by Fred Hoyle
“You misunderstand me, Professor Kingsley. I explicitly referred to the immediate present just now. Once our policy is formulated we intend to go ahead full steam. Everyone whom it is necessary to inform of the Cloud will be informed. There will be no unnecessary silence. All we ask for is a strict security in the interim period until our plans are ready. We naturally do not wish the matter to become public gossip before we have marshalled our forces, if I may use such a military term in this connexion.”
“I very much regret, sir, that all this does not sound to me very well considered. You speak of formulating a policy and of then pressing ahead. This is very much a matter of the cart getting before the horse. It is impossible, I assure you, to formulate any worthwhile policy until further data become available. We do not know for instance whether the Cloud will strike the Earth at all. We do not know whether the material of the Cloud is poisonous. The immediate tendency is to think that it will get very cold when the Cloud arrives, but it is just possible that the reverse may happen. It may get too hot. Until all these factors become known, policy in any social sense is meaningless. The only possible policy is to collect all relevant data with the least delay, and this, I repeat, cannot be done while a really strict secrecy is maintained.”
Kingsley wondered how long this eighteenth-century sort of conversation would continue. Should he put the kettle on for tea?
The climax was rapidly approaching, however. The two men were mentally too dissimilar for more than a half hour of conversation between them to be possible. When the Home Secretary talked, it was his aim to make those to whom he was talking react according to some pre-arranged plan. It was irrelevant to him how he succeeded in this, so long as he succeeded. Anything was grist to the mill: flattery, the application of common-sense psychology, social pressure, the feeding of ambition, or even plain threats. For the most part, like other administrators, he found that arguments containing some deep-rooted emotional appeal, but couched in seemingly logical terms, were usually successful. For strict logic he had no use whatever. To Kingsley on the other hand strict logic was everything, or nearly everything.
Now the Home Secretary made a mistake.
“My dear Professor Kingsley, I fear you underestimate us. You may rest assured that when we make our plans we shall prepare for the very worst that can possibly overtake us.”
Kingsley leaped.
“Then I fear you will be preparing for a situation in which every man, woman, and child will meet their death, in which not an animal, nor any plant will remain alive. May I ask just what form such a policy will take?”
The Home Secretary was not a man to offer a staunch defence to a losing argument. When an argument led him to an awkward impasse he simply changed the subject and never referred to the old topic again. He judged the time ripe to change his style, and in this he made a second, and bigger, mistake.
“Professor Kingsley, I have been trying to put things to you in a fair-minded way, but I feel you are making it rather awkward for me. So it becomes necessary to deal plainly. I need hardly tell you that if this story of yours becomes public there will be very grave repercussions indeed.”
Kingsley groaned.
“My dear fellow,” said he, “how very dreadful. Grave repercussions indeed! I should think there will be grave repercussions, especially on the day that the Sun is blotted out. What is your Government’s plan for stopping that?”
The Home Secretary kept his temper with difficulty.
“You are proceeding on the assumption that the Sun will be blotted out, as you call it. Let me tell you with frankness that the Government has made inquiries and we are not at all satisfied with the accuracy of your report.”
Kingsley was wrong-footed.
“What!”
The Home Secretary followed up his advantage.
“Perhaps that possibility had not occurred to you, Professor Kingsley. Let us suppose, I say let us suppose, that the whole matter comes to nothing, that it turns out to be a storm in a tea-cup, a chimera. Can you imagine what your position would be, Professor Kingsley, if you were responsible for public alarm over what turned out to be a mere mare’s nest? I can assure you very solemnly that the matter could only have one ending, a very serious ending.”
Kingsley recovered slightly. He felt the explosion growing within him.
“I cannot say how grateful I am at your concern for me. I am also not a little surprised at the Government’s evident penetration into our report. Indeed, to be frank, I am astonished. It seems a pity that you cannot display an equal penetration into matters with which you might more properly claim a less amateur acquaintance.”
The Home Secretary saw no reason to mince matters. He rose from his chair, took up his hat and stick, and said:
“Any revelations you make, Professor Kingsley, will be regarded by the Government as a serious contravention of the Official Secrets Act. In recent years we have had a number of cases in which scientists have set themselves above the law and above public interest. You will be aware of what happened to them. I will wish you good-day.”
For the first time Kingsley’s voice became commanding and sharp. “And may I point out, Mr Home Secretary, that any attempt by the Government to interfere with my freedom of movement will quite certainly destroy any chance you may have of maintaining secrecy? So long as this matter is not known to the general public you are in my hands.”
When the Home Secretary had gone Kingsley grinned at himself in the mirror.
“I played that part rather well, I think, but I wish it hadn’t had to happen in my own rooms.”
