by John Burke
Who’s been told off to watch me on the Course?
It had been such a plaintive plea. He had had to repeat it before she could grasp what he had said. Then she had not at first taken it seriously. There was no reason why anyone should watch David Marsh. He was not big enough; not important enough to anyone.
‘Whatever makes you think … ?’
‘There is somebody.’ He was so sure. ‘Going through things in my room, checking on me, watching.’
‘But why should they?’
‘Because they’re afraid of what I might know. Or what I might suspect. I’ve got closer than they meant me to: it must be worrying one or two of them.’
‘What could you suspect? I mean — David, what have you got on your mind?’
It was not what she had expected or wanted, this abrupt switch from things that were personal and special to the dreary world of the Executive Course. She didn’t know what he was talking about and didn’t much want to know.
‘I’ll tell you one day.’ He exuded a strange confidence, somehow establishing the fact that what happened from now on was under his control rather than hers. His hand brushed her hip and lingered. She hoped they would go back to being what they had been and say nothing more about Intersyn and its real or imagined threats. But David went on: ‘You know all about the people on this Course, Jessica. If anyone can tell me, you can. Who’s watching?’
She could have told him. But she did not believe. It might do a lot of damage to tell him about Western and put him on a false trail. There was no reason why a man of Partridge’s standing, a Director, should have gone to such lengths to appoint Western specially to keep an eye on David Marsh.
‘You’re imagining things,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘It tells on your nerves, the whole atmosphere. I know that. But it’s meant to. That’s the whole idea. It keeps you on your mettle. I know Dampier’s little tricks — and you’ll find it’s just the same at Belby. They all want to turn you inside out. I’m not surprised you’ve got this feeling of being watched. You’re all being watched, all the time. That’s what the Course is for.’
‘No,’ he insisted, ‘I’m being personally spied on. Is that part of the Course?’
Jess tried to answer, but was too drowsy to do more than mumble. Sleep came up from inside her, thickening her tongue and jumbling the words in her mind into ludicrous patterns.
‘You’re not going to tell me,’ said David. ‘You know, but you’re not going to tell me.’
He sounded like a little boy. She seemed to hear him calling after her, a child unjustly abandoned, as she slid down into a simmering of dream and darkness.
Jessica started. A train slammed past, going at speed in the opposite direction. She was trapped for a moment between today and yesterday. Then she opened her eyes, yawned, and returned the timid smile offered to her by the man sitting opposite.
*
The week at Belby began vigorously. The Course members were allowed to sit down for the first half hour only and then were taken on a brief tour of the plant. This would be followed by longer and more arduous periods in each section of the plant.
‘This,’ said Dr Schroeder in his introductory talk, ‘is the good solid cake on which Mr Dampier and his London colleagues put their pretty icing.’
Dampier smiled knowingly at his class to show that this was the time for them to recognise how right he had been. He had told them it would be like this. And he smiled at Schroeder to show that he appreciated the gibe and had been expecting it and would get his own back in due course.
Dr Schroeder was a large man with a puffy white face and wisps of grey hair sprouting around a pink-rimmed tonsure. There was a flabby heaviness in his movements but no flabbiness in his mind. He was a specialist and a fanatic. Everything that was not essential to his purpose had been fined away. He had a spare, bony mind in a pulpy body.
Some of the men tried to look at home in the middle of bristling technicalities. Others had no need for pretence. Crowther’s pipe emitted smug curls of smoke: he had started his career in this part of the world, in this factory before it was modernised, and he knew what was made here and how it was made. Schroeder’s terse descriptions, of the various processes held no terrors for Crowther. He knew the pattern and could follow the reasoning like a. pianist confronted by a piece of music which his mind has forgotten but which his fingers remember. Crowther even knew some of the workmen, still here from his time. When they nodded at him as he passed it might have been felt by other Course members that he had won an unfair advantage simply by being born in this neighbourhood. It would be different when they got back to London.
Schroeder was a high priest and this sprawling factory was to him the shrine of his religion. Apostles might go out to the ends of the earth to spread the news and sell the factory’s products, but this was the meaningful reality. In some departments he described the processes with the aid of a flow chart, showing every development from the basic feedstock to the luxuriant output of innumerable plastics, synthetics and volatile gases — and his flow chart was to him a precious illuminated manuscript. In other places he would jot down in a matter of seconds long formulae on a piece of paper and pass it round, inviting their reverence.
At intervals Dampier would interject some facetious remark just to show that he was still a person of some consequence — and, moreover, a person who had heard all this before and was blandly unimpressed by it. Schroeder’s answer was a fat-lipped pout of a smile and a sorrowful shake of the head which tried to be humorous but failed.
They marched inexorably through a world of polymers, of thermoplastic resins and thermosetting resins. They nodded as wisely as possible over explanations of the distinctions between the alkyd and epoxide groups, and tried to show keen yet dignified enthusiasm when Schroeder wiped his right eye with the corner of his handkerchief and grew lyrical over recent developments in cellulosics. He guided them through each process as though inventing it under their very eyes.
