“Give me a minute.” He made a few minor adjustments. “It happened yesterday, apparently. The station isn’t manned, so it’s only now been logged. It’s from a weather station outside Blackpool. Strength just about a two on the Richter scale, depth five to ten klicks—sorry, kilometres. Barely enough to rattle a few teacups, but typical of the twenty or so tremors we log in the UK each week.”
“Really? As many as that?” Dave was palpably surprised.
“With the sensitive equipment we have available these days, I’d have expected to pick up more than that. On a geological scale, it’s still a relatively short time since this island of ours broke off the Central European landmass. We’re still in the bedding-down process, if you care to look at it that way.”
“Is it possible to work out if there’s any connection between these tremors and the reports of extreme weather affecting mainland Europe?” Brenda asked, then blushed as three pairs of eyes focused on her. “I was only thinking of what Eddie said in his card and the letter we got last Tuesday,” she added defensively.
“There’s no probable cause to link the two, I wouldn’t think,” Joey mused, “but that’s not the same as saying there isn’t a connection. I’d need to write a whole new programme to feed The Beast, and I’d have to have a lot more data at my fingertips before I could begin to interpret whatever results it might throw up.”
“Hope that was a Freudian slip, not just an unfortunate choice of words.” Dave made a comical pantomime of someone vomiting.
Joey chuckled. “What, you mean GIGO—garbage in, garbage out? No, I think we’ve progressed beyond the stage of using poor-quality data and trying to guess at possibilities. With the internet, it’s become far easier to access accurate and up-to-date records on just about anything happening all over the world, and usually within seconds of it being posted—that is, of course, if it’s not sensitive data and protected by a battery of security tags.”
Dave looked at Brenda. “Poor Eddie. He’ll be developing a Jonah complex if this continues.”
That comment earned blank stares from Errol and Joey. Dave felt obliged to explain their friend’s disastrous summer break in the South of France. Discreetly, he avoided mentioning Eddie’s employment prospects.
“Here’s one hot off the press!” Joey said as a ticker-tape message marched across the base of the screen. “Tremor recorded, Richter 2, 25km N of Taunton, Somerset. Now, let’s play the sceptic scientist who doesn’t believe the word coincidence should exist other than as an entry in the Oxford dictionary.”
Rubbing his hands together, clearly in his element, he crossed to one of the long walls of the room and picked up a pointer rod which had quite possibly seen active service in the same office when it had been used as a World War II plotting room.
“Looking at this North Europe map, I can compare the time lapse between the first rumble in Cumbria—”
“Sounds like the blurb for a heavyweight boxing match,” Dave interrupted, but the joke fell flat. “Sorry, Joey! ‘Open mouth, insert foot’ should be my motto! Please, carry on. You’ll hear no more facetious remarks from me!”
“That’s nice to know,” Joey answered but without malice. He’d sensed early on that humour was Dave’s way of dealing with tense situations, and he was closer to the truth than he perhaps realised. He continued.
“We have exact figures for the timing and the distance between the epicentres of the Cumbrian quake and the Blackpool tremor, and then again the data comparing the timing and size of both incidents with the one in Somerset. That gives me a handle on the time/distance vector for the two UK events. Sooo, if—and it’s a big if—but all the same…” He scribbled a few lengthy equations on a notepad before continuing, “If the available data for the speed and distance travelled by the storms moving our way from Europe can be downloaded from somewhere, we could have a value for the weather front heading north. It’s just possible!”
He spun on his heel. “Brenda, your question suddenly seems to be the right one to ask! Maybe us science ‘geeks’ need a non-scientist around to ask the obvious questions from time to time.”
“Someone who lives in the real world, you mean?” Errol drawled.
Joey nodded his agreement, then frowned. “There are far too many variables I need to know—temperatures, prevailing wind directions, paleo-history—”
“Whoa! Stop! You’ve lost me already!” Dave protested.
