by John Gardner
‘Bully for you.’ Mostyn’s face assumed the attitude of one whose nose has been offended. ‘I can send a signal at midnight tonight.’
‘Well, you’re not sending it from here. If they’ve got any little antennae around you might just get caught, and we wouldn’t want you getting picked up here would we?’
‘It’s bloody cold out there.’
‘It’ll be bloody cold in the grave, cocker.’
It took a considerable time to get Mostyn to quit his room, and finally when Boysie did manage to help him out of the window it was with a certain amount of concern.
Mostyn had a happy knack of making one feel guilty even when you were in the right.
‘Don’t blame me if I get picked up by those dogs before I send for assistance,’ Mostyn said swinging one leg over the sill into the freezing night air.
‘Well that’ll be two of us up the creek,’ hissed Boysie.
Once Mostyn had gone, Boysie began to get the jitters. Mostyn could be a perverse blighter. Perhaps he would not even call in the NATO troops. Perhaps this was just the kind of situation in which he might revel. Watching Boysie being blasted into space never to return.
The possibility etched its way through Boysie’s dreams during the shallow sleep of night.
Mostyn was not as perverse as Boysie imagined. After slinking away from the Headquarters Building, skulking upwind from the dogs, Mostyn made his way to a point which gave him a good view of the launch site. The whole area was floodlit, and, from his position, in a slight rise about three hundred yards from Launch Control, he could see the technicians still at work on the gantry.
Mostyn wrapped himself in the sleeping bag, which had been provided at Spitzbergen, and waited patiently for midnight, the witching hour when he could make contact.
Midnight came and Mostyn began to transmit. Ten minutes later he settled down in an attempt to sleep, happy that at one o’clock on the following day three hundred airborne troops would fall from the skies. Then there would be a reckoning for people like Gravestone, Schneider, Humperdinck and Solomon.
Mostyn dozed.
*
Boysie finally fell into a deep sleep, dreamless and untroubled. The sleep set in around four in the morning, and when his arm was roughly shaken he had the feeling of having shut his eyes for a moment.
‘For heaven’s sake I’ve just got to sleep.’ He grumbled at the hand that bounced him back and forward on the pillow.
‘Come on, Oakes. Time to go,’ said Solomon abrasively. ‘What? What time?’ Boysie squinted at his wrist watch as memory began to slide back into his mind.
‘It’s only nine-thirty,’ he said, a twinge of fear contracting his stomach. ‘Don’t get on board until noon.’
‘Plans are changed, comrade.’ Solomon was grinning. ‘The count down got ahead of itself. A couple of hours ahead. Sonya is getting ready now. I’ve got your suit here.’
Boysie sat bolt upright, the small hairs on the back of his neck tingling as the full implications of the situation caught hold. The count down advanced by two hours.
That would mean lift off around noon. A good hour before Mostyn had ordered the strike.
‘Bloody hell,’ Boysie murmured. Nausea filtering physically into his throat. ‘Great steaming hell.’
‘Out of it,’ commanded Solomon.
Boysie looked up at him. ‘It’s all right for you …’ he started.
Far away above the launch site Mostyn peered down at the suddenly renewed activity which seemed to surround the cold finger of the launch vehicle.
CHAPTER TEN
SKY-CHILD
As though the sky could raise
And pluck the child from earth …
REPORT ON THE SOLAR SYSTEM : Joseph Jennings
Boysie looked in wonder, at the silver pressure suit and white visored helmet which Solomon had placed on the bed.
‘I said, out of it,’ repeated Solomon.
Boysie began to hedge for time. He propped himself on one elbow and peered from the bed on to the floor immediately below. Standing by the bed were a pair of weighted silver boots, essential for the well-dressed astronaut. Trouble in trumps this meant. Trouble neoned large. Trouble wall to wall.
‘Do I have to pull you out?’ Solomon advanced.
‘Pull? No. No, not at all. You think I’m …’
‘Chicken? Yes,’ replied Solomon.
