far better than he had ever given him credit for. ‘Thank you for that.’
As he stood up to go, Ian patted his friend on the shoulder. The gesture was minimal but it said everything there was to say about their relationship. ‘The world wouldn’t be the same without you,’ he said warmly. ‘Not for me, not for a lot of people. I wish you would remember that.’
‘Bless you, Ian.’
Ian had been in the right place at the right time. A happy coincidence? Was that all there was to it? The more Lancelot thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was more than just coincidence. He had wanted to end his life, but for some reason he had not been allowed to. Could it be that that some divine power had intervened, using his friend as its instrument?
Nine
2022
Have i ever shown you around the facilities?’
Arthur’s heart beat faster. Facilities – a neutral word – but for him it still conjured up the secret world that all those years ago had been so tantalisingly off-bounds to boys and staff alike. When he was a boy at Glastonbury school, Arthur and his friends had often tried to locate Merlin’s famous “facilities”. They knew exactly where they ought to be – somewhere behind the sports hall – but somehow, when they went to look for them, there was nothing there but fields. Their carefully planned midnight expeditions had proved equally frustrating, for they invariably ended up back where they started, as if their legs were playing tricks on them.
‘I don’t believe you have.’
‘You don’t mean it!’ Merlin’s eyebrows lifted in mock astonishment, the feathers on Virgil’s head standing erect in sympathy. ‘How very remiss of me.’ He strode ahead of Arthur, tut-tutting and scolding himself all the while.
It was shameless play-acting, as Arthur well knew. He had never seen Merlin’s facilities, not because Merlin was absent- minded but because he had not wanted him to see them. Now suddenly, out of the blue, he had received from the magus an apparently casual invitation that he knew he could not refuse. Merlin sped along somewhere behind the sports hall heading who knew where, his white robes flowing behind him in the breeze, Virgil perching precariously on his shoulder. It seemed that, for some reason known only to himself, Merlin had finally decided that Arthur should see his secret place. But why now, after all these years? How they got there, Arthur had no idea, but suddenly a door opened and shut and ‘here we are,’ said Merlin, a touch of drama in his voice.
At first Arthur was disappointed. He had no clear idea what he was expecting but whatever it was, it was more than this. One dreary laboratory led to another, each crammed, it seemed, with the kind of experiments Arthur used to conduct when he was a lad – row upon row of bottles and test tubes filled with liquids all colours of the rainbow. True, there were inexplicable eruptions of smoke from cupboards and dark corners, and mysterious winking lights, and strange looking engines – one with such a high-pitched scream that it made poor Virgil squawk loudly and hide his head under his wing. But on the whole it was pretty disappointing. Where were the inventions of the once world-renowned inventor? Where was the magic of the magus?
As the tour progressed (with no commentary from Merlin), it became apparent to Arthur that the impression created by the first few laboratories was a false one, quite possibly deliberately so. He understood enough of science and technology to know that some serious research was going on. But what exactly? It was time for Merlin to come up with some explanations. ‘What are you up to?’ Merlin contrived to look innocent. ‘Don’t be coy, Merlin. You brought me here for a reason.’
Merlin grinned, happy that his protégé was intrigued. ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘in this laboratory we are conducting experiments into some rather advanced forms of communication. Another lab through that door there is dedicated to surveillance techniques. We are also playing around with a few weapons of different categories and uses.’
Playing around was good, thought Arthur, and so typical
of Merlin.
‘I should mention,’ added Merlin, ‘that there are a couple of laboratories you cannot see – for various reasons.’
Did the magus not trust him, Arthur was wondering.
Merlin read his thoughts. ‘It’s not that, Arthur. I trust you completely.’
‘Why can’t I see those laboratories, then?’
‘Take the lab devoted to nano-technology,’ said Merlin. ‘The air has to be permanently controlled. Human intrusion would contaminate it.’
Arthur was highly intrigued. ‘Why are you experimenting with nano-technology?’
‘Our goal is to insert nano-chips into some rather small devices,’ Merlin explained.
‘Small? How small?’
‘Two or three microns.’ A sharp look. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Not a lot,’ admitted Arthur.
