by Bill Napier
Cardow, having found his tongue, was becoming eloquent. The President leaned back and puffed in the air, letting the Stanford futurologist talk.
‘Even if life did develop somewhere, the odds that it would evolve to an intelligent state are astronomical. Evolution has more twists and turns than you can imagine. It took three billion years even to get to the stage of sponges. Compound the improbabilities and you see it’s a miracle that we’re here at all. We’re alone in the Universe. We’ve been brainwashed, not just by NASA, but by Hollywood. There’s no drama in Star Trek movies where the crew never meet an alien.’
‘No drama equals no bucks,’ Bull observed.
Cardow turned the knife: ‘The public has been duped into the expectation that the Universe is teeming with life, and it suits a lot of people, from movie producers to Californian scientists, to feed that expectation. But it’s a falsehood. Otherwise the aliens would be here.’
Hazel looked over at Bull. The President had a satisfied look, as if he’d just had a big poker win. ‘Mr President, the world’s full of cranks with axes to grind. I’ve never heard of this man. I’m your Science Adviser, dammit. It’s me you listen to.’
A little wisp of smoke was drifting up from the President’s cigar towards the ceiling. ‘But I think you just lost the argument. Stanford here has given us a two-pronged, watertight case. First, even if you believe in evolution which I don’t, the odds are billions to one against intelligent life emerging from primitive bugs. Second, if there was alien life it would be everywhere including here and it’s not. The arguments fit like two gloves.’ Bull leaned back in his swivel chair. ‘There are no aliens, not anywhere. But you see, Hazey, I already knew that. Little green men with pointy heads are unBiblical.’
‘Mr President, the seabed’s littered with ships that were thought to be watertight. I don’t know what Professor Cardow’s hang-up is, but he’s just fed you some very bad advice.’
Cardow’s lips tightened like a prim old woman’s, and he blushed an angry red.
‘Uhuh?’ Bull gave his Science Adviser a long, thoughtful stare. With his slightly hooked nose, she had the disconcerting feeling of being watched by an owl. ‘You need to unwind a bit, Hazey, that’s what this place is for. Come over about ten, and you and I’ll watch a movie.’
‘Why thank you, sir. You know that as a woman I can’t deal with the heavy issues. But I do appreciate a nice pat on the head.’ Baxendale said it with a big smile to show that she was joking. She gave Cardow a look of pure venom as she left, and the futurologist blushed again.
* * *
Big snowflakes were drifting down when Hazel trudged her way through six inches of snow to the Aspen Lodge. Footprints had preceded her.
Warm air and Latin-American rhythm enveloped her as she stepped inside. Along the corridor to the living room, Jet, the President’s black Labrador, sniffed at her trouser legs.
‘Come on in, Hazey, you’re just in time.’ The President, tieless and with his shirt hanging out, was dropping ice cubes into a cocktail shaker. Logie Harris was leaning back in an armchair, Coke in hand. He gave a tense little nod to Hazel.
‘Cha cha cha.’ Bull was nodding to the beat while expertly rattling the cocktail shaker over his shoulder. ‘Paid my way through Harvard doing this. Law student by day, barman by night. Never forgotten how to do it.’ He added the contents to tall ice-filled glasses, carefully trickled a red liquid into the drinks and delivered a multi-coloured liquid to Hazel. ‘Tequila sunrise. Guaranteed to put a smile even on the grim face of my Science Adviser.’
Hazel took a sip and smiled. Bull wagged a finger and gave an I-told-you-so grin. ‘Hell, you look beautiful when you smile. You know Logie?’
Harris stood up and extended a hand to Hazel. ‘I hear you crossed swords today.’
Hazel said, ‘Yes, with another backwoodsman.’ Harris’s face froze.
Bull crossed to a light switch and to Hazel the room fell dark for a few seconds, until her sight adapted to the gentle red glow of reflected firelight. Now a screen was coming slowly down from the ceiling, and the President was removing a painting to reveal a small alcove with a projector. A white-haired steward built the fire up with seasoned logs, and Jet stretched out in front of it. Hazel shared a settee with the President, while Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis shared misadventures with Marilyn Monroe on an overnight sleeper. Bull and Harris chortled through the movie, the President occasionally laughing out loud and slapping Hazel’s thigh.
