The Night Watch

by Julian Dinsell

  The group had given up on interruptions. Like Murphy, they were hanging on every word.

  “Helios, our other Dome, is also entirely self-contained. It houses all our research and industrial plant. We use a lot of power and we produce it all ourselves by synthesising hydrogen; the raw materials for that are water and sunlight.” Sandra was enjoying herself. “And who can tell me what the main waste product of hydrogen power is?”

  “Water,” an eager school kid immediately shouted.

  Sandra wasn’t used to getting answers, and the intervention stole a moment of triumph. She quickly regained the initiative by passing on to another wonder-fact.

  “Helios has the world’s largest reserve of naturally produced hydrogen. We burn no fossil fuels here. If our planet is to survive, Helios must be the model of the future.”

  “Do we get to see inside Helios?” one of the teenagers asked.

  “No. Helios is where we work; it’s a very private place. To some of us it feels sacred. Later, we’ll show you some of the ideas that have emerged from Helios – innovations with the potential to change the world.”

  “Sounds like you got some mission, lady.” Murphy didn’t see who spoke, but the voice was male, elderly and from the Bronx.

  For Sandra, saving the planet was not something to be polluted by irony. “We believe in what we do. All of us who work here have made a critical life choice – to leave the contamination of cities and to enquire into the fundamental mechanisms of life. Like Mr November says, ‘Pure science in a pure environment’.”

  “Some crock of shit.” Murphy spoke under his breath.

  Sandra didn’t hear, or chose not to. Without providing an opportunity for any kind of response, she led the group on.

  “Is Mr November here now?” the Bronx voice asked.

  “We don’t discuss Mr November. It’s our work here that we concentrate on,” Sandra replied crisply.

  “Like I said, some mission.” Bronx was emerging as the person who liked to speak last in any conversation.

  Immersed in mutual exchanges of awe, the group filed on. They arrived at the portal of another gallery.

  “What kind of work do you do?” Bronx asked.

  Sandra avoided the personal dimension of the question. “We all work to the rhythm of the sun. Our working day is five hours either side of noon, when the sun is highest. Before we begin work and after we finish, we meditate or do Tai Chi to retune our minds and bodies for the next phase of the day.”

  “I prefer a six-pack,” Bronx said.

  Sandra didn’t know how to respond and stuck to the script. “The last person to leave Helios has the honour of turning on the Great Laser that projects from the centre of the dome. In other places they haul down the flag at sunset. Here we raise ours as a light to the world. The Helios Laser can be seen from the Moon.” She waited for a moment to let the idea sink in. Then, ever eager to impart information, she was off again. “On each level of Helios, those working there can choose their own scents, sounds and colours to accompany their day.” Sandra checked the computer terminal by the doorway. “Rose, sandalwood and frankincense are today’s choices of fragrance and the European Blackbird and our own Stellar Jay are the choices for sound. Mellow Peach, Venetian Red and Cool Slate are today’s colours. These are reflected from the inner surface of Helios.”

  Sandra moved to the head of the group and pressed a switch. An entire wall rolled away to reveal a tour train with ranks of empty seats.

  “Please step on board for the highlight of our tour.”

  The group shuffled forward. Carol sat down next to Murphy.

  Sandra announced their departure. “A journey through the miracles of today to those of tomorrow.” She paused for a moment before providing the punch line. “A journey to the Outer Edge.”

  As she pronounced the November mantra, the sound system produced an electronic flourish and the train moved off into a tunnel filled with an extravaganza of visual effects. They glided smoothly through holographs of 18th-century engravings.

  A voice with an echoing resonance spoke. “The English poet William Blake wrote of ‘A world in a grain of sand and eternity in an hour’. Our mission is to unite the timeless wisdom and ancient secrets of the earth with the wonders which our newly won knowledge of the building blocks of life can bring.”

  “I guess this is the tunnel of self-love,” Carol said.

  “I prefer the kind of bullshit you can smell,” Murphy replied.

  The train continued its journey and the voice reverently highlighted the 3D images.

  “Already we have begun to heal our world. We are building new root structures that enable the rainforest to flourish again in places where greed has stripped the earth naked. We are engineering breeds of cattle that can thrive in arid areas of the world, bringing survivability to peoples who would otherwise face extinction.” The distant voice continued in ad-speak. “By travelling into the inner world of the human cell we shall create limbs and organs that can grow to replace those damaged by disease, destroyed by accident or in the violence of war.”

  Suddenly, they were out into the light, gliding down a suburban street. Animatronic figures were performing Saturday chores; cutting grass, cleaning windows, washing cars. This time it was Sandra who spoke.

  “The things we do here at Dynamos are not confined to faraway issues; they touch every home in America.” The train trundled on. “Glass so smooth that dirt doesn’t stick. Car paints that self-heal scratches and grass that never needs cutting.”

  A chatter of identification rose from the group. Then small-town America was left behind and the train slid into a darkened tunnel. Everyone was silenced by images of famine, destruction and terrorism.

  The voice returned. “Now, more than ever before, we have the ability to empower the weak. To right wrongs, to eliminate poverty, to remove the need for violence and the motivation for terrorism.”

