She said, “I don’t want to bore you. I know it’s awful cheek of me . . .. but you couldn’t help seeing and I wanted to explain.”
“You needn’t do that,” he told her gently. “I understood. I’ve knocked about a bit, you know. Everybody—and we ought to thank God for it—isn’t the same. You father’s got a better brain than most people. I don’t suppose you’ll believe this, but that often has a lot to do with this sort of thing.”
She didn’t seem to be listening. There was a haunted look in her face and she was very pale; it was as though she couldn’t keep things in any longer, as if something bottled up inside her for a long time was pressing for an outlet. She said in a low, tense voice, “It’s only started—well, quite recently. The last few weeks really. I mean, like he was at breakfast. He’s always drunk a fair amount, but he’s always been able to hold it so no one ever thought about it.” She flushed, then said defensively, “I know I shouldn’t be talking like this, but you do see, don’t you, there’s never anybody to get things off one’s mind to these days. If you’d lived out here yourself you’d know . . . I—I can’t really make you understand what it’s been like, I don’t think.” Her whole body was trembling now, tensed like a bow-string. “It’s... it’s—oh, it’s every damn thing about this blasted country. . . and I did so much want just to talk to somebody. . . ."
Shaw said, “I know, my dear. I do understand, believe me. If you really feel you want to tell me something and it’ll help—go ahead I’ll listen, I promise. But you must remember your father’s had more than his share of strain lately. He’s had the worry of the station for a long, long time and now there’s all this trouble hanging fire. It can’t make things easy for a man in his particular job. And I’d say as a snap judgment that he’s very highly strung anyhow.”
She nodded, frowning. “Oh, I know. He is, that’s quite true. But a lot of other people have had the same strain, haven’t they? Commander Geisler, for instance—worse, because he’s in charge and Daddy isn’t.” She bit her lip. “He’s changed so much, it’s almost as if—as if some one’s got some sort of power over him. . . .”
He looked at her sharply, enquiringly. “What d’you mean, Anne?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a small, miserable voice. “I just don’t know.” She hesitated, and then the words all came in a rush. “I—I shouldn’t tell you this—but it’s that arm of his... it wasn’t just a car accident. That’s why I’m so worried, and Mummy too. We just don’t know what’s going on.” She looked at him appealingly and with more than a hint of tears in her eyes. “I know you’re something to do with the work at the station and... and I was wondering if you couldn’t. . . couldn’t speak to some one. . . .” Her voice trailed away.
He asked, “But what about, Anne?”
“I—I don’t know really.” She shrugged helplessly. “It was just an idea. I thought perhaps if Daddy had some leave it might help. I thought you could put in a word to London when you go back, but I suppose you can’t really. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He looked at her critically and prompted, “You’d better tell me what’s on your mind, if it’ll help at all.”
“All right, I will.” She fiddled with her handkerchief for a moment and hesitated, as if she was even now unsure whether or not she ought to say any more. Then she seemed to take a grip and come to a definite decision, and without more ado she said ii* a kind of rush, “I’m worried because of last night. It’s his arm. He. . . had a bullet in it when he came home this morning. I told you I know a bit about guns. I’ve been brought up to handle them and I’m interested. Well, the bullet came from a British .303 rifle, the old Lee Enfield. It’s still used by the Nogolia Rifles and so far as I know by no one else out here. And, you see, there was your train. . . ."
She’d broken down for a minute or two after that, and Shaw, extremely worried and shocked himself now, had done his best to comfort her and coax some more of the story out of her. He found that Hartog hadn’t confided in Anne, but the girl knew all about it because her mother, who had been an Army nursing sister during the War, had removed the bullet herself. Hartog, apparently, wouldn’t have the doctor from the base; and he had said nothing to his wife as to how the bullet came to be there—he had, Anne said, only bitten her head off when she’d asked. Anne had said nothing to her mother about the bullet being from a Lee Enfield rifle.
Shaw’s mind raced over the frightening implications of what Anne had said; she had moved away from him after a while, and there was a peculiar expression on her face, as though she herself had only just realized the full and terrible import of what she had said, had only just ticked over properly. Then, above the drumming sound of the rain on the roof, Shaw heard the hum of a helicopter’s engines.
