Dear Sir,
This letter is a little hard to begin. The events that have recently occurred down here in Oxford are so improbable and yet so terribly real that I don’t quite know how to convey them to you. Perhaps, when you receive this you would be kind enough to telephone me and I can give you what I believe to be the facts in more detail.
I would probably have dismissed the business of the tin from my mind but for two things: firstly, something I remembered (two days after it happened) having learned at school, and which I checked today at the public library here, and secondly the illness of my daughter Maureen.
I don’t wish to bore you with scientific history (which you must know backwards in any case), but the thing I remembered was this: Henri Becquerel had chanced to leave a photographic plate in a drawer of his laboratory. On top of the plate (which was wrapped in light-proof paper) lay a key. There happened, also, to be some uranium bisulphate in the drawer as well. After Becquerel had used the plate for some photograph or other he found, after developing it, that there was a clear image of the key imposed on the picture. As you know, this was how radioactivity was discovered …
The letter then went on to describe the incident of the canned beans, and continued:
Dr Fuller decided last week that it would be advisable for my daughter to have a blood-count. The results show that Maureen is suffering from a rare form of anaemia. I am not certain from what the doctor has told me how serious it is, or whether in fact it can be cured at all. It would be understandable if — in the gravest event — he decided to keep the truth from my wife and myself. Be that as it may, it is a fact that Maureen is particularly fond of baked beans and frequently has them for her supper. Since we apparently have been buying this brand for quite some time, it occurs to me, though I must admit it sounds fantastic, that other tins of beans might also have been ‘radioactive’. I haven’t been able to convince Dr Fuller that my seemingly wild theory is correct (and for the sake of others I certainly hope it’s not), but he agrees that if it were so it could account for Maureen’s condition, if it had been going on long enough.
I sent the prints to Kodak yesterday, and asked them to forward them, with their views, direct to you.
Should you decide to telephone me, you can reach me either here or at the hospital …
*
Kate poked her nose round the office door. ‘Thought you’d like to know,’ she said. ‘Old Gresham’s turned up, with Manson in tow.’
‘Is Manson in one of his moods?’
‘I’m afraid so. He’s wearing that awful blazer — you know, the one with the huge shield on it. Did the old man make him cancel his golf or something?’
‘Yes,’ said Dick with a grin, ‘and I knew he’d be furious. So is Gatt; I just had him on the phone.’
‘Golly! Tomorrow is going to be a happy party!’
‘I expect they’ll simmer down.’ He handed her two sheets of yellow paper. ‘Here. For duplicating. Sorry they’re carbons, but I’m taking the top copy straight in to the Director.’
‘They don’t accept carbons.’
He fluttered them at her. ‘They’re going to this time,’ he said firmly.
Kate took the yellow paper with distaste. ‘All right. But I wish I knew what was going on.’
‘I know you do; you’re lighting up like a Christmas-tree. Well, you can read through the report and check it for spelling — you know what I’m like. I don’t suppose it will make you any the wiser, though.’
She threw him one of her ha-ha looks and left. Simmel finished reading Cartwright’s letter and closed the file. He was just preparing to leave the room when Alec Manson burst in. He did not waste time on common courtesies.
‘Why in hell,’ he bellowed, ‘wasn’t I informed of this before?’ Simmel had become quite used to these little scenes. And by now he knew exactly how to get Manson’s goat without putting himself in the wrong. He spoke quietly. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘it’s not for me to keep senior members of the Department informed?’
‘The damn stupidity of it all!’ continued Manson, ignoring this remark altogether. ‘Do you know those prints were sent to my laboratory for analysis without my knowing it?’
Simmel pressed on the tiller and came in closer to the wind. ‘Perhaps you weren’t there, sir?’ he suggested gently.
‘There? Of course I wasn’t there! How could I be? I was up in Scotland with Jack Seff. I thought everybody knew that. Didn’t you?’