As the closing credits rolled, she said, ‘I ought to go, Mr President.’
‘Have a nightcap, Hazey.’
‘No, thank you.’ She stood up. What made her say it she didn’t know; it just came out in a surge of anger. ‘Mr President, I see this alien message as a turning point for mankind. You can’t handle the issue by cutting yourself off, surrounding yourself with these people.’
‘These people?’ Bull’s tone was suddenly frosty.
Harris, on his feet, adopted a combative tone. ‘I for one thank God for the President’s wisdom. I don’t doubt your erudition, Ms Baxendale, but only arrogance can make us believe that infinite knowledge is given us.’
She said coldly, ‘I can’t argue with that.’
‘Then surely you can see that the origin of life is a domain that belongs to the Creator, not to man? And surely, unless you are godless, you must accept that God’s intentions are revealed to us through revelation?’
‘Now it gets complicated.’
Harris pounded on, a preacher with a congregation. ‘And the Scriptures are clear: only Man is made in the image of God. Therefore the only possible life forms beyond the Earth cannot be creatures of God. We must pay no heed to their siren message. We dare not.’
Hazel sighed. ‘I’ll wish you both goodnight.’
She turned at the door, said, ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ and slammed it shut.
* * *
Despair was settling over her like a cloak.
The snow had stopped, and between the clouds were stars, sharp and crystalline. Her ears were beginning to hurt with cold, and her fingers were tingling. She trudged down the steps and made her way on to a path between the trees. As she walked she looked up at a cold and alien sky, utterly unlike the haze which overlaid Washington D.C., orange like the cheeks of a pantomime tart.
Somewhere up there. Somewhere up there.
Maybe that bright star, or that one, maybe one of the thousands of lesser ones, going as faint as the eye could see and no doubt beyond. Maybe, even, the signallers came from someplace between the stars, from some dark interstellar realm.
There were animal tracks in the snow; small, clawed creatures. Her breath was steaming.
Someone had lit a fire in Maple Lodge; she saw its flickering light, and the smoke curling up from the chimney. Again she looked up at the myriad lights between the trees, each one a prodigious nuclear furnace, many with planets orbiting around them.
Where are you? Who are you? What do you want of us?
She shivered, and turned into the cabin. Inside, she paced up and down the corridor, baffled.
You have a Harvard law degree.
Sheer popularity swept you into your second term. You won support for the Poverty Bill against the conservatives, and by some miracle you even got the Environment Bill through while keeping the oilmen on board.
You’re handling the Iraqi crisis like a maestro.
You’re a miracle-worker, Seth.
She tossed her coat, hat and gloves on to the bed and marched angrily through to the small kitchen.
So why are you taking your advice on this paramount issue from screwballs, nuts and hillbillies?
She filled the kettle with icy water.
Is it conceivable that something deeper than Bible Belt fundamentalism is holding you back?
An incredible thought leaped into her head:
Is it conceivable, by any stretch of the imagination, that Cardow and Harris are right?
She paced up and
down some more, looked at her watch, and picked up a telephone.
29
Freya
‘I wonder what it will be like?’ Shtyrkov wanted to know. The metal grid protecting the bar had proved impenetrable but the men had used an antique stool as a battering ram on the door. Both stool and door now lay in splinters and an impressive array of bottles was spread over the coffee-table in front of them. He was cradling a tumbler of some green liquid.
‘What?’ Gibson, having downed four large J&Bs, spoke the word with exaggerated care. The hands of the big clock were pointing to just before midnight.
‘The slaughter. How will they do it? Will they smother us? Shoot us? Slit our throats?’
‘Cut that out. Think of the ladies.’ It came out chauvinistic but Gibson was too far gone to care.
Svetlana giggled. From time to time she rubbed her nose, as if the bubbles from her champagne were tickling it.
Hanning said, ‘I really don’t know what’s got into you people. Sangster went blue in the face telling you the soldiers are there as a simple precaution. To keep unfriendly people out.’
Shtyrkov finished his tumbler of green liquid and reached for the half-empty bottle. ‘But they’re keeping us in.’