Anne said, “Here it is now.”
Shaw went across to her. He said, “Listen, Anne. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“No.”
“You’re quite sure?”
She said dully, “Yes. There’s nothing else. But thank you for listening.”
He reached out and took her hands in his own and he said gravely, “Stop worrying if you can. Leave that to me. There may be some good explanation of all this. But there’s something I’ve got to ask you before I go.”
She looked up at him, her face working.
He said, “This is going to be hard, but I want you to trust me. I don’t want you to say one word to anybody at all about what you’ve told me. That’s important. Do you understand? Leave things just as they are, and I’ll do everything I can to help. I think you do understand what I’m trying to say—don’t you?”
She nodded, her eyes full of tears, then she twisted away from him and ran across to the door. A few moments later Julian Hartog came in.
The whisky seemed to have pulled Hartog together, Shaw thought. Once he and the scientist were in the helicopter and flying out for the Bluebolt station, the man expanded and became almost talkative. He was, it seemed, most concerned about the hold-up of the express from Jinda and wanted to know all about it.
His tongue firmly in his cheek, Shaw told him.
Hartog said scathingly, “God, those bloody blacks.” Every breath filled the cabin with the reek of spirits. “Must have been after the army stuff, as you say. I believe there were arms and ammunition as well as ordinary stores. May have been some of the native labour force from the Kamumba copper-mine.”
“Is that near where the attack took place?”
“Yes—well, I mean, pretty near, from what you tell me.” He hesitated, then went on, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about this god the niggers are getting so worked up about— Edo, they call him.” He added quickly, “But of course you have. That’s what you’re here about”
“Yes, quite. I don’t know much about him, though. Can you fill me in—d’you think there’s much in it?”
“The blacks certainly think so, so whether or not there is in fact it makes no difference. The result’s going to be the same. And some one who’s got it in for U.K.’s relations with Nogolia is obviously going to make damn sure Edo turns up on schedule. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” Again he hesitated. “I heard last night that he’s turned up already, and that the fun’s going to start pretty soon. You know anything about that?”
Shaw’s heart had given a lurch. “No. How certain are you of this, Hartog?”
“Well, of course. . . it’s only hearsay, tom-tom news, bush-telegraph . . . you know what I mean. These nigs have a way of being dead right, though, and some of them are still sufficiently friendly towards us to give us the tip-off.” He looked at Shaw rather oddly. “I was wondering if you’d heard anything, that’s all.”
“I haven’t You don’t know where Edo’s turned up?”
There was a slight pause. “No, I don’t. The blacks were pretty vague as to that.”
“Did it occur to you to report this direct to Jinda or Commander Geisler as soon as you’d heard it?”
Hartog chuckled coarsely. “Yes, of course it did. The trouble was, I was in no fit state. . . no one would have believed me. I was going to tell Geisler this morning, but now you can do it. I expect he’ll believe you. Anyhow, apart from the base staff, you can’t absolutely trust anyone out here these days, and I thought it better to wait till I could get hold of Steve in person.”
‘“You’re quite positive this wasn’t a—a figment of—”
“Drink? Oh, no.” Hartog shook his head. “Believe me, it wasn’t that. At least—I don’t think so.” He gave a throaty laugh and looked with sly amusement at Shaw. “Never can tell, though, can you?”
Shaw’s lips tightened. He said, “That doesn’t help very much, Hartog.” They were almost at the control-station now; he would have a word with Geisler first, he decided—and then he’d have a talk in private with Julian Hartog. Somehow the way Hartog had spoken seemed genuine—and yet, if he had been at that train hold-up last night, as the story of the bullet appeared to pre-suppose (on Anne’s evidence anyway), then there could be something in what Latymer had hinted about Edo striking at the Bluebolt station direct. . . and—which Latymer hadn’t thought of—with inside assistance.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They were checked off the helicopter by armed security guards who examined Shaw’s papers critically and then handed him over to a lieutenant of the British Navy, who was carrying three large, many-coloured umbrellas. This officer escorted them to Commander Geisler’s office, and Shaw kept his eyes open on the way, saw the thick, barbed-wire perimeter fence surrounding the Bluebolt station and the heavy wires bearing large red-painted notices reading: Danger—LIVE HIGH-VOLTAGE CABLES.
