by James White
Chapter Ten
Herbie Patterson died late the following evening. Always a very thorough and tidy man, he managed to kill himself thoroughly but not with tidiness.
In the admin building there was a central well with stairs running up to all five floors and lift housing covered with a protective grill occupying most of the well space. Apparently Herbie had climbed all five flights of stairs--a feat which would almost certainly have killed him anyway--and thrown himself over the chest-high hand-rail at the top. Because of the narrowness of unobstructed space in the well he had hit the housing grill-work and handrails several times on the way down, leaving a shoe on the stairs leading up from the third floor and finally striking, partly demolishing and impaling himself on the wreckage of an empty crate on the ground floor.
Donovan found him, phoned Carson and Dr Kennedy, then spent the time until their arrival keeping the few others who were working late that night from seeing too much of the body.
According to the senior patrol officer Mr Patterson had passed him without speaking--which was very unusual--less than ten minutes before his fall. Donovan said that he did not look well. Carson had spoken to Herbie earlier that afternoon when he asked him to check on the capsule drawing reference numbers. Then he had been his usual, bitterly complaining self. Dr Kennedy suggested that he might have learned suddenly of his heart condition and had decided to speed things up. Herbie never had much patience with inefficiency, in people, machinery or malfunctioning organs...
The incident put a three-day hold on Carson’s project enquiries while he tried vainly to get the picture of Herbie’s shattered and bloody body out of his dreams. As well, Mrs Patterson took her husband’s death very hard even though she had been expecting him to go at any time, and their oldest child was only thirteen. But by the time the funeral arrangements were made and he had helped the widow straighten out her late husband’s affairs, the project with all of its unresolved problems began to fill his mind once again.
But there were still no answers to the really important questions.
Sometimes he sat in his office and thought longingly of what he would do if only he could question these people, really question them with someone like George Russell looming over them as an unsettling influence while Carson asked leading questions. But he could not ask questions. Officially the subject he wished to discuss did not exist, and their security was really tight.
From the evidence he had been able to gather it now seemed clear that the number of people aware of the project, as opposed to the thousands who were contributing to it in ignorance, was fairly small. Carson estimated their number at between twenty and thirty, placed strategically to deal with awkward questions regarding materials requisitions, design queries, pre-production planning, tooling, inspection and the ultimate disposal of the so-called scrapped sub-assemblies and assemblies. It had taken some really inspired thinking to devise and mount the operation in such a way that the necessary hardware was produced, developed and modified without anyone knowing what was really going on.
Dreamy Daniels was subject to long bouts of inspired thinking, otherwise he would not have been the design chief, but he was not the type to be bothered with finicky details like burning classified documentation, and neither were the other design people. The only other possibilities were that the project either carried its own security or had none at all. It was possible, but not at all likely, that Daniels had talked the authorities into supporting a major project without official security involvement by arguing that guards and highly classified paperwork drew attention to the thing they were trying to hide. But this did not explain the highly professional way in which they covered their traces. Someone who really knew his stuff was watching over them.
For some reason the thought of Herbie’s shoe lying on the stairs below the third floor came into his mind--a soft, highly polished black shoe with vertical scratches at the heel. The other shoe on Herbie’s foot had been just like it, the scratching undoubtedly caused by his long tumble past the stair guard-rails and elevator housing. It was natural to assume that one shoe had been knocked off during the fall and not lost while his unconscious body was being dragged up to the fifth floor from his ground-floor office near the lift. Nor was it reasonable to think that the marks of the hypothetical blow which had knocked him unconscious had been concealed by the awful mess he had made of himself on the way down ...
Angrily Carson gave himself a hard, mental shake. His impatience and frustration was making him dramatise things, making him try to bend every incident into evidence for the existence of the project.
Nevertheless, if Hart-Ewing’s had two security officers he would have to be even more careful in his enquiries. At the same time, secrets attracted spies like flies and the spy who penetrated this particular project would have to be very good indeed.
It would be a nice feather in his cap if it was Carson and not the shadow security officer who turned up a spy. But it was also worth bearing in mind the fact that if a project was sufficiently important anyone, even another security man insisting that he only wanted to help, taking an unauthorised interest in it would be immediately suspect. The top intelligence departments thought in devious, suspicious and sometimes ruthless ways, and Carson had no wish to be taken into a small, soundproofed room somewhere and politely but firmly shot. The result was that he would either have to forget the whole thing or act more and more like the kind of spy he was hoping to uncover--if this very special spy existed in the first place!
John Pebbles came immediately to mind. He had arrived on the scene three years ago when, presumably, the project was getting under way and its future course was becoming clear. He had been brought into Hart-Ewing’s by one of the project personnel, Tillotson, and he had aided it by assisting--perhaps unknowingly--with the destruction of classified paperwork. Recently he had moved up in the world and was working--still possibly without being aware of it--on the project in a more important capacity. His outside activities were intriguing if not downright suspicious--people did not as a rule become pilots who, three years earlier, had not enough sense to come in out of the rain.
