Thrice upon a Time

by James P. Hogan

  "But… we can't!" Cartland protested. "We agreed that we weren't going to fool around with it for things like that—not for a while anyway."

  "Screw what we agreed!" Murdoch shouted suddenly. "For Christ's sake, the guy is dying! Are you saying we just sit on our asses here and do nothing when the way to stop it might be right down there under our feet in the goddam basement?"

  Cartland blinked uncertainly, momentarily taken aback by Murdoch's outburst. "How?" he asked. "It's all very well to say catch what started it, but as far as I can see, nobody seems to know what did start it. So exactly what are you proposing that we change?"

  "I don't know," Murdoch admitted, at the same time calming down somewhat. "But I'm pretty sure there are people around who know a hell of a lot more than they're letting on about. This guy Fennimore, for instance—we've got to get at him and find out more of what he's up to. Then maybe we'll be able to figure out where we go next."

  Cartland sat back in his chair and thought about it. At length he nodded decisively to indicate that he was prepared to go along with what Murdoch had said. "So how are we going to do that?" he asked, looking back up at Murdoch. "We don't even know where Fennimore might be this morning."

  "We don't," Murdoch agreed. "But I know somebody who might. I'll call her first thing after breakfast."

  Murdoch called Burghead fifteen minutes later and asked for the Medical Department. Anne was not there. The blue-eyed nurse was unable to tell him where Anne was, and put him through to Waring instead.

  "I'm afraid that Sir Giles is traveling to the United States this morning," Waring told him in answer to his question. "Dr. Patterson has gone with him to assist. Their plane should have left two hours ago from Edinburgh."

  Murdoch was stunned. "Nobody said anything about that yesterday," he said.

  "I see no reason why they should have," Waring replied in a not-too-friendly voice. "But as a matter of fact they didn't know yesterday. It was only decided at the last moment very early this morning." Murdoch had a good idea what the sudden visit to the States was in connection with, but he was hardly in a position to talk about it. Waring's tone had already as good as told him that it was none of his business.

  "Have you any idea how long they're likely to be gone?" Murdoch asked instead.

  "No, I haven't," Waring replied. "But there's no reason why you should want to speak with Sir Giles anyway. He is a consulting specialist and does not carry prime responsibility for the patient… I assume you're calling to inquire about Mr. Walker. That now rests with the Royal Infirmary at Glasgow. The physician in charge there is a Dr. Fisher, who, I understand, has already spoken to your Mr. Cartland. Also, Mr. Walker's next of kin in the United States have been notified and will be informed should any change occur. For further information I must refer you to Dr. Fisher. I really can't be of more help than that, I'm afraid. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am extremely busy."

  "I see. Thanks anyway," Murdoch said, and cut the call.

  "Finnicky bugger," Cartland commented from where he had been watching on the far side of the room. "Why didn't you try pumping him a bit harder?"

  Murdoch shook his head. "It wouldn't have done any good. You won't get any more out of him." He turned away from the vi-set and frowned as he tried to think. "Who else do we know who might give us a lead on it?" He turned back to face Cartland. "What about Grandpa's pals in London? There must be somebody among them who's got connections with whatever part of the Government Fennimore's mixed up with."

  "Probably, but I'm not sure that's the best way to go about it," Cartland said dubiously. "You'd need months to fight your way through that lot, especially since you don't have anything in the way of real facts to wave around." He thrust his hands into his pockets and paced slowly over to the window, where he stood staring out for a few seconds. "A better way would be to start nearer home."

  "Where?" Murdoch asked.

  Cartland turned to face into the room again. "Burghead surely, I'd have thought. If there is something peculiar going on behind the scenes, this fellow Fennimore and that bloke you were talking to a minute ago can't be the only ones there who know about it, can they? I mean, they can't be running some kind of private venture inside a place like that, with nobody else having an inkling of it. Surely Courtney must know something about what Fennimore's doing there. Good God, he is supposed to be running the show, after all."