That looked a good enough barrier; the only entry was guarded by an armed naval rating patrolling inside the tight-shut, steel-barred gates. Shaw walked beneath the beaming mast on the dome of the control-tower, past power-houses and stores towards a line of single-storey buildings which, the lieutenant told him, were the administrative offices and quarters for the single officers and men of the station staff. As Anne Hartog had said earlier, the whole compact little site was on fairly high ground which kept it free of floodwater; even so the high trees of the jungle pressing close gave excellent cover from the air. It would indeed be hard to pinpoint this tiny clearing in the hundreds of thousands of square miles of virgin jungle.
Stephen Geisler rubbed at his round red face with a handkerchief. He said, “It’s all a very great worry, Commander, I don’t mind telling you.”
“I can understand that,” Shaw murmured sympathetically. He’d already taken a liking to this unassuming, competent-looking American. “Now, Commander. I’m told all your men have been very carefully screened, in fact I’ve seen the papers myself and I do know there’s nothing to worry about in that direction. I mean, there’s not likely to be trouble from inside as it were.” Without appearing to do so, he was watching both Geisler and Hartog carefully as he spoke. “Does that check?”
“Why, yes, certainly, it does indeed. They’re all first-class men—all of them. They’re all hand-picked.”
Shaw nodded. “I gathered as much, What about the native labour, though?”
“They’re okay.” Geisler glanced across sharply at Hartog, who gave a heavy, sardonic nod.
Hartog said, “Check. Far as any nigger’s all right.”
Geisler shuffled through some papers and said, “Don’t get the wrong idea, Commander. Julian doesn’t like the blacks, but he handles ’em well.”
“Thanks, Steve!” Hartog grinned, rather slyly. He turned to Shaw. “They’re all unskilled hands, of course, can’t even read or write, most of ’em, but they’ve been screened too, in a kind of way.”
“Who by?”
“Me, mainly. I speak the language, you see. Of course, the niggers’ names have all been referred back to the Jinda authorities as well, for what that’s worth, and there’s nothing on any of ’em—nothing relevant, that is.”
“You mean?”
Hartog bit at a fingernail and said impatiently, “I mean what I say, Shaw. All Nogolians’ll pinch your last half-penny if you give ’em the chance, and they all tell lies as a matter of course. So do our nigs—that’s all.”
“Yes, I see.” Shaw tapped a pencil reflectively on the desk. “They don’t have anything to do with the technical side at all, I take it, any of them? I have in mind any—well, would you call them charge-hands, serangs, boss-boys—that kind of thing?”
Hartog shook his head slowly, but gave Shaw a curious look. He said, “Oh, heavens, no. They’re just sweepers, orderlies, and so on—cooks and stewards in the single men’s messes—you know. Can’t trust ’em with more than that on the whole.”
As though thinking aloud Shaw asked musingly, “So none of them could do anything. . . well, say, operate Bluebolt, send the load down on to a target? I have in mind some educated African, a technician, who could have been infiltrated?”
Geisler stared. After another odd glance at Shaw, Hartog burst into a peal of loud laughter, jeering laughter. He said, “God, what a bloody unlikely suggestion—eh, Steve? What the hell d’you mean anyway? They couldn’t possibly!”
“Uh-huh. . . it was just an idea passing through my mind, that’s all. I suppose it’s fairly obvious I’m no technician!” He grinned. “Thing is, my chief has an idea this Edo chap may try to start the ball rolling by direct methods, and that could mean he was expecting help from inside, I imagine.” He hesitated, watching Hartog covertly. “Both of you know, of course, that Edo’s objective is to get the missile control pact negated.” Shaw sat forward with his arms folded. “Well now—one way of doing that, if all else fails, as it seems to be doing—if Tshemambi won’t budge, I mean—would be to show the Africans what would happen if something went wrong with the works. Some accident, which might kill a lot of them, so that world attention would be focused on this station and world opinion would force its withdrawal. Say, an accidental firing, even. Follow?”