‘I knew,’ said Dick. ‘But it wasn’t my job to —’
‘Wasn’t your job!’ Manson slammed his fist down on to the desk with a crash, so that the ink-well jumped up and slopped over some clean quarto. ‘Is that the only thing people ever think of these days?’ He paused for a few panting breaths, then tensed himself in the way that he did when he wanted people to say afterwards: ‘Alec Manson nearly burst a blood-vessel.’ His voice dropped a few tones, and pulsated with assumed, overplayed emotion. ‘Well, whose job was it? — that’s all I’d like to know!’
Simmel prepared to duck; in a moment the sail would wrench at the boom and swing right across. ‘The only person,’ he said, ‘who was in a position to give you the facts was the Director. He’s your man.’ Simmel went on hastily, before the mast snapped off altogether: ‘Anyway, nobody knew until three o’clock this morning, sir. I expect Sir Robert didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘I see.’ Then again: ‘I see.’ There was a bead of sweat exactly over the bridge of his nose. Dick watched it, fascinated, wondering which side it was going to drop. Alec Manson covered up his deflation by saying: ‘If you’d explained that in the first place, it would have made everything much simpler.’
Simmel didn’t point out that Manson had given him no chance to do so — he knew that already. Dick changed the subject. ‘The Director wants you to bring the prints to the conference tomorrow.’
‘I know. Sir Robert spoke to me about them himself.’
Simmel picked up the script-board and put a vertical line through the item. He always did this rather ostentatiously with the senior staff — especially Manson — so that they could not say that they hadn’t been told. It was a weapon.
Manson took out a huge, grass-green handkerchief and mopped his brow. Dick made a move towards the door. ‘If there’s nothing else, I must go in to Sir Robert.’
Manson was desperately searching his brain for some remark that might help to even the score. Apart from anything else, he was acutely aware that the Director had made it clear he wished to be alone with Frank Gresham, the Deputy Director; and now the mere P.A. had been called in, though he himself was still excluded. In the end he chose the ‘I’m a bit busy myself’ routine.
As Simmel politely ushered him out of the office he said: ‘Kindly tell the Director I can be found in the laboratory.’
‘Very well, Mr Manson,’ said Simmel. ‘I’ll tell him.’
Meticulously polite though Simmel was on taking his leave, Manson was still somehow left with the impression that he had been thrown out of the office.
Frank Gresham stopped in the middle of a sentence to greet the P.A. ‘‘Mornin’, Dick,’ he said. ‘Spoiled my golf this morning!’
Simmel grinned. ‘Yes, sir. ‘Fraid I did.’ He added: ‘Spoiled Manson’s, too.’ Gresham knew exactly what, he meant, acknowledging it with a slight smile in his eyes only. The Director frowned.
‘The report?’ he said.
Simmel handed it to him. ‘I’ve sent it in for duplication,’ he said. ‘If you’d check it now —’
‘I haven’t time. Is it all right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Dick, crossing his fingers mentally.
The Director glanced up at him for a moment, then picked up his pen and slashed Robert Hargreaves across the bottom of the second sheet. ‘What about the stencil? Hadn’t I better sign that?’
‘It would save time if I stuck an old signature of yours on the bottom.’
‘All right. But, for God’s sake, don’t
ever do that without asking my permission each time.’
‘No, sir,’ said Simmel, looking at the wall. Actually it had become almost standard practice. Hargreaves gave him the full benefit of his stare for a moment. ‘Well, not on anything important, anyway.’ He was really quite human sometimes. He went on: ‘What about that other business — has the letter from that Heatherfield chap been Roneoed?’
‘It’s still in with Duplicating. But I think Kate — I think Miss Garnet has a copy.’
Gresham said: ‘You’d better tell me yourself, Dick. I want to know the background, not just the bare facts.’
‘I’ll talk to Manson,’ said Hargreaves. ‘Is he out there?’ Meaning the outer office — Kate’s domain.
‘He went down to the lab,’ said Simmel.
‘Blast the man! Always disappearing. What does he think I asked him to come here for? Send for him, will you, Dick? No, it’s all right; I’ll get Miss Garnet to. You bring Frank up to date.’ He left the office.