It was all very well to trot out the old adage about the best way to be inconspicuous was to be obvious. For a spy Pebbles was a shade too obvious. But if he was not a spy, could he be the shadow security officer? The facts could point equally strongly in that direction, and playing the character of an idiot gradually making good was an excellent cover.
The trouble was that Carson did not think Pebbles was playing any kind of part. Perhaps he was meant to think that, because his emotions had been deliberately involved as part of the cover. But if Pebbles was acting then Carson wanted to opt out of the human race!
John Pebbles was being used, then. It had probably started with Tillotson feeling sorry for him and, knowing his fondness for aeroplanes, suggesting that he could sweep floors in the factory as easily as at the club. Now he was a project tool, a close examination of which should reveal some very useful information regarding the work it was meant to do.
A close examination ...
Everything he knew about the man was second-hand except for his competence as a pilot. Carson could not now request a security re-check because that would undoubtedly arouse the suspicions of his opposite number. Neither could he enquire officially about Pebbles’s previous addresses--because of his obvious low IQ at the time of employment, the original security check had been very sketchy indeed. All Carson could do was continue to gather second-hand information since that was the only kind available ...
By suddenly deciding to run a check on the portable fire-fighting equipment in the apprentices’ training section he was able to chat with the instructors and boys about the night classes they attended in the local technical college. Although Carson was careful not to mention it, Pebbles’s name cropped up several times, and he discovered that the other was farther advanced than any of the boys. He also discovered the name of one of Pebbles’s teachers.
Looking at the enthusiastic, colourless, sickly little man Carson thought that Pebbles’s phenomenal progress had helped an ageing, disillusioned teacher as much as the teacher thought he had helped Pebbles.
Next day Carson sent for an ordnance survey map of the flying club area. Before joining Hart-Ewing’s Pebbles had visited the flying club twice a day. Assuming that he had meals at the usual times and that he had gone home for them on foot, there was a certain maximum distance he had to travel even if he did walk straight across muddy fields instead of using the roads.
Carson allowed an hour for the midday meal, subtracted it from Pebbles’s total time of absence from the airfield during the middle of the day and found that he was left with a travelling time in each direction of fifty minutes. He worked out the distance a man could walk in fifty minutes, added a little because Pebbles was enthusiastic and might have run part of the way, then with the airfield as the centre drew a circle whose radius was the distance Pebbles had walked or run in fifty minutes.
The circle enclosed part of a small town, two farms and a very well-known institution. He looked at the tiny, fat L that was the hospital and thought It is too ridiculously obvious to be true!
In his pocket he had a letter from the club reminding him that he had to undergo a medical examination for his student pilot’s licence as soon as possible. It gave him the opportunity to practise a little delicate verbal probing once again on the delectable Dr Marshall.
But it was Dr Kennedy, an impossible man on whom to practise delicate verbal probing, who asked all the questions.
‘Do you have to have your medical this morning? Don’t you know I have a sales team going overseas, all wanting their shots this morning? Didn’t Marshall tell you about the new intake of employees this morning? Or the walking wounded with cut fingers overflowing the treatment room? Are you going to stand gaping at me with your clothes on all day? Did you ever have rheumatism as a child or young adult? Any heart trouble? Ever feel sick or uncomfortable playing on swings or roundabouts? Ever feel car-sick? Any abdominal surgery or hernias? Any TB in your family? Insanity, dizzy spells, headaches, syphilis, diabetes? Cough. Get dressed.
‘Dr Marshall will check your vision. A formality, that, unless you’ve gone blind since your pre-employment medical. Don’t worry, Mr Carson, you’re fit. Tell your CFI I said so. Next...!’
During the eye tests it was again impossible to do or say anything, but when they had returned to Marshall’s office to record the results he said quickly, ‘I have a problem, Doctor. Or rather, my friend has a problem. You have several years psychiatric experience, isn’t that so, Doctor?’ Marshall nodded. She looked through the window into the treatments room and said, ‘Mr Carson, this will be a very short conversation or a long one with lots of breaks in it. What exactly is your problem, or your friend’s problem?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Carson. He took a deep breath, then went on, ‘I’ve already spoken to you about him. John Pebbles, remember? Now he has been promoted and certain people are still using him to do their dirty work. By this I don’t mean literally dirty, just work which involves the misdirection of expensive material by a few highly placed individuals within the company. I would not like to see an innocent man--and Pebbles, you’ll agree, is about as innocent as they come--get into trouble ...’
As he was speaking he felt oddly pleased that he was not telling lies to this girl. He was not telling the whole truth, either--but then Carson himself did not know the whole truth and the project could be described as the misdirection of material by highly placed Hart-Ewing personnel.
‘... All this is highly confidential,’ he ended seriously. ‘I would not tell you about it if I did not have to explain my interest in Pebbles.’
She looked suddenly interested. ‘I don’t see what else I can tell you that I haven’t already told you. I’m not being difficult, Mr Carson, I just don’t know any more.’