Geisler gave an uneasy laugh. “Sure I follow, or I think I do. But that’s quite impossible. Nothing can go wrong . . . not that wrong.”
“That’s quite definite, is it?”
“Yeah, sure it is!” The American stared at him in puzzlement. “The thing’s in orbit and she won’t send her load down till some one orders the tit to be pressed. The pressing of it... well, of course, it’s a darn sight more than just pressing a tit! And, come to that, the control-tower isn’t all that accessible, anyway, and I just don’t see how anybody could cause an accident without getting into the control-tower.” He frowned and shook his head. “No, that won’t wash. . . . there’s only one or two of us could do it on his own.”
Shaw’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And they are?”
“Well, I’d say just me and Julian here, maybe one or two others, a few guys we’re training up. We’re only a small operating staff, you know. Most of the guys, they’re just here for defence and ordinary executive duties, working watches.”
“I see. And the defence system is . . .?”
“Perfectly adequate. I’m happy about it. You’ve seen the perimeter, I guess, and the gate guard can be reinforced at a moment’s notice by armed parties under the Duty Exec, when necessary. There’s an armed sentry on the control-tower itself. The telephone exchange is manned at all times, and we can contact Manalati or Jinda by direct lines. As you know, there’s a strict security check on all persons entering and that’s not just play-acting. The whole thing’s as good as we can make it. External defence, internationally I mean, that’s out of our hands. We’ve got long-range cover from the various anti-missile commands who’d be alerted by the Early Warning outfits.”
Shaw asked to be shown round the station and also to be given facilities to interview all African labour—just as a matter of routine, he said.
When he spoke to these men—who were numerically a small group—he couldn’t find anything in the least suspicious, although admittedly he had to rely to a large
extent on Hartog as an interpreter. A few of the blacks were comparatively newly engaged, replacements for men off sick or for men who for one reason or another had simply packed up and gone back to their tribes. All the men shut up like clams the moment he touched on the Edo Cult, but that didn’t prove anything one way or the other. In the Cult or not, they naturally wouldn’t talk for fear of what would happen to them. None had the Cult marking, but again that was no indication, for obviously any men infiltrated into the station would be without the spider brand. By and large they were as surly and unhelpful as the men back in Jinda had been, but that was as far as it went.
Afterwards Stephen Geisler took him around the base, showed him the enormous generators which supplied the millions of volts needed to send out the impulses which, if ever the moment should come to bring Bluebolt’s load streaking down into the earth’s atmosphere, would beat out their diabolic electronic-brain messages from the bristling antennae of the beaming-mast in the centre of the station. He took the Britisher into the control-tower beneath that mast, showed him the complicated series of instrument-cluttered panels which would be operated during the transmission, pointed out the various checks and the method in which signals were received back initially from Bluebolt itself and then from the missile as, freed from its carrier-satellite, it began its controlled flight on to the target. Geisler explained the guiding procedure and pointed out the illuminated panel with its brilliant green dot indicating pictorially and at a glance the satellite’s exact positive relative to the earth.
Shaw asked, “Is it really foolproof—I mean, aren’t there any snags?”
“It’s foolproof to a trained operator all right, and there are no real snags. There’s what you might say is a limiting factor, that’s all.”
“Can you explain that?”
“Sure, but I don’t know if you’ll follow,” Geisler told him with a friendly grin. “Well now. . . she’s orbiting so as to circle the earth every seventy-six minutes, as I expect you know. She can’t go on to any target in the world at any time—see what I mean? Owing to the flattening at the poles, her relative position in space isn’t exactly the same at any given time in each orbit, if you follow that, and, roughly speaking, a particular target can be hit with exact precision only once in about each twelve hours. That’s her chief limitation—remember, Bluebolt One is the first of her kind. Subsequent models will have built-in compensating equipment which should eliminate that. Now—the angle of descent is fairly gradual, it’s bound to be the speed the carrier-satellite’s going at, so when you want to bring her down you’d have to send the launching impulse a good long time ahead, and in fact you’d begin the whole transmission procedure, making contact and all that, forty-five minutes or so before the actual launching.”
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