‘Don’t be too technical, old chap,’ said Gresham. ‘You know me!’
Frank Gresham had a large, baby face, rather chubby and rubicund. He wore a regimental-type moustache, giving him the look of a retired army colonel — which in fact he was. He was one of the old school, and liked all the things that went with it — hunting and the rest. At the same time, he regarded himself as a kind of joke, someone left over from a bygone age who had suddenly found himself in an essentially modern job. His gentle dignity was a great asset to the Department; he seemed to be the one imperturbable, the one really stable person in it. He was a good influence, although he lacked the pace, energy and brilliance of the Director himself. He had other qualities, almost as rare, and Hargreaves chose him because of these. He was a throwback to a dying species whose values did not vary with the market price.
Simmel smiled. He had always liked Gresham, had found him a good ally — even a friend. Whenever Simmel had to book him an air passage he always put him on the B.E.A. Viscount flight, whereas people like Manson got any old charter plane that happened to be lying around. In such domestic matters the P.A. wielded a certain amount of power, which he used quite ruthlessly to favour those he thought deserved comfort and consideration.
Gresham said: ‘Is Heatherfield the Nairobi man?’
‘Yes. As you probably know, he will be at the meeting tomorrow.’
‘You’ve spread your net wide,’ he said.
‘It’s not our doing,’ said Simmel. ‘It just happened slowly and inevitably, with no help from anyone.
‘When we got Cartwright’s letter a couple of days ago,’ he continued, ‘the first thing we had to find out was whether this weird phenomenon was confined to one particular tin or whether it was more general. The illness of the child suggested, you see, that she had been eating radioactive food — incredible though it seems — for quite a long time.’
Gresham was doing things with a tobacco-pouch. ‘Do you know how long an illness of this sort would take to develop? I mean, if it were caused by radiation?’
‘Well, I understand Sir Robert had a chat with some people at Bart’s Hospital who specialise in this sort of thing. I gather that leukaemia, for instance, normally takes at least five years.’
Gresham got up from his chair and began to pace the room slowly. Dick noticed for the first time how short he was — he hadn’t seemed so because he had none of the characteristics of small men. Gresham did not speak again until his pipe was going. ‘Surely it’s inconceivable to think that this could have been going on for five years without being detected?’
‘Yes, I think you’re right there. And, of course, the illness and the peculiarity of the tin could be quite unconnected. Still, they did say at Bart’s that in exceptional circumstances, given a big enough dose — especially in the case of a child — an illness could develop a good deal more quickly.’
Gresham suddenly caught sight of an object that had been newly fixed above the door. ‘What’s that thing?’ he said abruptly.
‘It’s a loudspeaker, sir. For relaying incoming telephone calls — so that everyone in the room can hear them.’
‘Good Lord, is it really?’
Simmel smiled and brought him gently back to the point. ‘I was saying about Bart’s. They said the absolute minimum time that any symptoms could be expected would be about two years.’
Gresham was still gazing at the loudspeaker. ‘Two years, eh? Let me see, that takes us to the spring of ‘57.’ He turned round suddenly. ‘Great Scott! You don’t think —’
‘Project 3, you mean? I shouldn’t think so. I imagine Seff and Gatt between them got everything pretty well buttoned-up.’
‘Buttoned-up.’ Gresham ruminated on the phrase for a moment. It seemed to please him. Then: ‘I’m sure you’re right. As I recall it, they didn’t find any pollution of the atmosphere, did they?’
Simmel didn’t really feel competent to discuss the technicalities of the affair. He made another determined effort to get back to the point. ‘This business about Heatherfield.’
‘Sorry, Dick! I keep interrupting. Fire ahead.’
‘That’s okay, sir. Anyway, as soon as we heard from Cartwright we sent urgent signals to just about every hospital — both here and abroad — that we could think of. And the results were all negative — except one. But when we looked into that single instance we found we’d got all we wanted to know. With a vengeance.