‘And this’ — obviously planned as the climax of their exhausting peregrination — ‘is our unique process.’ Schroeder held open a door and ushered them through into the ultimate sanctuary. ‘This is the development on which Intersyn has founded over fifty per cent of its current production.’
‘Syndex,’ nodded Crowther. ‘Biggest selling line we’ve got. Gives us a lead over our rivals that they’re killing themselves to reduce.’
Schroeder looked hurt.
‘Dr Schroeder isn’t interested in the commercial aspects of the work here,’ said Dampier silkily.
The two men smiled formally at each other. Schroeder waited as though well aware of what Dampier was leading up to.
‘And speaking of rivals’ — Dampier gave a gentle little cough that turned into a chuckle — ‘I sometimes think Dr Schroeder is like those atomic scientists who want to share their secrets with the whole world instead of limiting them to one country … or one firm.’
He hesitated, as though to give Schroeder the chance of appealing for mercy. But Schroeder merely nodded and waited. They were going through motions they must have gone through many times before.
‘Once upon a time,’ Dampier proceeded, ‘our Print and Paper Department designed a brochure showing how Belby functioned. It featured a splendid photograph of Dr Schroeder beside a blackboard, lecturing to visiting executives just as he is lecturing you now. The picture was vetted and approved by every technical department and pretty well every senior member of staff in Belby here. And it was not until the block had been made and proofs passed that one of our ignorant London staff just happened to notice that the equation on the blackboard in the picture was one of our most cherished top-secret formulae.’
There was an appreciative murmur. Schroeder bowed his head.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Dampier, ‘that these technicians are so completely wrapped up in their work that they leave documents lying around, lose the keys to their cupboards, and as good as i
nvite the enemy to come in and have a look round.’
‘The enemy?’ Schroeder protested mildly. ‘We are not at war, Mr Dampier.’
‘Aren’t we?’ Dampier was loud and emphatic. ‘But I say that we are. To everyone on this Course I say it: we are at war. A commercial war, but as bitter and unrelenting as any other. We must fight for commercial survival.’ It was impossible to tell whether this routine had been deliberately worked out between the two of them as an integral part of the Course. ‘And there is espionage in this war, just as in any other.’ The calculated mockery came back into Dampier’s manner. ‘It worries me sometimes to think how easy it would be to take every important document out of this place.’
Schroeder said: ‘Our security precautions — ’
‘Are a disgrace. I know that I could crack any safe and find anything I wanted. And I’m not the only one. A complete stranger could do it, properly briefed.’
‘Who would give a stranger such a briefing?’
‘I don’t know. But in time of war you must suspect everyone … and protect your secrets against everyone.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Schroeder, ‘we may now study the operation of the plant.’
They walked in a religious hush across the gently throbbing floor of the building. It had once been a large warehouse and had then been converted piecemeal into a small refining unit. Now only the shell remained. Inside were new machines and new dials. Only two operatives were visible — and they needed to come in only every thirty minutes. Gauges in the main control room twenty yards away showed exactly what was going on in every part of the plant. The days of thundering machinery and sweating men were gone. The enclosed pipes and vessels were silent save for a faint pulsation which was felt rather than heard.
Schroeder explained the successive stages of the operation. His pupils found it hard to envisage the chemical and physical mutations taking place beneath the placidly shining surfaces. The product itself did not show up until the last minute at the far end of the extrusion and moulding shed.
‘And to get the best view of it,’ said Dr Schroeder, ‘we will study it from above.’
Dampier smartly anticipated him by leading the way to a flight of iron steps. These went up the side of the building and levelled off along the wall at a height of about twenty feet. At the far end was a row of office windows. Dampier waved at the nearest window.
‘Dr Schroeder’s eyrie,’ he announced. ‘A wonderful vantage point. Dr Schroeder spends happy hours at his window, admiring the view.’
‘This old catwalk still here,’ marvelled Crowther.
‘Not the old one,’ said Dampier. ‘It has been raised a few feet and strengthened.’
They went up in single file. Crowther tapped his knuckles against the wall to establish his long-standing acquaintanceship with the place.
They lined up along the rail. Below them, extruded filaments like gleaming toffee were coming off rollers and blending into a sheet which then poured down a wide chute. It was like a swathe of lava but so smooth that there was no perceptible movement.
Schroeder explained. A thermosetting resin passed through stages during which specified additives were used to give it bulk and certain strengthening properties. The balance of these additives conditioned the end product, and every manufacturer strove to find the ideal combination. At a chosen temperature — again a tricky point — the synthetic resin could be moulded as required; but once set, it could not be reshaped by further heat treatment. Intersyn had developed a sequence of additives and temperature control which resulted in the toughest yet lightest plastic yet known. It could not be chipped or broken. A diamond could not even scratch the surface. No shock could fragment it; no drill could bite into it. It was resistant to atomic radiation. Already it was being used in rockets and space projectiles. Delicate instruments embedded in it could never be shattered or disturbed.