‘But I know a lot more about him now, and I would like a professional opinion on what it all means ...’
He went on quickly to describe John Pebbles as he had first appeared, standing open-mouthed and rain-soaked as he watched the club aircraft; as he had appeared at his pre-employment check, as he had been as a lavatory attendant and floor sweeper, and as he was now as a flying instructor and student of no mean ability. For a man registered as disabled through being mentally retarded he had come a very long way very quickly. Carson wanted to know if this intellectual spurt was usual or even possible and, if it had been accomplished through sheer determination, if there was a danger of a sudden lapse or breakdown which would lose him everything he had gained. He would also like to know the incidence of mentally retarded cases who suddenly shot ahead like this?
When Carson finished she was silent for a long time, then she said doubtfully. ‘The answer to most of your questions, Mr Carson, is I don’t know. But it seems to me that if he was retarded in the generally accepted sense, that is if his mental age at thirty was still that of a child of six, then he could not possibly shoot ahead in the manner you describe. If he was simply a slow starter--a very slow starter--he should find it much more difficult to catch up.
‘Unless,’ she added suddenly, ‘he is simply an amnesia victim.’
Carson thought about that for a while, then said, ‘Did you ever work in the MacNaughton Clinic?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘For three years before ... Well, it’s a long story.’
Carson nodded. Her face was expressive as well as beautiful and he doubted if she could be bothered to hide her feelings at any time. It was obvious, therefore, that he had just touched a very sensitive spot. He wished suddenly that she did not look so much like a young and long-suffering nun...
Smiling, he said, ‘One of these fine weekends, Dr Marshall I would dearly like to take you for a drive--if you don’t have other arrangements, that is, or an even bigger and healthier boy-friend. We could lunch at the club, watch everybody there envying me for a couple of hours and on the way back we might call at the clinic to ask about ... ‘
‘One of these fine weekends,’ she broke in furiously, ‘someone will forget that I’m a dedicated bloody angel of mercy and realise that ... ‘
‘But your dedication is all I can appeal to, Doctor,’ said Carson hastily, ‘until I know you better.’
Chapter Eleven
He went to the club alone as usual that weekend. Dr Marshall had other arrangements made, but she said the following weekend would be free. On arrival he discovered that Pebbles had not yet returned from his course and that Bob Maxwell would be flying with him.
Carson tried hard not to be unnerved by the presence of Maxwell in the cockpit--the chief flying instructor often flew with other instructors’ pupils to check on the trainee pilot’s progress. Carson had simply been lucky up until now to have escaped what was generally considered to be a gruelling practical examination of the pupil’s flying ability, if any.
But Maxwell did not appear to be terribly interested in Carson’s attempts to impress him with his expertise. Carson took a deep breath and decided to do everything by the book--always assuming, of course, that he could remember the contents . . .
When he closed the cockpit canopy and strapped in he made a point of carefully checking Maxwell’s straps as well--theoretically Carson was in charge and the responsibility for passenger safety was his. Unhurriedly, but trying not to show any sign of hesitation, he went through the first series of checks.
Brak
es, on; fuel cock, on; standby fuel pump, on; generator switches, on; magnetos, both on; carburettor, heat; mixture, rich; throttle, primed once and set. He had a very careful--and ostentatious--look around to check that the area was clear, then pulled the starter and went into the pre-taxi checks.
Set throttle to give one thousand revs per minute and check that the friction nut was not too loose or tight.
Altimeter set to zero feet. Directional gyro caged to avoid damage during taxi. Radio on at a comfortable volume. Carburettor, heat; mixture, rich. He increased the revs to fifteen hundred and switched to each magneto in turn, observing no serious drop in revs, then switched to both. He switched off the standby fuel pump and observed no effect on the fuel pressure gauge. Everything was fine. He set the trim, checked for free movement of flaps, ailerons and elevators, had another look around and unclipped the mike.
‘Tango Zulu. Taxi,’ he said.
‘Tango Zulu you are clear to taxi to the holding point on runway Zero Four.’ said the tower in its most formal voice. They were trying to impress the CFI, too.
‘Tango Zulu,’ acknowledged Carson. He had another ostentatious look around, released the brakes and opened the throttle.
At the holding point he angled the aircraft for a clear view of the runway and approaches, then locked the brakes. Hotel Sierra, the Cessna piloted by Jeff Donnelly, was beginning to turn on to finals. Carson began his pre-take-off checks.
Set trim Set throttle to fast tick-over and check friction nut tightness again. Mixture rich and carb cold for maximum power. Standby fuel pump on in case the mechanical pump failed during take-off and the engine went out. Fuel cock fully on and meter showing sufficient fuel for the flight. He set one-quarter flaps, the recommended setting for take-off, rechecked the harness of Maxwell and himself and made sure the canopy was secure.
Carson relaxed then for a moment while Jeff Donnelly touched down smoothly and rolled to the end of the runway, then he radioed for and received permission to take off. He had another look around, released the brakes, moved smartly on to the centre line of the runway and opened the throttle.