“Sorry! Habit, I’m afraid. I don’t get out much. Most of my conversations recently have been with other geeks and freaks who love to talk shop.”
He took a breath and let his eyes flicker onto his scratchpad. “Paleo-history is shorthand for what we learn from a study of the stone and strata which the landmasses of the continents rest upon. The only thing you need to appreciate for the moment is the timescale involved—time periods involving millions of years as an insignificant third planet circling a relatively small sun on the outer rim of a not particularly large galaxy somewhere in a star system called the Milky Way.
“Nothing of any consequence has happened here in the last couple of hundred thousand years, which on a galactic scale is the time between the moment you decide to completely empty your lungs and the beginning of taking a deep breath. You need to bear this in mind—the casual reference to a period of hundreds of millions of years, and distances measured in billions or trillions of light years can be daunting for ordinary folk to even begin to understand.”
“So measuring a few hundred miles, and times which I guess are being measured in minutes rather than how far light can travel in the time it takes us to plod our way once around the sun…” Dave’s tone implied the question.
“Is like using a jackhammer to mend your watch or performing eye surgery with a machete!” Joey answered with no trace of flippancy or humour. Dave felt the acknowledged expert in his field had erred on the side of caution, understating the case rather than exaggerating to impress.
“On the other hand,” Joey continued in a much more positive tone of voice, “we’ve over fifty years of experience behind us here at Bidston Hill, and when the new ’scope being built in Oz comes online next year, we’ll be controlling it from here because we’ve got the best qualified staff in the world.”
“How’s a telescope—no matter how fancy or expensive it is—going to help with weather studies?”
“We can’t judge weather as a local phenomenon anymore. We have to look at the general climate of the world, and to understand this, we sometimes have to take into account outside influences, such as the effects of sunspots and solar winds. Believe it or not, this next generation of radio telescope is as close as science has yet come to building a time machine. It works by tracking the radiation travelling across space and plotting its course.”
“Okay, that’s more than enough,” Brenda interjected. “You’ve got my head spinning!” Dave nodded his support.
“That makes three of us non-science boffins, Joey,” Errol said. “I’d say you’re outnumbered! Now, how does this link to predicting when a tremor might show on the screens down south—Somerset, did you say?”
“That’s not something I could even begin to explain without using a lot of scientific jargon. Let’s just say, assuming a constant speed from Cumbria to Blackpool and continuing south…” He frowned and checked his figures. “If these are right, the shock wave heading south won’t get that far before tomorrow. What’s on the screen right now can only be from the shock rumbling north from the European mainland.”
Joey reached for a phone as he spoke, dialling a number he evidently used often enough to know by heart.
“Brian, it’s me, Joey.” … “Fine, thanks.” … “Listen, we can gab another time, I need a favour, and you might be a bit pushed for time! I need exact—and I mean exact—times on some seismic readings you’ve already got, and some on the way from up north in the next few hours. I particularly need data on the figures you haven’t got yet—I need to compare it with what I’ve taken he
re at the source. And, Brian? Keep this under wraps for now. I’ll let you in on what’s going down ASAP, but for the moment, I’m depending on you trusting my calls.” … “Good on yer, mate. I knew I could rely on you!” … “Promise, you’ll be the first to know!”
Dave beckoned for Joey’s attention. “There seem to be several different—what should I call them? Events? They’re all happening more or less at the same time. How can we be sure there isn’t some sort of connection between them?”
Joey paused a moment. His hand strayed towards his scratchpad and biro but stopped short, as if he’d changed his mind. “As I said to Brenda a few minutes ago, it might be useful for every researcher to have a non-scientist around to ask the obvious questions a specialist wouldn’t. As it stands, Dave, I haven’t got enough data. In fact, I’m not sure how to phrase the question, and until I can do that, there’s no chance of any sort of an answer.”
“Forty-two,” Brenda muttered and immediately flushed as her sotto voce comment plopped into an unexpected pool of total silence.
