by Desmond Cory
“It’s dead now in one of them, though.”
“Benthall, you mean? Well - I’m as well aware of that fact as you are. But adventure has always had its martyrs. Irving, Mallory, Scott … er … what’s-his-name. Many of them, anyway. And science has its martyrs, too. Do you think that, if it were possible, I wouldn’t fly the Bandit myself?”
Johnny scratched his chin in a dubious manner.
“The Bandit is my dream of adventure, Mr. Fedora. A dream that will be consummated by other men; I shall never reach the stratosphere myself. But if other men can do it with my help, then it will be done - no matter what it costs. If Benthall failed - then Revie will succeed. And if Revie should fail too - then Bailey will be the first. The first man ever to defy the earth. The greatest feat yet performed. And I, at least, am going to be present when it happens.”
There was a silence, though only a momentary one. “I think you’re rather a dangerous sort of fellow,’ said Johnny eventually.
“Dangerous? Why?”
“Because science and idealism have always seemed to me a pretty explosive mixture.”
“Explosive mixture, eh,” The Director laughed, a trifle uneasily. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Still … most of us boffins are idealists, you know. Idealists at heart.”
“So are politicians,” said Johnny. “That’s just it.”
“Well, I haven’t the time or the inclination to discuss philosophy with you. I’ve already rambled on a great deal longer than I’d intended to.” The Director regarded his wrist-watch with some asperity. “Politics most certainly are not my concern, Mr. Fedora. Nor, as I understand it, yours. I suggest you now go in search of Colonel Emerald - who seems to have disappeared, as usual - and try to establish some means whereby you can be of some positive use to us. Remind him to see that your name is entered on our nominal pay-roll of employees.”
“Very well,” said Johnny, rising. “Thank you for the interview, Mr. Mitchell. You’ve explained everything very patiently.”
In the outer office, Emerald was seated under a standard lamp, flipping through the pages of Harper’s Bazaar. He looked up as Fedora came in … “Hullo, Johnny. How did it go?”
“Fine, thanks.” Johnny sat down on the edge of an adjacent chair. “Does that sort of thing really interest you?”
“What thing …? Oh, this, you mean.” Emerald smoothed a page idly with his finger. “No, I suppose not. Still, it all helps to take one’s mind off things.”
“Depends what sort of a mind you have. My girl used to be a fashion editor.”
“Was she, Good God. What a terrible job,” said Emerald with genuine distaste. “About the only job in the world I wouldn’t swap for mine. Though I suppose it’s different for a woman. How did you find Mr. Mitchell?”
“I looked behind the desk, and there he was.”
“Well, that’s not so usual a thing as you seem to suppose. Here, there and everywhere; that’s his motto. Anyway, I take it you’ve been initiated into our secret brotherhood?”
“Yes,” said Johnny, who was still trying to envisage the chubby Emerald behind a fashion editor’s desk. “Oh yes.”
“What do you think of him, seriously?”
“A man of iron. Unaffected by the destinies of us lesser mortals. And yet, withal, a dreamer; swayed only by the noblest of motives. He reflects within himself the paradox of all mankind.”
“I say. Does he really give that impression?”
“He works damned hard at it, anyway.”
“You’re a cynical bastard, Johnny.”
“Well, when I look at some of you ruddy idealists, I’m glad that I am. As a matter of fact, what I really think about Mr. Mitchell is that he seems too damned used to dealing with newspaper reporters.”
“Was that how he treated you?”
“More or less. Lucid explanations while you wait, couched in layman’s language … I never trust that sort of thing. Is he a real scientist or somebody put in on top by the Government?”
“Hush, Johnny. This is heresy. What does it matter, anyway?”
“Not a damn. Not a solitary damn. Let him get his knighthood. That’s if Revie and Bailey feel the same way as I do - you know, noble about it all.”
Emerald tossed the magazine on to a side-table and viewed Fedora with some alarm. “Well, he’s got under your skin all right, hasn’t he? You seem positively savage.”
“Sorry. Maybe it’s the heat. What about this Bandit object?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“Is number two going to work.”
