by Tom Holt
‘In part,’ the man said, nodding. ‘But also hardy, strong, unrelenting, constant, driving. No nation on Earth is more aware of its weather. It’s all we talk about. It dominates our lives. We even,’ he added with mild distaste, ‘make national heroes of our weather forecasters. You don’t catch them doing that in Italy.’
‘I see,’ Gordon said.
‘Take the Russians,’ the man went on. ‘So they’ve got snow and ice. Fair enough; they build an empire to get away from it. But it only lasts five minutes, and next thing you know they’re rioting in the streets and wearing designer jeans. You want to know why? Because the Soviet Union was too big. Climate too diverse. For every province of their empire where it rained and snowed all the time, you had another where it was all sunny and warm.’ (The man’s face distorted with contempt as he said the words.) ‘Result? They couldn’t stick at it. No moral fibre, you see. No rain in the blood. Take the Americans. Ninety in the shade all the year round in California, it’s no wonder they haven’t even conquered Mexico yet. Now then,’ the man went on, leaning forward a little and planting his elbows on the desk like electricity pylons. ‘Do you know why we lost the empire?’
‘No, but if you told me I’d be ever so grateful.’
‘Central heating,’ the man replied. ‘Double glazing. Loft insulation. Cavity walls. Not to mention umbrellas and wax-cotton jackets and covered stands at football grounds. We turned our backs on our climatic heritage, and the weather turned its back on us. We made ourselves snug and comfy, and forfeited our birthright. Or are you going to sit there and tell me it’s a coincidence that the last time England won the World Cup, Britain had just had two of the harshest winters in living memory?’
‘That’s very interesting,’ Gordon said. ‘I certainly hadn’t thought of it that way before.’
‘Don’t suppose you had,’ the man said. ‘That’s the tragedy of it, I suppose; we take our weather for granted, instead of getting down on our knees every morning and evening and thanking God for the highest mean annual rainfall in the Western hemisphere.’
‘Typical,’ Gordon said. ‘But that’s the public for you. Don’t know they’re born, most of them.’
The man frowned. ‘But of course,’ he said. ‘That’s the point. They mustn’t know. If they knew, it’d ruin everything.’
Not for the first time, Gordon felt as if the room had just turned upside down, so that the floor was now the ceiling and vice versa. ‘It would?’
‘Use your head, man, of course it would. You can’t expect people to do things if they know why they’re doing them. The government of the country would grind to a halt. You’d have anarchy inside a week. Think about it.’ The man steepled his fingers. ‘It’s like lab rats,’ he said. ‘They prod the right buffer with their noses, they get the cheese. Wrong buffer, electric shock. Perfectly valid way of doing an experiment. But if the rats knew—’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s all right, you can’t help being stupid. Look: the rats work out which buffer means cheese and which one gets them the volts. They make the system work for them, they think. If they get it right, they get fed; that’s the way the world works, the way they see it. In other words, lab rats think the maze exists for the benefit of the rats. They’re able to carry on believing it because they don’t know about the scientists. Exactly the same with human beings. The moment people stop believing that society and the way things work are there for their benefit, they’ll stop bashing their noses against the walls, and everything will grind to a halt. And that’s why,’ he went on, breathing deeply, ‘the man in the street can’t be allowed to understand about the weather. It’s that simple.’
‘Ah,’ Gordon said.
‘Which is why we need the dragon.’
‘Of course. Now that you’ve explained it all, it makes perfect sense.’
The man shrugged. ‘Anybody with the IQ of a small rock ought to be able to work it out for himself. Fortunately,’ he went on, opening a drawer, ‘ninety-nine point nine nine nine per cent of the British people don’t quite measure up to those criteria, so the secret’s still relatively safe.’ He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘Sign here.’
‘Of course,’ Gordon said, accepting the pen. ‘What is it, by the way? Just out of interest.’
‘The Official Secrets Act, what do you think? All right,’ he said, ‘now your friend. Yes, you. Wake up and sign the form.’