Sensing she was right, Dave grinned at Joey and Errol. “If you get to a pub quiz once in a while, you’d know this is a literary reference! Never heard of Douglas Adams?”
Neither the scientist nor the musician had.
“Your loss. He won’t be writing anymore—he died recently. In his best-known work, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, scientists build a machine to discover the Ultimate Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. The machine tells them the answer is forty-two, and they must now build an even bigger machine.”
“To work out what the Ultimate Question was?” Joey guessed, slapping himself on the forehead as Dave confirmed his suspicions.
“He didn’t have a serious take on life, really,” Dave went on, despite the apparently irrelevant pathway of his thoughts. “But as I said to my class when it came up for GCSE studies this year, he sometimes makes a throwaway remark and you think, ‘Hey, I can relate to that.’”
A few seconds passed while Joey and Errol considered this. Errol broke the tableau by reaching for a pen.
“I’ll have a look for that book—sounds interesting! Brenda, has Dave…?”
She nodded. As usual, her soul mate had expressed in simple language exactly what she’d been thinking.
Joey glanced at them both; this time, his hand managed to reach as far as the scratchpad, and he scribbled a memo nobody else could have deciphered.
“Looks like I’m going to be busy writing the Ultimate Question or, at least, one which strays far enough outside the scientific box to include as many as possible of the random facts which need to be considered.”
Chapter Seven
Eddie wasn’t happy. Not only had the bad weather which had ruined his Mediterranean break followed him throughout his flight north, it had decided to dump a month’s worth of withheld rain on him and him alone as he motored along what had become in recent years the English equivalent of the Riviera resorts along the south coast.
Something he hadn’t taken into account was the fact that, as a consequence of the changing weather patterns, many more people had opted to stay home for their summer holidays rather than head for the traditional resorts in Europe. He’d had no luck whatsoever finding a hotel or even a humble B&B that could offer him a room for the night, and by the time he reached Taunton, he was exhausted, cold and very hungry.
At least I can get a decent meal at a pub somewhere, he thought to himself as he parked in a council-run car park. Here he had his first piece of good luck for several hours. He’d arrived just after six p.m. and discovered that parking was free until the following morning. There was a scattering of other vehicles dotted about. As long as the local lowlife didn’t amuse themselves by wrecking unattended vehicles, it might be safe to leave it there overnight, although if he couldn’t find a hotel room, he could rough it for one night in the car and at the same time protect his sole form of transport from said hypothetical scallies.
Another thought struck him and had him rooting through the contents of his glovebox. He was sure he’d kept it…yes! There it is! In a free magazine he’d picked up in his local pub, there was a piece about a new brewery acquisition opening in Taunton. That was one place he knew he could get a decent meal…strike two, he could actually see the pub, off to one side of the car park. Fate, karma, kismet or coincidence, Eddie didn’t necessarily give any of those much credence, but right then, all he wanted was the excuse to freshen up in the Gents’ at the pub while his evening meal was being cooked. He slung a change of clothes and a razor into a discreet bag he could carry without arousing undue comment or notice and strolled across the car park.
***
There had always been a Coal Orchard in Taunton since records were first kept. Originally it had been an apple orchard, famous for its crop of cider apples; later, it had become the centre of a busy harbour in the days when coal was king and most heavy goods transport was carried out by canal boat rather than by road. There was an ambience of understated solidity about the present building, sited on the banks of the River Tone, despite being less than a decade old.
As he walked through the door, none of this was of immediate significance to Eddie, as he was most interested in the guest ales available. He might strike lucky with a dependable favourite, but he was confident that the menu would be familiar. He was about to pick one up en route to the bar when his nose reminded him what day it was. His choice was made for him: the Curry Night that ran across the brewery’s pubs every Thursday evening was a treat which was not to be sniffed at.