“Well, my God, it’d better. They cost about three-quarters of a million each. If neither Revie nor Bailey can get through, then the whole project’ll probably be abandoned. Or switched back to the States, which is worse. Though in point of fact there’s no reason why they shouldn’t get through. According to the scientific nobs, that is.”
“What do you think happened to Benthall?”
“He died. And very quickly.”
“That much is clear. But look, Jimmy - is there any question of … sabotage?”
Emerald sighed plaintively. “What do you think is giving me all these distinguished-looking grey hairs? And how many times do you think that question has been asked me, anyway? The answer, to the best of my knowledge, is no; a resounding NO. But hell … anything’s possible in this crazy dump …”
He picked up the magazine again, and subjected a sweet young thing dressed in next to nothing to an earnest scrutiny. “I wish I was tall and handsome,” he muttered, “and somewhere else. I’d really settle for just being somewhere else.”
“Cheer up,” said Johnny.
“Why not? Every cloud has a silver lining. Which, in this case, is represented by your august self. At least, I’ve got someone interesting to talk to. How does this business strike you, Johnny? Tell me all about it.”
“It strikes me rather heavily, to be honest.”
“Overwhelmingly?”
“Yes, in a way. It’s not that the idea seems far-fetched. Heaven knows everybody’s been talking about it for long enough. But somehow that seems to make someone’s actually doing it all the odder.”
“I read a lot of books about it when I first came here. I can’t say I learnt very much. Anyway, new information is coming in so fast now that a book is out-of-date before it’s published.”
“Really?” Johnny pushed out his lower lip pensively.
“All kinds of funny things happen up there, don’t they? You don’t have any weight, and things like that. I suppose you have to wear a special—”
At Emerald’s elbow, the telephone rang startlingly; he stretched out an arm and pounced upon it. “Half a mo’, Johnny. This’ll be what we’re waiting for.” He raised the receiver and spoke monosyllabically into the mouthpiece; then listened. He listened for quite some time.
“… Fine,” he said in the end. “Yes, fine. Right - I’ll inform him.”
He replaced the receiver again; tapped with the ends of his fingers upon the cradle.
“That was London. They’re sending us someone all right.”
“Who?”
“Somebody called Sweet. Sir Robert Sweet. Never heard of him.”
“Nor have I. What’s he going to do?”
“Do?” Emerald looked startled. “Why, he’s the fellow who’s going to fish this whatchacallum out of Comrade O’Brien’s inside.”
“Oh.” Johnny glanced towards the closed door of the Director’s office. “When’s he arriving?”
“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning, he’s due.”
“By plane?”
“Naturally.”
“Hell. And do you suppose that Dr. Wray is right?”
“About what?”
“About nobody operating without O’Brien’s permission?”
Emerald groaned. “He may be. So what?”
“Because maybe O’Brien won’t wear it.”
“Oh, surely he’s bound to agree. When he realises what’s in s
tore for him, I mean. Even if the operation fails, it’s a nice quick death; the alternative’s perfectly horrible.”
“Well, and if it succeeds they’re going to take him out one fine morning and hang him. That’s not a cheerful prospect, either.”
“No. It isn’t, for God’s sake. You know,” said Emerald, “I can’t help feeling sorry for that chap. I’ve never heard of anyone with so much stacked against him. He just can’t win.”
“Have you thought of something else?”
“What’s that?”
“… The idea of digging out this fragment is to see if it gives any clue as to why the Bandit collapsed?”
“Evidently.”
“Uh-huh. So that if the fault is checked, Bailey will in all probability get through?”
“Well - so we hope, anyway.”
“Yes. Well, damn it.” Johnny looked at Emerald exasperatedly. “How do you think O’Brien feels towards Bailey, anyway? Why, he hates his guts. He still thinks Bailey double-crossed him and brought along those cops.”
Emerald’s expression changed slightly, but he didn’t say anything.
“If he knows he’s got to die, anyway, his one idea will be to take Bailey with him. As for hanging, he’ll probably do all he can to get himself as far as the courts, so that everybody’ll know he’s married to Bailey’s sister. He’s out to do damage, now.”