‘When we finally reach the moon,’ said Dampier, conveying some of the practical side of the matter to his pupils before they fell too much under the spell of the idealistic, abstracted Dr Schroeder, ‘Intersyn will have made it possible.’
Schroeder winced at this further exhibition of sordid materialism.
David Marsh said: ‘When was this process developed?’
‘It took a considerable time,’ said Schroeder. ‘A great many of us worked on it.’
‘Yes. But when was the final discovery made?’
Schroeder frowned reproachfully. ‘In such things, there is rarely a final discovery. No genius stumbles across the answer — there are no flashes of inspiration.’
‘But somebody hits on the key equation. Somebody is ahead of his colleagues, even if he doesn’t always get the credit from it.’
Heads turned curiously towards him.
‘You may put it that way. In this case Mr Partridge, who is now one of our Directors, of course, assembled all the final material. It was he who formulated the basic approach, if I may express it. But Mr Partridge would be the first to admit that many others had contributed to his success. Many people worked on the project.’
‘Including my father,’ said David Marsh.
Schroeder looked at him. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Your father? Yes, I see it.’ He smiled with genuine pleasure. ‘You are Richard Marsh’s son. He was a very gifted man. Such a pity that he did not live to see his researches bear fruit.’
‘But he did.’
‘No,’ said Schroeder regretfully. ‘We were still in the dark when your father … had his accident.’ He looked away; looked down into the shining, dun-coloured river below with a reminiscent smile. ‘Your father and his little black notebook — always scribbling, always working harder than any of us. He was so very anxious to beat us past the post!’
‘That notebook disappeared,’ said David Marsh.
‘Disappeared?’
‘We never found it. It wasn’t at home among his belongings, and when we asked about it here we were told it was nowhere to be found. That was the story, anyway.’
Dampier cleared his throat and prepared to intervene. But Schroeder was ahead of him — suddenly chill and in no pleasantly reminiscent mood. ‘I do not understand. What are you trying to say?’
‘Just that he always had his notebook with him — ’
‘Indeed, that is true. He would not be parted from it. So?’
‘So,’ said young Marsh, ‘it’s odd that when he died it had disappeared.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Schroeder again.
Before Dampier could make another attempt to regain control, Western was saying: ‘I think we all accept the fact that the Company is a corporate body. We’re all part of it, and we all contribute what we can. Anything we make belongs to the Company. Whether we’re on the research side or on production — even out in the field, selling — we don’t expect individual kudos. It’s the team that counts, not the individual.’ He turned abruptly towards Dampier. ‘Isn’t that right, Mr Dampier?’
‘Absolutely.’ Dampier was mutely furious that the initiative should have been plucked from him in this way. ‘The team,’ he said with a snap at the end of the word. ‘The team, not the individual.’
He stared at Western. Some of the others who had been watching him looked uneasily away. Schroeder pushed himself back from the rail and said:
‘I think it is time we moved on. There are many things we still have to see.’
Their feet shuffled echoingly along the ironwork until they came to the row of offices. They went through in groups of two or three. David Marsh was somehow, seemingly without deliberation on anyone’s part, on his own. Andrew Flint and Philip Western brought up the rear, a few yards behind him.
Western said: ‘A disturbing influence, that young man.’
‘He’s not the only one around here.’ The reply was sharp and uncompromising.
Western raised his eyebrows and appeared pleased rather than curious about this remark.
*
Most of the following day was
spent in the research laboratories. Another lecturer took over to discuss his specialised work, but Dampier was always in attendance. He watched. He studied those who made notes and those who listened. Later there would be ways of finding out which of the listeners had in fact been soaking up knowledge without any need to take notes, and which had settled into an unhappy trance.
Jessica had little to do at this stage of the Course. She could usually rely on this one day as a time for renewing old contacts, checking with the administration office that they were satisfied with the Head Office communications routine, and putting Dampier’s collection of confidential notes and scribbles into some kind of order.
Late in the afternoon an envelope arrived containing a revised timetable for the rest of the week. It had been written out by Dr Schroeder. If it was to come into operation it would mean that Jess would have to type copies and circulate them to all the Course members this evening. She telephoned Schroeder’s office to ask if he had really agreed this with Dampier and whether in fact the new arrangements would work: this was the first time there had been any departure from the set programme that she could recall. Schroeder was not in. He was Duty Chemist that night and would not be back in the plant until seven o’clock.
Jessica rang off and grimly began to type out a new programme, starting with a master copy on which she made notes that Dampier would need.
Dampier was late returning from the day’s lectures. Probably he had spent an hour in the hostel bar, still assessing, looking for weariness, collecting other men’s yawns and jotting down the mental notes that soon he would so fluently dictate to Jessica.
When he came into the office he looked unusually subdued. For a few moments he did not even acknowledge Jessica’s existence; then he nodded, but when he spoke it was not really to her.
‘That chap Western … ’
She waited. But Dampier suddenly smiled, rubbed his hands together, and switched on his half paternal, half condescending smile.