At the bar, there were difficult decisions to be made, and it took Eddie almost two whole minutes to settle on a pint of Wobbly Bob while his lamb biriani was prepared. As he deposited his glass on a table in a quiet corner and headed for the Gents’, he told himself that, as he had no intention of driving further that evening, he could indulge in as many guest ales as he wanted with and after the meal. There were definite advantages to drinking at CAMRA establishments.
The pump with a handwritten label which simply stated ‘Local Cider’ seemed a logical choice for something different following the meal. It had very little head and few bubbles. It was slightly cloudy and stood on the bar, trying hard to persuade him it was an innocuous non-alcoholic apple juice. Eddie wasn’t fooled. He’d heard far too many stories about the ABV of scrumpies and other locally brewed ciders from this part of the country. When ripples began to appear on the foam-free surface without him even touching the glass, he was puzzled. There was no obvious cause. The pub was quiet, without even loud music or raised voices to set up vibrations on the bar.
The ripples swiftly became a series of regularly spaced concentric circles which appeared to start from the centre of the glass and spread outwards. The bartender was still standing close, waiting for payment. Eddie caught his gaze and knew he wasn’t seeing things.
“No oidea what’s caused thaa’, Sirr.” The syrupy Somerset syllables seemed fitting, somehow, to the as-yet unexplained phenomenon.
Eddie paid for his drink but continued to watch the glass rather than pick it up. As he received his change, the lights flickered, and several tankards hanging above the bar began swaying, slightly but rhythmically, some touching and sounding a gentle chime. Both men looked up at the new distraction.
“What now?” Eddie’s question was rhetorical. He didn’t expect an answer, but the bartender had apparently been thinking along similar lines.
“We sometimes ’ave problems with the ’lectrics in storms,” he said, slowly, pronouncing the last word with a languid z at both ends rather than an s, “but weather ain’t ’nuff to call a storm, least, not in these parts.”
“Looks like it’s settled now, anyway,” Eddie commented, as the tankards settled back on their hooks and the surface of his pint returned to a placid state, punctuated by a final few bubbles of effervescence.
The bartender glanced at his wristwatch and switched the pub’s sound system from the quiet back
ground music to the local radio station. “Almos’ the hour. If summat’s happened, mebbe we’ll hear on the local news.”
Eddie took a pull at his drink, enjoying the richness of liquid apple on his palate, both sweet and powerful and a refreshing change to the hoppy taste of his usual choice of traditionally brewed bitter ale.
The five-minute news summary was rounded off, as usual, with the local weather news.
“…the storms which have swept north from mainland Europe have caused every available lifeboat along the south coast to be launched with at least fifteen different vessels in difficulty.
“There are reports from coastguard stations that powerful waves are pounding on the famous white cliffs around Dover, eroding the fragile chalk. Experts are concerned that large sections of the cliffs may collapse into the Channel.
“There are also reports of a minor earth tremor, recorded at one point nine on the Richter scale. At the moment, it has not been established if there is a link between this and the bad weather approaching from the south, but the possibility is being investigated.”
“We’m ’ad a few trembles here the last few years, right enough!” said the barman, as the news ended, “but I ain’t noticed it so clear as that affore!”
“I’ve a friend at home who knows a bit about these things,” Eddie mused, barely aware that he was speaking his thoughts out loud. “I wonder what he thinks about it all.”
“You here on holiday? The weather’s not been kind t’ye if y’are!”
“Well, it was worse when I started!”
Without meaning to, Eddie found himself regaling the publican’s sympathetic ear with the main disasters of his intended break in the French Riviera and his equally luckless drive back north.
“I don’t imagine it can get worse,” he concluded, “but since I’ve nothing urgent to hurry home for, I thought I’d take each day as it comes and lose myself along the way.”
He had a feeling it was probably against some obscure bylaw or other to sleep the night in a council car park and deliberately omitted to mention the matter. Bidding mine host a cheerful good evening, he finished his pint and wandered back to the car park and a few hours’ rest.
Taking the Heat Page 4