  "That's a thought," Murdoch agreed. "But do we know him well enough to just go walking in and demanding answers to something like this? If the whole thing's being hushed up for some reason, Courtney might know about it, but why should he talk to us?"

  "Well, you were about to try to get Fennimore to talk a few minutes ago, and you don't know him at all," Cartland pointed out. "But if it bothers you, why not try approaching Courtney through Elizabeth?"

  "Of course!" Murdoch snapped his fingers. "What's wrong with me, Ted? I'll call her now and see if she can get me in there today. Do you think I should contact Grandpa there and get him in on it too?"

  "I wouldn't at this stage," Cartland said. "Wait until you've got some answers. Save your big guns until you've got something worthwhile to fire at. If you do need to get involved with London later, that would be the time to wheel in Charles. But if Liz can arrange something and you feel you need some moral support, I'll come along to Burghead too. How about that?"

  "Fine," Murdoch said. "Thanks. I think maybe I'll be needing some."

  Chapter 33

  "I'm sorry, but what you are asking would be grossly irregular and a flagrant breach of professional confidence," Courtney declared from behind his desk later that same day. In front of him Murdoch, Cartland, and Elizabeth listened solemnly. Elizabeth's warning of Courtney's initial response was proving to be accurate. Courtney went on, "Some weeks ago, I was approached by the Ministry and asked to agree to Sir Giles Fennimore's participation in certain investigations that our own medical people were conducting. It was, and still is, my understanding that Dr. Waring contacted London in the first instance, and on his own initiative to seek professional advice, which of course is his prerogative. Naturally I agreed to that request. I do not concern myself with day-to-day details of an issue that has no direct bearing on the operations of the facility. And even if I did, I would hardly feel obliged to divulge such information to persons whose responsibilities lie outside that area entirely." He punctuated his words with a cool glance in Elizabeth's direction, conveying in no uncertain terms that the matter had nothing to do with her or with anybody from Storbannon, and she should have known better than to have imagined otherwise.

  "I understand your position," Cartland replied from his chair on one side of Elizabeth. He kept his voice calm, but at the same time managed to preserve a note of underlying urgency. "But, believe me, we do have valid reasons for asking you this, and they are important. It's impossible to believe that Fennimore just happened to appear here by chance just after the first cases were reported. He knew what he was looking for, which means that somebody had reason to believe that something like this was going to happen sooner or later somewhere. In other words, whatever caused this epidemic that's just starting has been known about for some time. It's vital that we find out who it was that knew about it, and where to contact them. They must have been involved in Fennimore's coming here, and it seems only reasonable to assume that they would have given you at least a hint of why. And that's why we've come to you."

  Impatience flickered across Courtney's face for the first time. "Mr. Cartland," he said. "You must understand that matters discussed between myself, acting in my capacity as managing director of this facility, and a department of the Government have to be treated with considerable discretion. I'm sorry, but I have nothing further to add."

  Elizabeth stood up and stepped forward to plant her hands on the edge of the desk. Courtney's face registered surprise.

  "Lee is dying," she said, struggling to keep her voice calm. "So are eight people employed by this facility. So are
several thousand people in America and other places, and who knows how many a week from now. If you know anything more than you've indicated, which you must, Ralph, please… we have to know what it is."

  "Naturally you have my sympathy about Lee," Courtney said in a milder voice. He glanced at Murdoch and then looked back up at Elizabeth. "And I'm sorry about the others too. But aside from that, if I knew any more than I've already told you, I fail to see what connection it would have with anybody here apart from reasons of, if you'll pardon the expression, morbid curiosity. And if I knew anything more, that would certainly not constitute a sufficiently good reason for me to break the confidence that my title imposes. As I have already stated, I have nothing further to add."

  Elizabeth backed off, sat down again, and closed her eyes wearily. Beside her, Cartland frowned at his feet, unable to find a continuation. Murdoch gripped the sides of his chair tightly in his effort to contain his rising irritation at all the verbal niceties. None of it was getting them anywhere.