But Neville kept his arms resolutely folded, drawing a look of extreme annoyance from the man behind the desk. ‘Excuse me,’ Gordon said quickly, ‘but would it help if I just explained things to him? Won’t be a moment,’
‘Carry on,’ the man said. ‘Save me having to beat the shit out of him, I suppose. Not that I’d mind, only my tendinitis has been playing me up lately.’
Gordon hauled Neville to his feet and pushed him into the corner of the room.
‘Listen,’ he whispered. ‘Obviously this guy is barking mad, but he’s the one with the keys and the armed guards, so if you know what’s good for you—’
‘What do you mean, barking mad?’ Nevilie replied. ‘It all made perfect sense to me.’
Gordon closed his eyes for a moment. ‘It did, did it?’
‘Like he said, you’ve have to be pretty thick not to figure it out for yourself. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by and let the bastards steal my dragon.’
‘Of course not,’ Gordon hissed softly. ‘The very idea. But you’re going to find it much harder with two broken arms and a dislocated shoulder to get the dragon back. So sign the bloody form.’
Neville thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Play along, lull them into a false sense of security. Okay, I’ll sign.’
Gordon looked at the steel door and thought about the M16s that seemed to be standard issue for the large number of steel-helmeted, Kevlar-clad guards they’d met in the corridors. False sense of security, he thought. Yeah, right.
‘Give me that form,’ Neville was saying. ‘Can I read it first?’
‘What do you think this is, a library?’ The man stabbed at the form with a sausage-like finger. ‘Sign there, on the line. That’s it. Now give me back my pen.’
For some reason, Neville hesitated, so Gordon grabbed the pen from him and handed it back. As he did so, he noticed that it had the words ‘A Souvenir Of Chichester Cathedral’ embossed up one side in little gold letters.
‘Thank you,’ the man said, putting it away in his shirt pocket. ‘Right, I think that’s covered everything.’
‘Wonderful,’ Gordon said. ‘Can we go home now, please?’
The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You can’t go home,’ the man said. ‘For God’s sake, haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? This is a matter of national security .’ He thumped the desk with his fist, creating a breeze that blew the two Official Secrets forms off the desktop and onto the floor.
For some reason, Gordon wasn’t impressed. ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Are you trying to tell me we can’t go home?’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious.’
‘For how long?’
The man shrugged. ‘For ever. Well,’ he added, ‘in theory the restriction period comes under the hundred-and-fifty-year rule, after which I suppose you could apply to have your cases reviewed by the internal-security sub-committee. I wouldn’t hold your breath, though, if I were you.’
Gordon nonetheless took a deep breath, which helped him not to fall over. ‘And in the meantime?’ he said. ‘What happens to us?’
‘Not my department,’ the man replied. ‘Officially you’re now both under the jurisdiction of the resettlement and rehabilitation sub-committee, whose function is to provide you with new identities, jobs, a place to live, everything you need to start a new and rewarding life without endangering national security.’
‘I see,’ Gordon replied guardedly.
‘In
practice,’ the man went on, ‘you aren’t allowed to leave this building until the sub-committee’s ruled on your case, and the sub-committee isn’t due to meet again for another sixteen years. It’s not as bad as it sounds, actually. There’s four whole floors of disused offices up near the top of the building where we usually put people like you; last time I heard, they’d got quite a thriving little community up there. Apparently they do stuff like weaving wicker baskets and making sourdough wall-plaques. A couple of the guards’ wives take them on and sell them at craft fairs. Next year, I’m told, they’re planning on doing a production of The Mikado.’
‘Sixteen years.’
‘According to the schedule, yes; though, from what I gather, they may be running a bit behind. Oh, don’t look at me with those God-awful puppydog eyes. There’s starving refugees in Somalia who’d give their right arms for a nice office to sleep in and doughnuts on Fridays.’
‘Absolutely,’ Gordon said. ‘Well, we’d better be on our way, then.’