“Um. It’s true. Bailey’s family’d just hate that last bit. They’re stuffy as they make ’em; and besides, the old man’s angling for a peerage. Of course, Bailey himself wouldn’t be in a position to worry … by then. Still” - Emerald thought for several seconds - “you make him out to be a spiteful sort of a blighter.”
“He’s the hell of a bad enemy. I’m sure of that.”
“But you’re still well in with him?”
“Probably. I’m none too sure.”
“Well, tomorrow you’re going to have to do what you can with him.” Emerald stretched and yawned. “After all, he’s your china. Maybe you can affect his decision. I hope to hell you can affect it the right way.”
“Which is the right way?” asked Johnny.
8
The next morning Johnny was appalled at the change in O’Brien’s appearance.
He was sitting on the verandah as Johnny approached him, dressed in khaki-drill, staring out into nowhere. His posture was dejected but, from a distance, he seemed a perfectly healthy man. It was his face, seen from close range, that showed most clearly the effects of the Bandit’s posthumous poisoning; the flesh upon it seemed to have slipped downwards, to have fallen away from the bones, and tufts of fading red hair were coming loose from the skull. His hands, dangling loosely between his knees, seemed even larger and bonier than usual, and the morning heat had brought out a pallid gleam of perspiration between the knuckles.
“They tell me I’ve had it, kiddo,” said O’Brien.
This being, in fact, his salutation, Johnny made no immediate reply, but pulled a deck-chair to O’Brien’s side and seated himself. Then, rather as though in accordance with a previous agreement, they both lit cigarettes.
“I’ve heard about it,” said Johnny. “It’s tough.”
“It seems the hell of an odd way to snuff it.”
O’Brien drew contemplatively on his cigarette and regarded the glowing tip. The hand that held it was, after all, still the same hand that had urged that ramshackle van over derelict miles of Africa; competent, steady, reassuringly nerveless. “… Are you coming on the Cook’s tour this morning?”
“Where?”
“All round the ironmongers.”
“I suppose so. Yes, sure. Who’s in charge?
“That fellow Revie, I think. He seems a good type.”
“Can you walk all right?”
“Yes. I feel pretty good.”
“Good?”
“I said that I’m feeling good.”
“Well,” said Johnny, “that’s nice.”
O’Brien was speaking with the unnaturally precise intonation he adopted when he was slightly drunk. “The doctor fellow’s come.”
“The one who’s going to—”
“Yes.” O’Brien flexed his shoulders. “Have you seen him yet?”
“No.”
“Nor have I. But I saw the plane coming in. When’s he going to—?”
“I don’t know,” said Johnny, who could guess the rest of the question. “It’s a tricky job, they say. He’ll probably want a rest after a few hours in the air.”
“That’s right. Will he do it here?”
“So I believe.”.
“I suppose they have all the … equipment?”
“Wray says so.”
“That’s all right, then.”
Johnny paused. “It’s up to you, you know. You don’t have to agree to this thing.”
“I know I don’t,” said O’Brien.
There was a longer silence. Johnny could hear the flies buzzing in the shade of the verandah roof, high up, near the ceiling. High up. High as they could go … Outside, the low lines of huts and the red-yellow earth were linked by the shimmering fervour of the sun. O’Brien shifted his position in his chair.
“Are you scared of death, Fedora,”
Johnny considered this question seriously. “Well, I get scared at times,” he said. “Everybody does. And when I’m scared, I suppose it’s death I’m scared of. But looking at the matter more kind of coolly, I don’t know that I am … Not all that much.”
“I don’t know that I am, either. Not of the sort of death I’d always expected. Something that’d hurt like hell and then be all over … maybe for ever, maybe not. But this damned thing I’ve got inside me …”
O’Brien smoked his cigarette.
“… I’m scared of it all right. It follows me about. Everywhere I go, I’ve got to take it with me. And it’s going to kill me. I feel about it like I feel … like a Catholic feels about sin … or something.”
