by Desmond Cory
“Quite,” said Mr. Mitchell. “And from this third constant we can base the next chain of figures, which form the relative of acceleration. Thus we have …” He raised the chalk again. O’Brien cleared his throat.
“What about the distribution factor?”
“Ah! Absolutely!” The Director swung round. “Unresolved. Which means that in practice we can deal only in factors below the value of E. In practice, mind. Theoretically, our point of excess is unconditioned. We can prove that by establishing an equation for the integer of our basic thrust factor.”
“I can see that,” said O’Brien. “But where in practice you’re having to employ a dangerously low integer, it seems to me that in practice there’s a possibility of variation within your N factor.”
“Of course there is.” The Director put down the chalk and rested his hands on his hips. “The answer is that experiments have proved the variation to be negligible. Not sufficient to affect the initial thrust in any way.”
“But the distribution factor, maybe.”
“Well, it seems not.” The Director frowned thoughtfully. Levison closed his notebook with a little slap … “I can see what he’s getting at, sir. He might be right.”
“He might,” said Mr. Mitchell. “I don’t think so.”
“We’ve got to face the fact that internal failure has occurred twice now, and apparently within the same phase.” Levison spoke with a slight stutter, as though the rush of words within him sought escape all together. “Our variation figure is certainly sound for an electronically-controlled power slip, but now we’ve got the human element to consider. Our distribution ratio is dependent on an absolutely rigid integer … which is a weakness …”
“The answer is to control the power slip from earth,” pointed out O’Brien, “through a monitor.”
“No, we can’t manage that. We can’t lift that extra weight of equipment.” Levison looked at the Director. “Of course - the payload question is Minzowitsch’s pigeon. If he could juggle the figures—”
“No, no,” said the Director testily. “It can’t be done. We’ve been into all that before.” He suddenly became aware of the presence of Emerald and Fedora. “Hullo,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
However, he seemed to expect no reply. “We have to trust the figures,” he continued. “We’ve got no alternative. What we can’t trust is the behaviour of our alloy constituents under that kind of a stress. On the face of it, there seems no reason—”
“I wasn’t criticising your figures,” said O’Brien stubbornly. “Only their application.”
“All right, O’Brien. Your point has been taken; it’s not a new one, by any means. It remains only one of a number of possibilities, and not to my mind the most probable.” The Director made that familiar dipping movement of head towards wrist-watch. “I incline more towards Dr. Hawkins’ theories … Did you want me for something, Jimmy?”
“No,” said Emerald. “Nothing at all. I’m just keeping an eye on the prisoner.”
“On the …? Oh. On Mr. O’Brien, you mean. You might phrase these things a little more tactfully.” The Director pushed a worried smile across towards O’Brien. “Well, I must be getting along. Carry on, Levison, if you like; O’Brien might be interested to see the working out of our orbital impact calculations.”
He walked out. “Look,” said O’Brien, picking up the chalk. “This is what I mean …”
He raised his hand to the blackboard; paused; transferred the chalk to his other hand. Then he wrote awkwardly, in sprawling figures that contrasted completely with the Director’s concise hand; at the end of the line he turned back with an air of triumph. “You see? You only need a variation of minus three to throw your stress distribution factor right out.”
“Yes. But minus three is the hell of a large figure,” objected Levison.
“I don’t know . Well, I suppose it is. I’m an electrician myself,” said O’Brien dejectedly, “not a blooming mathematician. I don’t know that I even follow your fourth step here … working from this variable to … Well.” He sat down again, looking woebegone. “As far as I can see, electric control of the power slip is the only certain answer.”
“But that’s just what we can’t have.”
“Um. Quite.”
There was a pause in the conversation. Revie died, Johnny said to himself, twenty minutes ago. He had become a factor to be dismissed …
“Another possible flaw is that your monitor reading is only dead accurate when you’re moving directly away from the transmitter.”
“That’s allowed for. That’s why you fly to a fixed course. I don’t think you’ll be able to pick any holes in the electronic side of things,” said Levison with quiet pride. “That’s my outfit.”
“All the same, a fault in the monitor reading—”
“The safety factor at change velocity is four per cent. More than sufficient to compensate for a perfectly hideous error.”
“I see.” O’Brien settled himself with a wriggle of his shoulders, rather as though he were pulling Thought about him like a blanket. “Well, the power slip causes the trouble. There’s no doubt about that, is there? Something happens when the nuclear drive comes on … Twice running can’t be a fluke.”
“No.”
“I wonder what Bailey thinks … Hell, I’d like to talk it over with him. This is a thing like the sound barrier used to be.”
“But there’s not the slightest resemblance.”
“There is from our point of view,” said O’Brien grimly. “We were the boys who had to go through the bloody thing.”
“Oh.” Levison riffled his notebook, rather uneasily. “I see what you mean.”
“That problem wasn’t really solved on the ground, either. Well, there’s an answer to this one, too, if we can find it. When does Bailey go up?”
“Three days from now. That’s if the show isn’t postponed.”
“It won’t be,” said Emerald heavily. “There’ll be no postponements in this racket. The Bandits are expendable.”