Petrie looked round at his drunken companions, sunk in the blue armchairs: Shtyrkov, Gibson, Svetlana, Freya, Hanning and himself. Six of us. ‘Can we go over it again? The escape possibilities?’
‘What’s the point?’ Hanning asked.
‘The point is survival.’ Freya’s voice was tense. ‘There must be some way out of this. Didn’t you say the place reminded you of Colditz, Jeremy? Well, people escaped from Colditz, didn’t they?’
‘You’re clutching at straws,’ Gibson said, pouring his fifth whisky with immense care.
Hanning spoke gently. ‘Say I go along with this ridiculous fantasy for the sake of argument. Colditz was master forgers, tunnelling engineers, teams of specialists. Colditz was months of planning. Above all, Colditz was before night-vision optics.’
Freya waved an arm around. ‘Look at the brainpower in this room. We can think of something.’
Hanning shook his head. ‘You’re imbeciles in these matters. You have a few hours and we’re surrounded by a brigade of troops. There’s clear grass all the way around the castle and no way whatsoever of crossing it undetected. There are no tunnels. You can’t disguise yourselves as cleaning staff. You can’t hide in the trash cans. And you can’t fight your way past a hundred Kalashnikovs with kitchen knives. I’m sorry, Freya.’
Something wrong. Something about Hanning.
Through his alcoholic haze, Petrie analysed Hanning’s words. You have a few hours. You’re imbeciles in these matters. Not We have a few hours. We’re imbeciles in these matters. Was Hanning excluding himself from the imminent killings? Was it a slip of the tongue, or a case of in vino veritas?
‘There is no prospect of escape.’ Shtyrkov said it with emphasis, almost with a tone of triumph.
Petrie listened to the Russian’s words and his heart sank. Come on, Vash, you’re the sharp one. Think of something! Until now he had hoped, even believed, that Vashislav would find a way out. If there was a way out, some lateral thinking to be done, some trick, Vashislav would have come up with it. A sense of nausea washed over him. He said, ‘Still, “It is a sweet and seemly thing to die for one’s country.” Seneca. Right, Jeremy?’
Hanning raised a tumbler unsteadily. ‘Right. To Seneca.’
Petrie added, ‘Oh, God.’ Nobody paid any attention.
‘What’s that green slime?’ Gibson nodded at Shtyrkov’s glass.
‘Charlee, it is alcohol. It is called Green Slime and when I have finished this bottle I will start on another one.’
‘Well, you may have given up, pal, but I’m thinking survival…’
‘To the British!’ Shtyrkov raised his tumbler ironically.
‘… and I can’t do it with a spinning head. I’m for bed.’ Gibson stood up, steadying himself on an armchair.
‘Me too,’ said Petrie.
Gibson turned at the door, swaying. ‘Would any of you ladies care to join me?’
Svetlana giggled again. It was that or burst into tears.
* * *
A tap on the door. Petrie, his head still groggy with wine, dragged himself into a sitting position. He switched on the bedside lamp.
Freya, carrying an opened bottle of white wine and two glasses. She put them down on the table and sat on a chair, pushing Petrie’s clothes to the floor. ‘I can’t believe things like this happen.’ She was wearing her red sweater and long dark skirt, and was bare-footed.
‘All the rules are off,’ Petrie said, pulling his knees up. The headboard was cold on his back.
‘We think, when the cleaners come in the morning, we’ll take their van and ram our way out.’
‘Don’t be silly. Anyway the cleaners won’t come.’
‘How can they not? There’s a conference on Monday. But if that doesn’t work, we’ll hide until the conference people turn up. The castle is full of hiding places and we only need to hide for a day.’
‘They’ll sniff us out with dogs.’
Freya blew her nose. ‘I love dogs. Have you given up, then? The great pattern finder, the man who boldly goes where no problem solver has gone before?’
‘No way have I given up. I just need to sleep on it. So you love dogs?’
‘And life. I don’t want to go at age twenty-three. I want to go when I’m ninety, drinking and smoking a cigar and watching the northern lights. So sleep well, Thomas, and waken up with an idea.’ She moved over to Petrie’s bed, and sat on the edge. He caught a light whiff of eau de cologne, felt a sudden, sharp pang of attraction. Bloody hormones!