Boysie pretended that he had not heard. Like an ostrich he decided that the problem would go away if he did not acknowledge it. He slid his legs over the side of the bed. The floor beneath felt wonderfully stable in comparison to the space capsule which waited to receive him. Like a motorist heading for an inescapable collision he still told himself that this could not be happening to him.
‘I’ve got time to shave?’ he asked.
‘You’ve time to shave and read this.’ Solomon held out a slim folder.
Boysie stretched out his hand. Inside the folder was one sheet of foolscap, heavily typed.
The dossier on Sonya’s sexual responses.
‘Christ,’ said Boysie. ‘What’s this? Colour response: light-blue.’
Solomon indicated the chair. It was festooned with a nylon vest and male briefs both in fetching duck egg blue. Boysie continued to read. ‘Hey,’ he commented, ‘High response to the scent of leather.’
Solomon held up a small bottle.
‘After shave. Smells like leather. Use it,’ he said. Then as though suddenly remembering, he took out a tiny pillbox and handed it to Boysie.
‘What’s this?’ Boysie unscrewed the cap. Two small tablets nestled on cotton wool.
‘Just take them,’ said Solomon.
‘For what?’
‘For you. Make you horny.’
‘Don’t bloody need it.’ Boysie was reading on. The dossier laid bare some surprising revelations. Sonya could, for instance, be taken to a high degree of sexual awareness by rubbing the inside of her right elbow or stroking the inside of her left forearm.
‘You learn something new every day, don’t you?’ Boysie grinned. He was really taking his time.
‘Five minutes to shave. That’s all I give you.’ Solomon sounded like a warder in the condemned cell. Which, under the circumstances, he might well be.
Boysie nervously washed, shaved, applied the leathery aftershave and fiddled about generally milking the business dry. But Solomon was breathing down his neck.
‘Get into those poufy drawers and the space clobber. And hurry.’
Boysie pulled on the nylon briefs, and slipped into the silver coverall, hung about with leads and jacks which would eventually provide him with heat and oxygen during the first part of the trip. He drew up the zipper, sat down on the bed and reached for the left boot. Misjudging the weight, the boot fell from his shaking fingers.
‘What the hell you put in this? Grapeshot?’ Boysie looked hurt and tried again. This time, success.
When both the boots were on, Solomon began chivvying again.
‘Pick up the helmet and let’s get this show on the road.’
Boysie stood up. He had taken just about enough from the sinister Solomon. Confirmed coward as he was, Boysie still reacted to certain situations with blind, pig-headed violence, as a small boy is goaded into lashing out furiously and irrationally at a playground enemy.
‘Look,’ started Boysie. ‘What gives with you, Solomon? You treat me like somebody turned over a stone and found me.’
‘Didn’t they?’ A twisted sneer on his face.
Boysie stepped forward, cross, angry, and scared stiff. A combination of emotions which could lead either to complete violence or a nervous gibbering breakdown. Solomon’s hand darted towards his pocket. An ugly Luger automatic appeared in his hand, the muzzle only inches from Boysie’s tense stomach.
‘Just hold it there, Oakes. Let’s keep the party clean, hu?’
The Luger did it. In the flash of truth which came immediately before action, Boysie heard the voices of countless
instructors. A man with a gun feels that he is in command. He has the advantage and time is working for him. He is concentrating on his weapon, banking on it to do the work for him. The best time to make a move is while your assailant is talking. He will still take action, react. But he will have to switch his thoughts from what he is saying to what he must do about your move. This takes time. A fraction of a second maybe. But in that tiny segment of time you have a minute advantage.
‘Move quickly, Oakes.’ Solomon was still talking.
Boysie heard the instructions on the psychology of weaponless defence rip through his mind, faster than light.
Automatically, he moved. A quick step to the left, at the same time pivoting to the right, stepping outside Solomon’s gun hand and bringing his left hand down hard on the man’s right wrist, thumb over the back, fingers round Solomon’s wrist.
Boysie continued to pivot, swinging on the right foot. Both hands were now on Solomon’s gun hand, pulling at his arm, and causing him to stumble.
Stepping back with his left foot, Boysie again pulled hard on the gun hand, twisting it down, then up so that all balance went.