Johnny nodded. “So you’re going to get yourself washed clean, with the aid of medical surgery.”
O’Brien looked at him. “It’s something I can’t beat. Not by myself. That’s the way I feel about it.”
Johnny said, “I don’t see how you can beat it.”
“… Bailey’s a Catholic. Did you know that?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“He’s crazy. He doesn’t need it, anyway. It’s clean up there, at thirty thousand feet.” O’Brien looked up towards the buzzing flies, his gaze travelling far beyond them. “You die or you don’t die, without any mess-ups. Well. So he’ll probably die and go to his bloody heaven; I won’t be there.”
He brushed angrily at his cheek. “I’ll have the damned thing taken out, Fedora. It’s making me ill.”
Yes, thought Johnny; it certainly is. In a way that nobody had anticipated. He looked down the verandah steps; a small group was approaching them … Emerald, Revie and a tall man in white overalls. At the corner, a green jeep stood in readiness.
“Well,” said Emerald, clumping up the steps. “All set for our little tour of the canneries?”
He looked at Johnny interrogatively, anxiously. Johnny’s chin moved perhaps half an inch down and up again; behind Emerald’s spectacles appeared a discernible glint.
“Good. That’s fine. Revie’s coming with us. And this is Dr. Levison, who’s representing the Director … Now, let’s go.”
“Will he agree to it?” whispered Emerald.
“Yes, I think so,” said Johnny.
They stood at the top of a long steel ladder, upon a tiny platform. Forty feet below them was the grey asphalt flooring; beside them, and open, was the door of the Bandit’s cabin. From within came the steady, rhythmic drone of Revie’s voice, monotonous as though reciting an incantation, but punctuated from time to time by the gruffer and briefer comments of O’Brien. In climbing the narrow ladder that clung to the Bandit’s hull, Johnny had experienced most of the emotions of a novice steeplejack; now, holding firmly on
to an alarmingly inadequate railing, he still felt his position to be anything but secure. He looked up, and saw the sky spread out to the roofs of the encroaching hangars; he looked down, and saw the rungs of the ladder rushing giddily downwards … Hurriedly, he focused his attention on the sister outline of the other Bandit, some twenty yards away. “I hadn’t realised the thing was so tall,” he said.
“It’s just that it points up, instead of along the ground. Just a pocket-size model, really. Why, are you feeling giddy?”
“Not exactly giddy,” said Johnny carefully. “This is high enough for me, that’s all. So far as I’m concerned, the thing doesn’t have to leave the earth.”
“Well, come into the cabin, then. We may as well hear the end part of the lecture.”
It was a close fit in the small cockpit. Revie sat in the plumply upholstered pilot’s seat, head pressed against the support, while Levison crouched against the bulkhead at his side. Johnny stood jammed up against O’Brien in the narrow space that remained beside the door, while Emerald could get little more than his head and shoulders inside. Revie’s voice flowed on evenly, with no break in his narrative.
“… Round about mach three we go over to the nuclear juice. There’s nothing difficult about it. The synchronisation is automatic. All we do is throw over the change-lock … but slowly …” His hand closed over a lever that projected from the instrument-board to his right; tightened.
“About half-way across you can feel it kick. There’s a definite punch to it. From around mach five you’re accelerating at very nearly four gee. And you’ve got to maintain that stress for a hundred and forty seconds. Nothing very alarming, if you’re prepared for it.” His hand moved back to the control-column rising from between his knees.
“Then we go on up. We’ve got a double check on rising point. In the first place, the old chronometer’s ticking up the hundred and forty; and secondly, the electric computer’s marking it up, too; so when these two … green … lines overlap, then it’s time to go.”
“How’s that done?” asked O’Brien. “So many hundred pips a second from the ground transmitter?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Revie gave him a quick glance. “It’s a pretty accurate method. We’re doing about twenty-two hundred miles an hour at rising point - which is quite a pace, you’ll appreciate … The next time the green lines reciprocate is at orbital velocity. That’s where we finally level out. Should be just over three minutes later.”