Events now moved quickly. By evening a group of M.I.5 men arrived in Cambridge. Kingsley’s rooms were raided while he was dining in the College Hall. A long list of his correspondents was discovered and copied. A record of letters posted by Kingsley since his return from the U.S. was obtained from the Post Office. This was easy because the letters had been registered. It was found that of these only one was still likely to be in transit, the letter to Dr H. C. Leicester of the University of Sydney. Urgent cables were sent out from London. This led within a few hours to the letter being intercepted at Darwin, Australia. Its contents were telegraphed to London, in code.
At ten o’clock sharp the following morning a meeting was held at 10 Downing Street. It was attended by the Home Secretary, by Sir Harold Standard, head of M.I.5, Francis Parkinson, and the Prime Minister.
“Well, gentlemen,” began the Prime Minister, “you have all had ample opportunity to study the facts of the case, and I think that we can all agree that something must be done about this man Kingsley. The letter sent to the U.S.S.R. and the contents of the intercepted letter give us no alternative but to act promptly.”
The others nodded without comment.
“The question we are here to decide,” went on the Prime Minister, “is the form that such action shall take.”
The Home Secretary was in no doubt of his own opinion. He favoured immediate incarceration.
“I do not think we should take Kingsley’s threat of public exposure too seriously. We can seal up all the obvious leaks. And although we might suffer some damage, the amount of damage will be limited and will probably be far less than if we try any form of compromise.”
“I agree that we can seal up the obvious leaks,” said Parkinson. “What I am not satisfied about is that we can seal up the leaks that are not obvious. May I speak frankly, sir?”
“Why not?’ queried the Prime Minister.
“Well, I was a little uneasy at our last meeting about my report on Kingsley. I said that many scientists regard him as clever but not altogether sound, and in that I was reporting them correctly. What I didn’t say was that no profession is more consumed by jealousy than the scientific profession, and jealousy will not allow that anyone can be both brilliant and sound. Frankly, sir, I do not think there is much chance of the Astronomer Royal’s report being in error in any substantial particular.”
“And where is a
ll this leading?”
“Well, sir, I have studied the report pretty closely and I think I have picked up some idea of the characters and abilities of the men who signed it. And I simply do not believe that anyone of Kingsley’s intelligence would have the slightest difficulty in exposing the situation if he really wanted to. If we could draw a net round him very slowly over a period of several weeks, so slowly that he suspected nothing, then perhaps we might succeed. But he surely must have anticipated that we might make a grab. I’d like to ask Sir Harold about this. Would it be possible for Kingsley to spring a leak if we put him under sudden arrest?”
“I fear what Mr Parkinson says is pretty well correct,” began Sir Harold. “We could stop all the usual things, leakages in the press, on the radio, our radio. But could we stop a leakage on Radio Luxembourg, or any one of the scores of other possibilities? Undoubtedly yes, if we had time, but not overnight, I’m afraid. And another point,” he went on, “is that this business would spread like wildfire if it once got out even without the help of newspapers or radio. It’d go like one of these chain reactions we hear so much about nowadays. It’d be very difficult to guard against such ordinary leaks, because they could occur anywhere. Kingsley may have deposited some document in any of a thousand possible places, with an arrangement that the document be read on a certain date unless he gave instructions to the contrary. You know, the usual sort of thing. Or of course he may have done something not so usual.”
“Which seems to concur with Parkinson’s view,” broke in the Prime Minister. “Now, Francis, I can see you have some idea up your sleeve. Let’s hear it.”
Parkinson explained a scheme that he thought might work. After some discussion it was agreed to give it a trial, since if it would work at all it would work quickly. And if it did not work there was always the Home Secretary’s plan to fall back on. The meeting then broke up. A telephone call to Cambridge followed immediately. Would Professor Kingsley see Mr Francis Parkinson, Secretary to the Prime Minister, at three that afternoon? Professor Kingsley would. So Parkinson travelled to Cambridge. He was punctual and was shown into Kingsley’s rooms as the Trinity clock was striking three.
“Ah,” murmured Kingsley as they shook hands, “too late for lunch and too early for tea.”
“Surely you’re not going to throw me out as quickly as all that, Professor Kingsley?’ countered Parkinson with a smile.
Kingsley was quite a lot younger than Parkinson had expected, perhaps thirty-seven or thirty-eight. Parkinson had visualized him as a tallish, slim man. In this he was right, but Parkinson had not expected the remarkable combination of thick dark hair with astonishingly blue eyes, astonishing enough in a woman. Kingsley was decidedly not the sort of person one would forget.
Parkinson drew a chair up to the fire, settled himself comfortably, and said:
“I have heard all about yesterday’s conversation between you and the Home Secretary, and may I say that I thoroughly disapprove of you both?”
“There was no other way in which it could end,” answered Kingsley.
“That may be, but I still deplore it. I disapprove of all discussions in which both parties take up positions of no compromise.”
“It would not be difficult to divine your profession, Mr Parkinson.”
“That may well be so. But quite frankly I am amazed that a person of your position should have taken up such an intransigent attitude.”
“I should be glad to learn what compromise was open to me.”