  The train approached a point where Helios and Dynamos were closest – less than a hundred yards separated them.

  “For a brief moment we’re going to show you the engine of all these possibilities. The secrets of Helios are veiled by an electrical field that turns the surface of the dome opaque. On the panels closest to us, for twenty seconds, this will be reversed and we shall have a glimpse of what makes all of this possible.”

  The train halted and the nearby panels of Helios became transparent.

  Murphy started counting; there were twelve blocks of eight mainframe computers and a terraced area of workstations beyond. Between them was a small forest of tall plants. He was counting the number of people when the panels once more became opaque. There was a sense of disappointment among the tour group. The train moved on and as if sensing their mood, the voice returned.

  “The wonder is that you see no wonders. Just as you see a person but not their mind, so you see the instruments of change but not the results. We hope that this tour will encourage you to discover such things in the world around you.”

  The train passed through the portal of another tunnel, into a maze of holographs that showed faces from six continents.

  “The writer and seer H. G. Wells wrote that ‘History is a race between education and catastrophe’. Our aim is to prevent that catastrophe. To do that we must learn from the failed systems of the past, for ‘Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it’.”

  “Who did they steal that from?” Carol asked.

  “Steal what?” Murphy didn’t get the point.

  “That last quote: ‘Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it’. Who did they steal it from?”

  “Voltaire or Marx, I don’t remember,” Murphy said impatiently.

  “There’s a difference,” Carol insisted.

  “Is there? French Revolution or Russian Revolution, they were both bloody disasters. Take your pick,” Murphy said.

  The voice returned. “We are voyaging through a landscape of failed ideas. They promised eve
rything and delivered nothing but destruction.”

  The train moved into a cyclone of 3D images and surround sound: Nazi rallies, Pavlovian experiments in animal behaviour, Soviet May Day parades, Hippies in Sixties California, Napalm in Vietnam, tanks rolling across Wenceslas Square in Prague and in Tiananmen Square, Beijing. Tragedy turned to fantasy with Huxley’s Brave New World and Orwell’s 1984.

  “I suppose they’re trying to tell us that humans are crap at being human,” Carol said.

  Murphy didn’t hear. He was shocked into silence by what he saw next. Charlie Chaplin, a boxing match and laughing gas.

  As they left the train, he turned to Carol.

  “How about we cut the tour, get out of this freak show and see the sun go down in the real world?”

  *

  Murphy was driving too fast. The heavy 4x4 threw up a plume of dust as they rattled and crashed across the virgin desert in the hills above the Domes. The terrain became impassable at the base of a sharp peak. Like a giant sundial, it cast a long shadow across the landscape.

  Carol was captivated by the endless horizon of mountains, canyons and plateaus, where the red earth was turned scarlet by the setting sun. She stepped down from the vehicle and stared into the distance.

  “I love it out here. It feels as if you can see forever,” she said.

  Murphy stood alongside her and took in the same stark view. “If that’s what forever looks like, I’ll go right back to here and now.”

  “Why are men so cynical? Back there on the tour, everything you saw you trashed. And you’re doing the same thing out here.” She was more interested than angry.

  “I can’t answer for the male half of the human race, just for me.”

  “Okay, just for you then.”

  “Life’s not like that, the human race isn’t like that, he’s not like that.”

  “Who?”

  “The great and good Calvin November.”

  “Why would he give away all that money?”

  “Good question, don’t stop asking it.” Murphy gestured towards the peak. “I’m going to the top.”

  “Do you always have to do that, go to the top?”

  “Only when I want to see what’s on the other side,” Murphy said as he strode away.

  The shadows were visibly lengthening and he calculated that there were no more than twenty minutes of daylight left.

  “Are you coming?”

  “No, I’ll stay here. I’ve got my book. I might find some snakes; it would make the trip worthwhile.”

  Murphy did not rise to the bait. “Take care.”

  “It’s okay, I know about snakes.”

  The thin high desert atmosphere left Murphy breathless as he crested the peak. Repeated gullies had lain across the route to the summit and the climb had taken a lot longer than he had estimated. Gasping for air, he did not at first hear the distant heavy diesel motors. Then he saw them, two large earthmovers. In the fading light it took him time to realise what was happening. They were shovelling a large number of animal carcasses into a long, deep trench. He started to move forward when he heard the helicopter.

  In the gathering darkness a spotlight traversed the dry riverbed where the 4x4 was parked. He scrambled down the slope. Three times he lost his footing and the sharp volcanic rock drew blood in several places.

  It was completely dark by the time he negotiated both sides of the final gully that lay across his line of descent. Scrambling up the rising ground, he heard the helicopter engine stop and when the 4x4 came into view, the aircraft was parked alongside.

  “Where the hell have you been?” A tall figure in Celastacom uniform shone a flashlight into his eyes.

  “I’ve been to the Outer Edge,” Murphy said contemptuously.

  “You should have been right here.”

  “What are you, my social secretary?”

  “Don’t be a wise ass, mister. Your girlfriend is dead.”