The man nodded approvingly. ‘Good attitude,’ he said. ‘Oh, and by the way - thanks for the dragon.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Gordon said, stamping hard on Neville’s foot before he could interrupt. ‘We both feel sure it couldn’t be in better hands.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I guess you aren’t really supposed to tell us this,’ he went on, ‘but could you maybe just give us a small hint about what you’re planning to do with it now you’ve got it?’
‘Well . . .’ The man pursed his lips, probably for the first time in his life. ‘You’re right, I’m not supposed to tell you, but since you know about the dragon already, and you’ve both signed the Act, plus the fact that neither of you’s going to be in a position to misuse this information any time soon—’ He frowned, then leaned forward across the desk and beckoned. ‘We’re going to make it rain.’
‘I see. And?’
The man shook his head. ‘No, you don’t understand. We’re going to make it rain a lot.’
‘And you think people will notice?’
‘Not at first,’ the man replied. ‘But of course, that’s part of the plan. If they realise something unusual’s happening, it’d spoil everything, for the reasons I mentioned just now. No; gently does it, that’s the way to go. Constant drizzling rain for nine months or so; then, when everybody’s fed up to the teeth and all they’re interested in is where they’re going for their holidays—’
‘Yes?’
‘We close the airports,’ the man said triumphantly. ‘Haven’t quite decided yet how we’re going to do it - terrorist scare, maybe, or we could say we’re concemed about latent design faults in current-service airliners, or maybe we’ll just provoke an air traffic controllers’ strike. Details aren’t important; what matters is that we stop everybody going on holiday and make them stay here all summer. In the rain.’
‘Brilliant,’ Gordon said, trying not to make it obvious that he was slowly backing away. ‘And what’ll that achieve, exactly?’
The man didn’t smile, but he chuckled. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘for a start it’ll piss the general public off good and proper. It’ll breed tension and dissatisfaction which, as you know, are the mother and father of overseas expansion. We won’t do anything overt in the first two years, of course, we’ll just let a good head of steam build up. Come the third year, if everything goes to plan, the British people will be so sick and tired of constant 365-days-a-year rain, they’ll jump at the chance of going anywhere. And that’s when we invade Australia.’
Gordon nodded slowly, four times. ‘Masterful,’ he said.
The man shook his head. ‘That’s not it,’ he replied, sounding disappointed at Gordon’s lack of perception. ‘That’s just the first step. We really only want Tasmania.’
‘Tasmania.’
‘That’ s right. It’s about the right size, you see. And of course the position’s perfect; 140 degrees north, 40 degrees east. Couldn’t have a better launch site if we were building one from scratch.’
‘Launch site.’
‘Well, yes. For when we colonise the Moon. Think about it: it’s wide open, unexploited, mineral-rich, and it never rains. It’ll be the Pilgrim Fathers all over again, except,’ he added grimly, ‘this time we’ll do it properly.’
Gordon took a deep breath. ‘Genius,’ he said.
‘I thought so,’ the man replied. ‘Of course, those fools in Parliament wouldn’t listen; said it’d cost too much money, and the Americans might object. The hell with that; once we’ve built the laser-cannon installations at New Godalming, nobody’s going to give a damn about what the Yanks think about anything.’
‘So you’re going to go ahead anyway?’
‘Of course. It’s one of the advantages of coming under the Home Office; we have a certain degree of discretion as to how we interpret the strict letter of the law. Like the police.’
For a moment or so, Gordon couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Well,’ he finally mumbled, ‘very best of luck with the project, hope it all comes together for you. We’ll be getting along now. Don’t want to miss out on the doughnuts.’
The man shook his head. ‘Doughnuts are on Fridays,’ he said. ‘I just told you that.’
Gordon nodded. ‘Even so,’ he said, ‘it never hurts to get in the queue early.’
‘Good point. All right, sergeant,’ the man said, nodding to the guard who’d appeared noiselessly in the doorway, ‘take them up to the thirty-sixth floor, they’re expected. So long, then,’ he added, giving Gordon a little wave. ‘Remember, ’tis a far, far better thing, and all that jazz.’