“That is exactly what I came here to tell you. Let me compromise first, just to show how it’s done. By the way, you mentioned tea a little while ago. Shall we put the kettle on? This reminds me of my Oxford days and all matters nostalgic. You fellows in the University don’t know how lucky you are.”
“Are you hinting at the financial support afforded by the Government to the Universities?’ grunted Kingsley as he resumed his seat.
“Far be it from me to be so indelicate, although the Home Secretary did mention it this morning as a matter of fact.”
“I’ll bet he did. But I’m still waiting to hear how I should have compromised. Are you sure that “compromise” and “capitulate” are not synonymous in your vocabulary?”
“By no means. Let me prove my point by showing how we’re prepared to compromise.”
“You, or the Home Secretary?”
“The Prime Minister.”
“I see.”
Kingsley busied himself with the tea things. When he had finished, Parkinson began:
“Well, in the first place I apologize for any reflections that the Home Secretary may have cast on your report. Secondly, I agree that our first step must be the accumulation of scientific data. I agree that we must go ahead as quickly as possible and that all those scientists who are required to make some contribution should be fully apprised of the situation. What I do not agree with is that any others should be taken into our confidence at the present stage. That is the compromise I ask from you.”
“Mr Parkinson, I admire your candour but not your logic. I defy you to produce one single person who has learned from me of the menacing threat of the Black Cloud. How many persons have learned from you, Mr Parkinson, and from the Prime Minister? I was always against the Astronomer Royal in his wish to inform you, because I knew you couldn’t keep anything really secret. By now I am wishing most heartily that I had overridden him.”
Parkinson was wrong-footed.
“But surely you don’t deny writing an extremely revealing letter to Dr Leicester of the University of Sydney?”
“Of course I don’t deny it. Why should I? Leicester knows nothing about the Cloud.”
“But he would have done if the letter had reached him.”
“Ifs and buts are the stuff of politics, Mr Parkinson. As a scientist I am concerned with facts, not with motives, suspicions, and airy-fairy nothingness. The fact is, I must insist, that no one has learned anything of importance from me in this affair. The real gossip is the Prime Minister. I told the Astronomer Royal that that’s the way it would be, but he wouldn’t believe me.”
“You haven’t very much respect for my profession, have you, Professor Kingsley?”
“Since it is you who wish for frankness, I will tell you that I have not. I regard politicians rather as I regard the instruments on the dashboard of my car. They tell me what is going on in the engine of state, but they don’t control it.”
Quite suddenly it flashed on Parkinson that Kingsley was pulling his leg and pulling it hard at that. He burst out laughing. Kingsley joined in. Relations were never again difficult between the two of them.
After a second cup of tea and some more general conversation Parkinson returned to the matter in hand.
“Let me make my point, and I am not to be fobbed off this time. The way you are going about collecting scientific information is not the quickest way, nor is it the way that gives us the best security, interpreting security in a wide sense.”
“There is no better way open to me, Mr Parkinson, and time, I need not remind you, is precious.”
“There may be no better way open to you at the moment, but a better way can be found.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What the Government wants to do is to bring together all the scientists who ought to be fully cognisant of the facts. I understand you have recently been working with a Mr Marlborough of the radio astronomy group here. I accept your assurance that you have given away no essential information to Mr Marlborough, but wouldn’t it be far better if arrangements to give him the information could be made?”
Kingsley remembered his initial difficulties with the radio astronomy group.
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then that’s agreed. Our second point is that Cambridge, or indeed any university, is hardly the right place to conduct these investigations. You are part of an integrated community here and you cannot expect to combine both secrecy and freedom of speech at the same time. You cannot f
orm a group within a group. The correct procedure is to form an entirely new establishment, a new community specially designed to meet the emergency, and one that would be given every facility.”
“Like Los Alamos for instance.”
“Exactly so. If you will think fairly about it I think you must agree that no other way is really feasible.”
“Perhaps I should remind you that Los Alamos is situated in the desert.”
“There would be no question of your being put in a desert.”
“And where would we be put? Put, you know, is a charming verb.”
“I think you would have no cause for complaint. The Government is just finishing the conversion of an extremely pleasant eighteenth-century manor house at Nortonstowe.”
“Where is that?”
“Cotswolds, on high ground to the north-west of Cirencester.”
“Why and how was it being converted?”
“It was intended to be an Agricultural Research College. A mile from the house we have built an entirely new estate for housing the staff — gardeners, workpeople, typists, and so on. I said you would be given every facility and I can assure you most sincerely that I meant it.”
“Won’t the Agriculture people have something to say if they’re shot out and we’re moved in?”
“There’s no difficulty in that. Not everyone views the Government with quite the same disrespect that you do.”
“No, more’s the pity. I suppose the next honours list will take care of that. But there are difficulties you haven’t thought of. Scientific instruments would be needed — a radio telescope for instance. It’s taken a year to erect the one here. How long would it take you to move it?”