  Murphy snatched the flashlight from the guard and ran forward to find Carol on the ground a short distance beyond the 4x4. The snake recognition book was alongside her. Her eyes were swollen and her face contorted. Murphy knelt on the earth and swung the beam slowly across the body. Her right ankle was swollen. He looked more closely; the inflammation spread from a small circular purple incision.

  “Must have been a snake. With a Sidewinder you’ve got less than two minutes.” The uniformed figure spoke over Murphy’s shoulder as he looked down on Carol’s body.

  Responsibility for having involved an innocent outsider hit Murphy hard.

  “You’re right, I should have been here.”

  The second member of the helicopter crew appeared, carrying a stretcher.

  “We’ll have to call this in, and we’ll need a picture of you,” he said.

  “What for?” Murphy asked as the first crewman appeared with a digital camera.

  “Video recognition.”

  There was a flash and Murphy wondered whether he should make a grab for the camera, but decided against it. The crew strapped Carol’s body onto the stretcher and loaded it into the helicopter. Murphy sat on a rock, knowing that he had overlooked something obvious but could not think what it was. From the flight deck there was the sound of an electronic printer.

  “Godamn, look how this matches up,” the pilot said.

  Murphy edged closer. The two crew were looking at a printout. Murphy saw the picture of himself taken earlier in the day, at the start of the tour. To his astonishment he saw that it was set alongside pictures of him outside Goldman’s apartment in New York, and at the airport in Bermuda. The radio crackled.

  “Affirmative,” the pilot said.

  Both crewmen turned and stared at Murphy. “I have instructions to take you to Helios, by force if necessary,” the co-pilot added, drawing a 9mm Browning from beneath his seat.

  At that instant Murphy knew what he had missed. Two fangs, his whirring brain said, snakes have two fangs, and snakebites make two incisions.

  Chapter 21 - A Journey East

  Darcy was ill. Somewhere he had picked up the flu, and had endured a high temperature and the boiling resentment of his neighbours during the two crowded flights that had carried him from Bermuda, in the mid-Atlantic, to Washington and onwards to London. The woman banker in the aisle seat called a stewardess and insisted on being moved. But there were no other seats and the pair continued the flight in strained silence. In the transit lounge of Terminal 2 at Heathrow, Darcy was alternately sweating and shivering. Lloyd-Emlyn arrived exactly on schedule. He had an airport security pass and was a frequent visitor to transit lounges, delivering and collecting all manner of items that might be embarrassing at customs or during security searches at check-in. He sat one place away from Darcy and dumped a large padded anorak, a shoulder bag and a briefcase beside Darcy’s raincoat that lay on the seat between them. Darcy appreciated the anorak; the weather forecast for Central Europe was bleak. He knew what the bag would contain: eight thousand dollars in cash, an amount large enough to be seriously useful but not so large as to attract undue attention; maps; a pair of winter shoes; a half-bottle of Scotch; and an automatic pistol with clip-on shapes to create an innocent X-ray image. The pistol would be housed in a working transistor radio. Though a disguise for the weapon, it had a further use. In an emergency, it could receive and transmit over short distances. The field operative’s Swiss army knife, it was often called. There would be no local backup.

  There was no time to arrange anything elaborate and in the complex uncertainty of the times, nobody could be sure who among old contacts might be compromised.

  Darcy feigned a catnap. Lloyd-Emlyn opened the Financial Times and studied the unit trust pages. He took out a pocket calculator, made some notes, checked his watch and folded the paper. Then he looked at the bank of television monitors showing flights ready for boarding. It was an old routine; he got up and moved closer, as if he was short-sighted.

  He went back to the seat, picked up Darcy’s raincoat
as if it were his own and then shambled off towards one of the departure gates. He heard Darcy sneeze but did not look round.

  “All aboard the Carpetbaggers Special,” said a voice with a Manchester accent among the crowd of technical representatives, consultants and financial advisors who filed down the glass flightway for the LOT flight to Warsaw.

  There were only two women and no children on board. Darcy slept after take-off, but was wakened by the clatter of half a dozen laptop computers. He kept his eyes closed and tried to pretend that they weren’t there. Two and a half hours later, he was coughing and sweating his way through customs and immigration. Nobody seemed suspicious of him and he found himself regretting the absence of the kind of challenge such moments presented in the old days.

  The hotel, he knew from a dozen years before. The building was its old dreary self but a lot had changed. Government bureaucrats from the provinces and travelling party officials from Moscow were long gone. The place was now largely filled with German and Japanese businessmen. Darcy offered a handful of Zlotys to the porter who had sullenly carried his bags from the lobby and dumped them on the threadbare carpet of the room. Saying nothing, he looked slowly down at the notes in exaggerated disbelief, as if he had been presented with a turd. Impatiently Darcy pulled a five-dollar bill from the roll in his jacket pocket. The man’s eyes lit up like those of a child offered a bar of chocolate.

  “Anything else I can get you, sir?” he added with a knowing gesture. “Anything at all?”

  “Yes, peace and quiet,” Darcy said irritably.

  The porter bowed elaborately and left. Darcy sank into the sagging bed and closed his eyes. His temperature was still up and jet lag meant that by body time it was around three a.m.