‘Oh, absolutely. And let me say it’s been a privilege.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s so nice,’ Gordon went on, ‘to meet a man with vision. Several visions, in fact.’
‘And the voices, too,’ the man replied. ‘They’re a great comfort to me, the voices. Thank you for your cooperation.’
A doormat-sized hand closed on Gordon’s shoulder. ‘My pleasure,’ he muttered.
‘We may even name a city after you,’ the man added. ‘On the Moon.’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘Smelt City.’
‘Or Smelt’s Landing,’ Gordon suggested. ‘Got a ring to it, that has’
The man made a note on his desk jotter. ‘Nice one,’ he said.
‘Or maybe even Smeltsylvania?’
‘Don’t push your luck,’ the man said. ‘On your way.’
Gordon waited until the guard had marched them along two corridors and into the lift. As the doors closed behind them, he decided to make his move.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
The guard pretended not to have heard him, but he was expecting that and didn’t let it bother him. ‘Excuse me,’ he repeated, ‘but did you happen to overhear what your boss was saying to us? About invading Australia and colonising the Moon?’
The guard’s nostrils twitched ever so slightly.
‘Has it possibly occurred to you,’ Gordon continued, ‘that your boss is a raving lunatic? More to the point, a dangerous raving lunatic who reckons it’d be all right to bugger up the weather, start a war, maybe send thousands of people off to die on a waterless rock out in space? Would that sort of thing bother you, do you think?’
This time the guard’s eyelids flickered. Progress, Gordon told himself. Definite progress.
‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘he probably won’t get away with it; not all of it, anyway. I don’t suppose he’ll really be able to do much damage to the climate, because all this dragon stuff is a load of bullshit. And as for invading Australia, I don’t reckon we’ll actually get as far as sending in the ground troops; I expect we’ll just drop a few thousand tons of bombs on Sydney and Melbourne and then call it a day, the way we usually do. Even so,’ Gordon went on, after a short pause for breath, ‘it seems a shame that all these dreadful things are going to happen just because of one guy behind a desk who happens to be as nutty as a Topic bar—’
This time the
guard actually said something. ‘Shuttup!’ he said.
‘But—’
‘I said shut up,’ the guard roared, grabbing Gordon by the collar and slamming him against the wall of the lift. ‘Colonel Wintergreen is a man of destiny, and you can’t say stuff like that. Understood?’ He turned and scowled at Neville. ‘And that goes for you too, sunshine. Got that?’
‘Never said a word,’ Neville replied smugly.
‘Good. Keep it that way.’ The guard let go of Gordon’s shirt and let him slide to the floor. ‘And to think,’ he added, ‘the Colonel’s gonna name a city after you. You make me sick, you do.’
It was probably just as well that the lift doors opened before the guard had a chance to take this theme any further, since he seemed to be quite upset with Gordon about something. The rest of their journey through the maze of corridors passed, however, without further bloodshed. Eventually they came to a locked fire door, with a bell push mounted on the wall beside it. The man who answered the door was wearing a slightly different uniform.
‘Sign here,’ the guard said. ‘And here, and here, and here, and here, and here, and here. Right, they’re all yours.’
The new guard watched his colleague march back down the corridor, while massaging his right wrist. ‘You’re the weathermen, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ Gordon replied. ‘That’s us.’
‘Follow me. Oh, and if you were thinking of trying to make a run for it - well, I wouldn’t. OK?’
‘It’s all right,’ Gordon said, dejectedly, ‘we won’t give you any trouble.’
The new guard shook his head. ‘No, you’re missing the point,’ he said. ‘If you try and escape, all that’ll happen is, you’ll get lost in these bloody awful corridors and I’ll have to spend the weekend finding you. If you’re sensible and come with me, we’ll have you out of here in about half an hour.’
Gordon couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. For one thing, the guard sounded—Normal. Almost normal. Considerably more normal than anybody he’d spoken to since he’d left the office. That, of course, wasn’t saying a great deal, but it was still enough to make his heart sing like a nightingale at a talent contest.