  "Look, why don't we stop all this fencing around," he growled, looking directly at Courtney. "We're seeing the first stages of an epidemic that shows every sign of taking hold worldwide. We don't know what caused it, but we think there are people around who might. If we knew more about it, there's a chance we could stop it from ever having started in the first place. We could use the machine at Storbannon." With that he sat back and scowled as he waited for his words to take effect. Next to him, Elizabeth stiffened visibly. On her far side, Cartland pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

  Courtney's face remained a mask of composure, devoid of any trace of reaction or emotion. For a moment, Murdoch thought that he hadn't heard; then he saw that Courtney's eyes had taken on a strange and distant fixation. Elizabeth raised her head and watched, suddenly with hope showing in her eyes. She had seen that look on Courtney's face before, and knew that behind those eyes, his mind was already racing through all the permutations and variations with the speed and precision of one of her department's computers; within seconds every alternative and implication would have been sorted, categorized, and neatly slotted into place. Murdoch and Cartland waited in silence, unsure of what exactly was happening, but sensing that a new, subtly different atmosphere had crept into the room.

  At last Courtney brought his fingers together and raised them to his brow, held the pose for a few seconds, then slowly lifted his head until his fingertips were brushing the underside of his chin. He exhaled a long breath, and began speaking slowly and deliberately, his eyes focused on some distant point behind them.

  "For reasons that I've never made it my business to pry into, the World Health Organization has been expecting something like this for some considerable time," he began. For a moment Murdoch was confused; then he realized to his astonishment that Courtney had dismissed any need for further explanation and had already reversed his decision without wasting further time by saying so. "The first I knew about it was when the Ministry got in touch somewhere around the beginning of this month," Courtney continued, dropping his earlier formal tone. "They told me that Waring had reported what they thought might be the first signs, and they wanted to send Fennimore up here to look into it. There may have been a few odd outbreaks appearing in other places as well around that time; I don't know. Anyway I agreed, naturally. Fennimore has been involved for some time—ever since last year, I gather—with some kind of joint U.S.-U.K. research effort aimed at developing a vaccine to combat the epidemic when it came. The organization that Fennimore represents appears to have known for a while that it would begin in the western U.S.A., but I don't think they were sure exactly what form the disease would take. That was why they were interested in getting information on the first cases as early as possible. I've never considered it my business to press for details beyond those that Fennimore and Waring chose to volunteer, which were very few. However, if it helps you in any way, I do know that Eurospace, NASA, and the Soviet Aerospace people have all been actively involved. Don't ask me why." Courtney shrugged and showed his palms to indicate that he was through.

  Cartland had looked up and was sitting forward in his chair with suddenly increased interest. "What have the space agencies got to do with it?" he asked. "Can you give us any more details about that? That adds a whole new perspective to the thing."

  Courtney sighed and shook his head apologetically. "I don't pretend to be an expert on such things," he said. "I think there might be a connection with satellites though… or, at least, one particular kind of satellite."

  "Can you be specific?" Cartland asked.

  "Well, I might be misleading you," Courtney warned. "But I've seen the word Centurion used several times. From the contexts, it seemed to be a satellite of some description, although I could be mistaken."

  "Centurion?" Cartland screwed his face into a frown and slumped back into his chair, where he thought hard for a few seconds, at the same time tugging at one side of his moustache.

  "Doesn't that mean anything to you, Ted?" Murdoch asked.

  Cartland thought for a moment longer, then shook his head in an admission of defeat. "No… no, I can't say it does. Extraordinary."

  Courtney looked from Cartland to Murdoch and then to Elizabeth. "I'm sorry, but that really is the best I can do." He pushed himself away from the desk and straightened up in his chair to indicate that the meeting was over. "It goes without saying that if I didn't trust your motives and your integrity, I would never have said the things you've just heard," he said to all three. "I don't feel there is any need to spell out the rest. I'm sorry it couldn't have been more. If I can help you further in any other way, let me know."