There was a silence; not so much from the effect of Emerald’s words, which O’Brien gave no sign of having heard, but a silence indicating that the conversation had attained its allotted end. Johnny fingered the knot of his sling and looked meditatively at the blackboard. O’Brien, chalk in hand, began to scribble on the surface of the bench.
“Politeness pays,” said Emerald in an undertone.
“What?”
“Mr. Mitchell. He’s trying to get O’Brien interested now. Not a bad idea, at that.”
“Not bad.”
“Let’s call it off,” said O’Brien, throwing the chalk into the corner of the room. “Let’s all go and have a drink …”
Sir Robert Sweet withdrew his gaze from the eyepieces of the microscope; surveyed his colleague Dr. Wray mournfully. “Well,” he said, “there’s very little doubt about it.”
“Oh, absolutely none.”
“Reproduction at a standstill. What was the report on the last blood count?”
“Just the same, Sir Robert.”
“Um.” Sweet stood back; with the tips of his fingers he pressed lightly on the skin beneath his eyeballs. “I really think, doctor, that this is the most extraordinary affair I’ve ever come across in all my years of experience. It’s out of my normal line, of course, but—”
“They had a rather similar case in the States some years back. The Slotin business; you may remember it.”
“Yes, yes. There are points of similarity, no doubt. But, at the same time, all the difference in the world. By which I mean to say that the primary difficulties in this case are not even medical … I would feel reasonably confident, you know, as to the success of the operation. A fifty-fifty chance is a very fair one in cases of this type. What is so extremely difficult to decide …”
Sweet closed his eyes; his lips moved silently. Wray, waiting respectfully for the specialist’s final conclusion, moved the slides from under the microscope
tray; replaced them carefully in their box.
“… I’m inclining more and more to the opinion, doctor, that this operation will have to be undertaken irrespective of the views of the patient …”
Wray and Sweet looked at one another. Both their faces were studies of expressionlessness.
“Well,” said Wray eventually, “if that is your considered opinion.”
“I’m very well aware, of course, that it conflicts directly with the code of conduct we apply to the majority of cases. On the other hand, I feel that this matter is so obviously exceptional …” Sweet paused and moistened his lips; the palms of his hands felt hot and clammy. “God damn it,” he said very softly. “I can’t stop thinking of that poor boy Revie.”
The switch from professional to purely human terms was sudden, but it did not take Wray by surprise. He nodded comfortingly. “I know. And there was Benthall, too, of course. You never met him.”
“I suppose we all break the rules at times.” Sweet looked round; sat down in a leather-covered chair. “Most of us have to, sooner or later. Well, I’ve changed my mind, doctor. I’m going to operate.”
“Very well, Sir Robert. I’m willing to help.”
“You are? Well, that’s a relief … It’s the hell of a decision to make, though.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, myself.” Wray put the box that he had been holding delicately down on the table, and sat down opposite Sir Robert. The chair creaked wistfully. “I honestly think your decision is correct.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Robert.
“After all, no code can cover every case. We’re rightly horrified when our Catholic colleagues insist that the life of a new-born child must be saved, even at the expense of the mother’s; but that is only because they’re applying their own rules of conduct over-rigorously. If we stick to ours too closely, then I feel we run the risk of making the same mistake.”
Sweet looked impressed. “An ingenious anology, doctor.”
“But merely ingenious?”
“Why, no. No, it’s probably very true.”
“All the same, I’m glad you’ve reached your opinion without any prompting from me.” Wray made a swift and slightly theatrical gesture. “I don’t suppose I can convey to you, Sir Robert, the tremendous sense of strain that … Well, it’s something that communicates itself even to me. Yes. I really didn’t feel, you see, that I could consider the matter dispassionately. I’m prejudiced, in a way. That’s why I’m so pleased that you’ve come to the same conclusion.”
“My dear fellow,” Sweet threw up his hands, “I certainly arrived here as a dispassionate observer. And, as you know - having heard the facts of the case, I decided not to operate. I’ve changed my mind merely because I’ve been drawn into the emotions of those concerned … I don’t believe it’s possible to maintain a strict medical neutrality here. I’m not even sure that it’s desirable. We doctors are human, after all; we’ve got to make our decisions on a human basis, or we’ll just become machines capable only of curing machines.”
Wray agreed silently.
“I was in the Control Room this morning, you know. Just over two hours ago. The whole thing made a most profound impression upon me. I don’t think I’d realised … I hadn’t realised the amount of courage involved in flying those beastly things.”
“Oh yes,” said Wray, smiling for no particular reason. “They’re good boys. Volunteers, of course. They’re the best the Air Force can offer. In fact, it’s the … waste that’s so appalling.”
“Quite so. This young fellow Bailey … I happen to know his father very well. A wonderful old chap, and thinks absolutely the world of his son. Of course …” Sweet clicked his tongue, as though in irritation. “Well, if there is a chance for him, we’d better see that he gets it. We’ll operate this afternoon, then.”
Wray looked up. “Very well. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. I believe you’ve seen our operating theatre?”
“Yes, I have. It’s not the sort of thing I’m used to; naturally not. But it’ll do very well.”