She asked, ‘Have you seen the aurora?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Oy! Oy! Oy! To die before you have lived! When you see them from the roof of the world, in their full glory, then you will believe in Thor and Odin.’
‘You’re a poetic sort of creature, Freya.’
‘And you’re a miserable, disembodied computer, a pale imitation of a real man.’ She poured two glasses. Petrie took a sip; the wine was cold.
‘Freya, I’m a bundle of inhibitions. I can’t sing or dance. But I’m in love with your hair.’
‘I see you have hairs on your chest.’ She touched his chest; Petrie wondered if she could feel his heart hammering.
‘They go all the way down.’
‘I wonder if the signallers dance? And what they would sound like, singing?’
‘I didn’t see any music in their signal.’
‘I wonder if they make love? What about you, Thomas, have you ever made love?’
‘Freya!’
‘Ha! I thought not.’ She snorted scornfully and sipped wine. ‘Do you know where the name Freya comes from?’
‘Of course not.’
She put her glass on the table and smiled again. ‘My little inhibited computer, Freya is the goddess of love and fertility. And we could be dead tomorrow.’
We could be dead tomorrow. ‘What a wonderful chat-up line!’
She touched his chest lightly again. ‘They go all the way down, you say?’
* * *
At first, Petrie thought they had come for him. He was being shaken roughly by the shoulder. Then he smelled the green slime on Shtyrkov’s breath and saw his massive bulk in dark outline. ‘Tom! Tom!’
He felt Freya’s leg taut over his own. She was stretching. A bedside lamp clicked on and then she was hiding under the sheet, only the crown of her head visible on the pillow.
Petrie sat up. The Russian’s face wore an intense expression and he had a finger to his mouth. ‘Get dressed. Come and see this. Be very quiet. No shoes.’
Suppressing his embarrassment, Petrie stretched out for underpants and in a moment was dressed in plain T-shirt, jeans and socks.
‘Freya. Put the light out.’
A slim arm appeared from under the sheet a
nd groped towards the bedside lamp, and then they were back into darkness. Petrie followed the Russian to the door, sensing rather than seeing his frame.
Along the narrow carpeted corridor and down the broad staircase. A faint light was coming from below. Shtyrkov’s wheezy breath was loud in the silence and there was an occasional crack! from his arthritic knee.
Into the atrium. The light was here; it was blue, and it was coming from under the door to the administrator’s office. They crept past the armchairs and settees, and stopped at the oak door. Shtyrkov tapped Petrie on the shoulder. He whispered in his ear. ‘The keyhole!’
On his knees, Petrie had a good view of half the room. He looked, and was appalled.
Hanning was talking quietly. The light was coming from the monitor he sat at. The screen was edge-on to Petrie and he could neither make out the face on it nor hear the words. From Hanning’s body language the conversation seemed to be coming to an end. Suddenly the civil servant leaned towards the monitor. He switched it off.
In a near panic, Petrie jumped up and collided with Shtyrkov. They set off quietly and as fast as the near-blackness would allow, Shtyrkov gasping for air. They reached the marble stairs but it was too late, the door was opening. Petrie pulled at Shtyrkov and they were down, crouching, behind a chair a few feet past the steps.
The door to the library closed, very quietly. Hanning was padding straight towards them. He was making almost no sound. At the foot of the stairs they heard him stop.
Dead silence.
Hanning no more than six feet away.
Shtyrkov holding his breath.
A distinct crack! Shtyrkov’s arthritic knee.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
Shtyrkov still holding his breath.
Petrie wondering if they had been seen: two figures, one of them bulky, trying to hide behind an armchair.
Silence, except for the dog going wolf and the hammer-hammer in Petrie’s chest. And Shtyrkov still holding on, his eyes beginning to pop.
Green slime! Shtyrkov was reeking of alcohol. It had to be a giveaway. Hanning could surely smell their presence.
Then footsteps were padding quietly up the stairs and Petrie was mentally saying, Hold on, Vashislav, don’t blow it now, don’t breathe, just seconds more.