  "Thank you, Ralph," Elizabeth said as they got up to leave. "Obviously we'll treat everything you've said with discretion." She turned toward the door, and Murdoch moved to follow.

  Cartland was still sitting fingering his moustache and shaking his head thoughtfully "Centurion ... " he muttered, half to himself. "You know, it's a funny thing. I'm sure I've heard that word somewhere before, and not very long ago either. Where on Earth was it?"

  Fifteen minutes later they were back in Elizabeth's office in the Mathematics and Physics Department. Elizabeth ordered coffees and sat down at her desk, while Murdoch settled himself in a chair below a large blackboard covered with symbols and equations. Cartland remained standing by the window, staring out over the central area of the complex. He had been noticeably quiet all the way back from Courtney's office.

  "Well, Murdoch," Elizabeth said. "It looks as if you saved the day for us. I'll have to take a course in direct American speech sometime. It certainly seems to produce results. I wonder where we go from here."

  "The only way I can see is to try and track Fennimore down in the States," Murdoch answered. "Maybe we could try approaching Waring now; he must know where Fennimore is. After all, we have more or less got Courtney's backing now. It's not the same as when I tried calling Waring first thing this morning."

  "Mmm… " Elizabeth sounded dubious. "I'm not convinced it'll be that easy. If I know Waring, he's just as likely to go protesting back to Courtney for having spoken out of turn. It might be better to try contacting Fennimore directly through the State authorities in California; Fennimore must have gone to California. Who would the people be to try first there? Do you know?"

  "Not really," Murdoch confessed. "And if the news reports are anything to go by, I wouldn't mind betting that it'll be pretty near impossible to get through to anybody there right now. They're probably being swamped with calls from all over."

  "Maybe we ought to talk to Charles," Elizabeth suggested.

  "Maybe," Murdoch agreed. He didn't sound very happy at the idea; there was still not much in the way of hard facts to talk to Charles about. Elizabeth sensed his reluctance and lapsed into silence.

  A muted whine of aircraft engines floated in from outside the building, and after a few seconds an EFC VTOL rose slowly from behind the Domestic Block and began climbing away to the south. Cartland watch
ed it absently through the window. Then his body stiffened suddenly. He spun round and snapped his fingers.

  "The pilot!" he exclaimed. Murdoch and Elizabeth frowned at him quizzically. "That was it—the RAF pilot! He said something about Centurion." Cartland began pacing excitedly back and forth in front of the window, still making snapping motions with his thumb and forefinger. "Air Support Command, Northolt… Eighty-third Squadron, that was it… What the hell was his name? Irish! Irish name, Irish name… oh damn!"

  "What is it, Ted?" Elizabeth asked in a mystified voice.

  Cartland didn't seem to hear. "May I use your phone, Liz?" he asked, stopping abruptly in his tracks. "I think I may have a lead."

  "Of course." Elizabeth gestured toward the vi-set by her desk. Cartland swiveled it around to face him, activated it, and called up a screen of directory data. Murdoch got up from his chair and moved round to stand beside Cartland and watch. Cartland found the call-code for the Royal Air Force base at Northolt, on the western outskirts of London, tapped it into the touchboard, and was through in a matter of seconds. After a short ritual exchange with the operator, he was looking at the features of the Station Adjutant of Number 83 Squadron.

  "Good afternoon," he said briskly. "My name is Edward Cartland, formerly Group Captain. I wonder if you can help me. I need to contact one of your personnel as a matter of extreme urgency. I don't remember the name, I'm afraid, but he is a flying officer, and his name is distinctly Irish. He comes from somewhere in Gravesend."

  The adjutant eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then shifted his gaze off-screen to consult some invisible oracle. "Irish, eh? Nah then, let's see what it says 'ere." His lips moved soundlessly as he read from something. "We've got a Ryan and an O'Keefe," he said, without moving his head to look back at Cartland.

  "No… neither of those," Cartland told him. Then his face lit up suddenly. "It was an O' something though. O'Rourke, O'Brien… something like that."