“I’ll administer the anaesthetic myself. What time do you suggest?”
“Say three o’clock. I’d prefer the evening, after the heat of the day; but time appears to be pressing.”
“Yes. Three o’clock, then.” Wray considered for a moment. “That will do excellently. I carry out my routine examination after lunch … at two-thirty … and I can easily inject some strong sedative without - er - arousing his suspicions. Which perfectly answers that little problem.”
“Of his resisting, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
Sweet frowned a little. “Yes. But there’s one small point. We were talking about Catholics … I believe O’Brien is one, isn’t he? Which raises the question of … absolution, do they call it? I suppose that we really ought to arrange …”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. In fact, I’ve already raised the point with him, and he was most emphatic about it.” Wray smiled again, this time rather cynically. “I understand he lapsed from the faith a number of years ago.”
“With a chap like that,” said Sweet, “well - I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Bir Azahara lay stretched out under the morning sun; still; devoid of movement. The flat-roofed native houses, streetless, sharp-shadowed, stood huddled together as though withdrawing themselves from the sprawling European camp, as though fearing contagion from so foreign an element. The long formal lines of Army huts swayed uneasily back and forth in the sun haze; at various points where they converged, clumps of palm-trees threw firm splashes of green into the brown and grey. And all, all against a constant background of blazing red-yellow earth; earth spread-eagled in great patches of wasteland between the huts and over the air landing-strip; earth camped outside the tangle of huts like the hosts of a besieging army; earth that went away, red, yellow, gold and blue, broken by the wavering lines of ditches, by dust-clouds rising in the wind, to the uttermost thread of the horizon … and beyond the horizon an infinite blue, clear and commanding, a blue that called to the spirit without a voice …
That was what Revie had seen, before he had looked away.
“… It’s a nice day, anyway,” said Sweet.
10
O’Brien and Fedora and Emerald got slowly out of the jeep and went into the bar. It was almost empty at that hour of the morning; most of the non-S.E. personnel were pursuing their various duties, and the bar-room was therefore deserted … except for the two barmen, a young Flying-Officer asleep in a corner and Squadron-Leader Bailey. Squadron-Leader Bailey was drinking brandy and was listening, not very intently, to the conversation of a small dark-haired girl who was seated at the table beside him. She looked up as the trio entered, though Bailey did not. Fedora noticed that she wore a nicely-cut khaki blouse and skirt; that she had a wide mouth and almost straight, rather thick eyebrows; that her hands were thin and brown and easily agitated … The girl and O’Brien looked at each other for quite a long time.
Eventually:
“Hullo, Buster,” she said. The words did not seem to cost her any particular effort.
O’Brien looked at his feet. Then he took two steps towards the bar, as though he intended to ignore her completely. The second pace was irresolute; the third altered his direction and carried him directly towards her … Emerald and Fedora exchanged one glance, then followed him at a discreet distance.
“Hullo,” said O’Brien awkwardly. And paused. They did not shake hands.
“You are still alive, then. You know, I’d always thought so.”
Another silence. Broken only by the trickling of liquid; Bailey was pouring himself out another glass. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit down. We’re having a lil cerebration. We’re cerebrating Revie’s birthday. Old Revie. Your pal and mine. Come on, come on. Sit down.”
Johnny looked at Emerald. Emerald shrugged his shoulders. They sat down. Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien continued to regard each other with no
discernible emotion whatsoever.
“Oh Christ,” said O’Brien; and, in the end, thrust himself down into a chair. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Hell, it shook me a little.”
“It shook me, too,” said Margaret, in a small, prim voice.
“S’ a reunion,” said Bailey, forcibly and bitterly. “Fam’ly reunion, that’s what it is. All a happy fam’ly together.”
Nobody took much notice of him. “How have you been?” asked O’Brien. And, for the first time, smiled. There was an unexpected charm about his smile.
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Well, it’s been an interesting life.”
“You look ill. You look terribly ill.”
“And appearances are not deceptive.”
“But …” said the girl, and then stopped. She looked away from O’Brien, and towards Emerald. “Good morning, Colonel.”
“Morning, Margaret. Er - nice to see you.”
“It’s always a pleasure to be here,” said Miss Bailey.
“May I introduce … my friend Mr. Fedora? This is Margaret Bailey.”
“How d’you do.” She extended a hand vaguely, which Johnny took and squeezed politely; she withdrew it, still without having seen him … “O’Brien’s the name,” said Bailey, looking very hard at Johnny and squinting slightly with the effort. “Margaret Beryl O’Brien. That’s my sister. One of those secret marriages; wartime secret, y’know. Fine old Irish famly. Fam-ily.”
Emerald stooped forward and began to speak swiftly and confidentially into Bailey’s right ear. Johnny helped himself to a glass of brandy. O’Brien and his wife watched each other from either side of the table; their attitudes reminded Johnny inexorably of Visiting Day in Brixton Prison … where he had never been. He could visualise it, all the same. O’Brien was the convict, the no-good, the backslider; the girl was the patient and cheerful and determined little wife, filled with resolution and courage … Hell, though. The part suited her too well to be true. It can’t be like that at all, thought Johnny.