‘The cable we got back from Mombasa General Hospital stated that two men had been detained with mild symptoms of what could only be radiation sickness. That’s not the same, of course, as the kind of blood disease that develops eventually if you eat contaminated food. The sickness is always the result of being exposed to external sources of radiation.’
‘What, like getting too near a piece of cobalt-60, or something like that?’
‘Yes. Well, it soon became clear what had happened when the authorities started to investigate. The men concerned were members of a crew of a freight ship called the Henry Starbuck. (Incidentally, she was carrying some passengers on the voyage in question, and that’s where Heatherfield comes in.) The men occupied a cabin immediately in front of the Number One Hold, with only a wooden partition between the cargo and them.’
‘And what was in the hold?’
Dick looked up at him. ‘There were two tons of Spigett’s Baked Beans,’ he said quietly.
II. THE FIRST DAY
CHAPTER FOUR
ARLEN GATT heaved himself into the chair nearest the swing-doors.
You never knew with Gatt. And this morning — the first day of the conference — he seemed quite affable, Kate thought. He sat there, this huge hunk of a man, leafing through some papers he had taken from his battered dispatch-case. He was the first to arrive, having come straight from the airport.
He consulted the large face of his gold wrist-watch and grunted. ‘What time does this performance begin?’ he demanded. Kate told him ten o’clock. ‘Pretty grim, eh, this business? What do you think about it?’ The question evidently didn’t require an answer. ‘Will Mr Seff be here?’
‘He’s flying down specially. He should be here soon.’
‘Well, why run two cars from the airport. I could have waited there for him.’
‘He came R.A.F. and will be landing at Northolt, Mr Gatt.’ Gatt had come via London Airport.
He smiled suddenly. ‘I’d better shut up.’ He didn’t, though. ‘How’s your boy-friend?’
She went a little red. ‘If you mean Mr Simmel, he’s quite well, thank you.’
‘Is that the comparative quite, or the superlative quite?’
‘Just ordinary quite.’
She was well used to this sort of thing from Gatt. He never could resist the temptation to dig into other people’s affairs. It was a kind of game; you scored a goal when you got the other person rattled. But Kate wasn’t easily rattled, so it always went on longer with her. He tried again. ‘Aren’t you his mistress or something?’ he asked inte
restedly.
‘No, I am not his mistress. Or something.’
‘Why not? This Department needs a little sex.’
‘What it needs and what I’m going to provide it with are two different things. But perhaps I’m old-fashioned.’
‘Not old-fashioned. Just unscientific. Don’t tell me you’re going to marry him?’
‘I didn’t tell you I’m going to marry him! He hasn’t asked me to, anyway.’ She was getting rattled now, thought Gatt. Kate said: ‘What have you got, particularly, against marriage? You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.’
‘I’m not talking about me. But if you want the answer to your question, look around.’ He meant Seff, of course.
This, thought Kate, was not quite playing by the rules — even Gatt’s rules, which were pretty malleable. The unhappy state of the Seff home was well-known to her, and in any case Angela Seff would be arriving at any moment and would know intuitively that she was the subject of the conversation. Fortunately Kate was saved from having to make any comment, because Simmel stepped out of the lift with his patent half-run and pushed open the glass swing-doors briskly. He seemed more relaxed this morning.
‘I don’t see my breakfast anywhere,’ he said. Then he saw Gatt.
Kate indicated with a tiny jigger of the eyebrows that all was reasonably calm.
‘You don’t have to signal,’ said Gatt. ‘I survived the flight.’
Simmel’s slight smile was one of relief. ‘How about some breakfast, Mr Gatt?’
‘Mine was courtesy of B.E.A.,’ said Gatt, ‘but you go ahead. Incidentally, why the change of policy?’
‘You mean first-class air travel? Purely shock-tactics, sir. I’ve been reading one of those little books on industrial psychology.’ He sat on the edge of Kate’s desk. ‘New dress,’ he said.
Chain Reaction Page 3