Solomon let out a cry as the Luger was wrenched from his grasp. Boysie now only saw a mist of red anger. Solomon falling forward on his knees. The feel of cold metal in Boysie’s hand. Boysie raised the gun and felt the impact, through his fingers and wrist, as he brought the weapon down with force on the back of his assailant’s neck.
Solomon grunted but did not go down completely. Boysie raised the gun again, but Solomon had already taken action, his hands and arms wrapping around Boysie’s legs.
Now Boysie was off balance, falling backwards. In the split second, he twisted to the right, hand raised. A second thud as the gun barrel made contact with the side of Solomon’s head. Again a grunt and this time Solomon fell. Boysie, balance recovered, lifted the gun again, and again. There was blood on the side of Solomon’s face. A third time, Boysie lashed out. Solomon rolled over and stayed very still. Boysie swallowed and struggled for breath.
Panic now seized him. Out. He had to get out. Out, out and away. He looked down at the smitten Solomon.
Then at the gun. A moment of indecision finally crystallizing into the same old message. Get out. Get out now.
Boysie stowed the pistol into his zip pocket on the left thigh of the pressurized suit, plucked up his helmet and slipped quietly from the room. His plans were vague and undecided and he began to make his way up the passage with a certain unnatural stealth. Coming to the turning which led on to the main corridor, and so to the foyer, Boysie decided to bluff his way out.
Taking a lungful of air he began to walk purposefully to the main entrance foyer. A few yards from the doors he could see that one of the ubiquitous Landrovers was waiting outside, its driver stamping up and down in the cold.
Boysie passed through the doors and approached the Landrover.
‘Solomon says we’ve got to carry on,’ he lied, blank faced, to the driver.
‘Wish he’d make up his mind.’ The driver looked ill tempered. ‘That’s three times the orders’ve been changed today.’ He spoke with a slight accent which could have been French.
‘And where do you come from?’ Boysie asked, trying to sound interested as he took his seat in the vehicle. ‘Avignon,’ answered the terse driver.
‘Dancing bridge country, eh?’
The driver spat, put the Landrover into gear and set off with a screeching of tyres. Boysie waited until they were clear of the headquarters complex, on to the dirt road. His move had to be made when out of sight from both the HQ Building and the Launch site. Slowly his hand moved towards the thigh pocket. He shifted in his seat as the hand quickly unzipped the pocket.
‘Let’s pull up here, shall we?’ Boysie said pleasantly, pushing the gun into the driver’s ribs. The man looked down, verified that it was a real firearm which threatened his kidneys, and braked, hurriedly, to a standstill. ‘What’s the idea?’
‘The idea, old Avignon mate, is to stop me taking a leap into space with a bleeding great rocket up my arse.’ The driver spat again.
‘I think we’ll take a little walk, eh? Over there where we can lie up until it’s all too late.’
The driver shrugged and climbed down, Boysie never letting the pistol stray from his back. Moving forward, they faced each other in front of the bonnet.
‘Come on then. Walk,’ instructed Boysie.
The driver smirked and looked past Boysie’s left shoulder. ‘It’s too old a trick, chum. Let’s get moving.’
‘It is also an old mistake.’ The voice came from behind and at the same moment a hard metallic piece of equipment tickled Boysie’s spine.
‘Drop the gun,’ said the voice. Boysie dropped the Luger.
‘Now you can turn round.’
Boysie turned. One of the parka-clad gents with the white identity circles faced him. The driver moved in front, now carrying Boysie’s discarded Luger.
‘Okay,’ said Boysie. ‘As they say in the best gangster movies, it’s a fair cop.’
‘Into the truck,’ said the guard.
‘Get in,’ repeated the driver.
Boysie complied, the guard climbing up behind him.
‘All roadways are under constant surveillance,’ said the guard as they took off up the track. ‘Silly of you to try anything.’
Boysie remained silent. He could but agree.
The driver, with Solomon’s gun, held Boysie in his seat when they arrived at the complex. The guard disappeared, returning with the Silversmith.