‘A human hair is a hundred microns thick. Does that give you some idea?’ Arthur nodded mutely. What could he say? It was all too incredible for words. ‘These little fellows,’ continued Merlin, ‘can be injected into the blood, or sprayed into the air to be inhaled. Once they are in place, they could be activated from thousands of miles away.’
Arthur hardly dared ask. ‘To do what?’
‘To kill – amongst other things,’ said Merlin almost casually.
‘My God.’ Arthur was now seriously concerned. He knew that scientists in the R and D special unit in Beaconsfield where Merlin had once worked were continually developing advanced weapons and technology. But Merlin was no longer working for the British Government. Who was he working for now? Had the magus sold himself to the highest bidder? And if so, for what? Money? Knowing Merlin as he did, that seemed to Arthur highly unlikely.
Merlin tried to reassure Arthur. ‘It need not always be that absolute. Micro-organisms have many different uses. In medicine, for example, they have enormous potential to cure disease. In warfare their controlled use could greatly limit the number of deaths and life-threatening injuries. They could slow down or speed up reactions. They could contaminate or decontaminate. They could confuse. They could put a man to sleep. They could be used to send or receive messages, or simply as spies.’
Arthur’s head felt like cotton wool. It was hard to take all this in. ‘Spies?’
Merlin was enjoying himself. ‘Imagine a microscopic spy in your bloodstream sending messages via satellite on your vital functions and on your every movement – or your every thought, for that matter – though I must admit we are not quite there yet.’
‘Why are you doing all this?’ Arthur had to ask the question, though knowing Merlin he very much doubted he would get a straight answer.
‘For one thing, we know that some very dangerous terrorists may one day have access to nano-technology,’ said Merlin grimly. ‘It pays to stay ahead of the game.’
“We” know, Merlin had said. Who was “we”? Again there was an implicit acknowledgement that Merlin was not working alone. Obviously he had helpers. Not even the magus could do all this himself. So who was helping him?
Yet again Merlin read Arthur’s thoughts. ‘The answer to your question is yes, I do have helpers, men and women who will one day be actively involved . . . somewhere else. They are people who share my beliefs and are dedicated to the cause.’
Cause? What cause was Merlin talking about?
‘Before I answer that,’ said Merlin, as if Arthur had spoken, ‘I want to show you an important experiment, perhaps the most important of all. Come.’
Merlin led Arthur to a laboratory at the heart of the whole complex and was immediately challenged by the door monitor to give the codeword of the day. Much to Arthur’s astonishment, the codeword was Arthur. Obviously Merlin had planned the visit. Next Merlin was asked for his p
alm print. Finally he was told to look directly at the screen. ‘They don’t trust even you?’
‘The computer trusts no one, or not until it has identified them.’
‘What about me?’
‘It accepts you because you are with me. Without me you would not get through this door.’
The door slid smoothly open and they walked in. Arthur paused while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Gradually he became aware of a silver globe that seemed to float in the air at the far end of the room. As he watched, fascinated, the globe was suddenly illuminated so that it shone as brightly as a miniature moon. He could see now that it stood on a thin metal rod.
‘That globe is made of titanium-hardened steel,’ said Merlin, ‘about as strong a metal as it is possible to produce with the resources of modern technology. By the way, it is thirty centimetres in diameter. Now look over there.’
About ten feet away, at the other end of the table, was a black box no more than ten centimetres square. In the side of the box facing the silver globe was a small hole.
‘Let’s go into the next lab,’ said Merlin. ‘No, wait. I want you to feel the globe first.’
Arthur ran his fingers over it, then clasped it in both hands testing its weight; it was very heavy. As Merlin said, it was about thirty centimetres in diameter, and solid as solid could be.
‘Let’s go,’ said Merlin briskly.
The adjoining room was in darkness. The whole of one wall was a window.
‘Sit here, facing the window.’ Arthur did as he was told.
Merlin tapped the glass. ‘Anti-UV and shatter-proof.’
On the table in front of them was a panel with illuminated dials, switches and knobs. ‘Watch carefully,’ said Merlin as he flipped two switches, waited a few seconds, then, one by one, slowly turned three dials a half circle clockwise, and one a half circle anti-clockwise. The dials registered what Arthur assumed was some kind of power surge. He had no idea what to expect but felt the tension of anticipation. The palms of his hands were sweating, his heart pounded against his ribs.