Sir Bruce looked livid.
‘What the hell’re you playing at?’ He reached up and was about to yank Boysie from his seat when the Sorcerer appeared behind him.
‘Silversmith. No, you might ruin a good pressure suit.’
‘Christ,’ murmured Boysie. It’s the pressure suit they’re worrying about, not me.’
‘Why have you done this?’ asked the Sorcerer.
‘To hell with him,’ the Silversmith ranted. ‘After all the work, you have to land us with an idiot like this.’
The Sorcerer remained calm. ‘I am sure he’s not an idiot. Why did you do it, Apprentice? Why?’
Boysie did a quick appreciation of the situation. At the moment he was alive. By the looks of him, the foul Sir Bruce Gravestone would not rest until the situation was reversed. That would make an untidy bullet through the windpipe, or worse. The butterflies began to do press-ups and forward rolls inside his guts. On the other hand, thought Boysie, if one could manage to spin life out, then there was always the slender chance that he could do the space capsule bit and live.
‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted out, ‘just panic. Plain ordinary panic.’
‘Yellow livered bastard,’ spluttered the Silversmith.
‘I’m all right now,’ said Boysie, his complexion belying the words.
‘You think I’m going to trust you in that Capsule after this?’ The Silversmith looked at him with contempt.
‘I can’t see that you can do anything else.’ Boysie prepared to play his trump card. ‘Your experts chose me. They trust me. It was only one second of panic.’ Boysie took a deep breath before adding, ‘Only panic, Sir Bruce.’
The Silversmith went a mild grey colour. ‘What did you call me?’
‘Sir Bruce Gravestone. Like this gentleman is called von Humperdinck and your Seducer is, a Professor Schneider.’
‘And how did you know that?’
‘My job concerns astronautics and its allied sciences, Sir Bruce,’ Boysie lied happily. ‘It is my business to know these things.’
The Silversmith spluttered. Even the Sorcerer looked concerned. The pause was magnificently pregnant.
‘Get him into the rocket. And I hope he burns.’ The Silversmith turned on his heel.
‘You don’t mean that Sir … Silversmith,’ shouted the Sorcerer. ‘It must be a success.’
Gravestone stopped and turned. ‘You’re quite right.’ He looked at Boys
ie. ‘This has got to be a success. There’s far too much at stake. Financially I mean. I have always been a gambler. Now I’m putting a fortune on you.’ He paused again before turning and stumping his way towards the Launch Control Building.
‘Come.’ The Sorcerer took Boysie’s arm. ‘Your young woman is waiting. Make it good, eh? Make it good and there will be great rewards.’
Not even the thought of great rewards could ward off hypertension which was building up inside Boysie.
Sonya waited for them in the lift cage below the gantry. The Sorcerer patted his shoulder. Sonya gave him a timid smile. Boysie comforted himself with the thought that she must be as frightened as him. They entered the cage. The door slid forward, the clang of a tomb closing, and they began the journey upwards.
‘Only an hour to launch,’ said the Sorcerer, excitedly.
Boysie’s stomach refused to join his body on the upward journey, it stayed resolutely on the ground. Grief, he thought, if it does that for an elevator ride what the hell’s it going to do when they push me up to the heavens?
*
Mostyn was getting cramp in his right forearm. He rubbed it hard with his left hand, then returned to his viewing position. It was all disconcerting. Things were beginning to happen down there. It was all taking place too soon. The strike force was over an hour away, yet Boysie and the girl were already being taken up to the capsule. Mostyn bit his lip in a worried gesture and peered through the binoculars.
He did not even hear the movement behind him. The first he knew of the two guards was the prickle among the short hairs behind his neck, followed by the tingle of metal on skin.
‘What have we here?’ said one of the guards. He had a mild Cockney accent.
‘A spy?’ The other guard sounded quite cultured. A slight accent. A well-taught Swede, thought Mostyn.
‘On your feet.’ The first guard prodded with his rifle. Slowly, Mostyn stood up.
‘What are you doing here?’ The first guard again.
‘Bird watching,’ replied Mostyn through his teeth.
