`I don't think the owner is a schoolgirl, Claire.'
`But the hand does look like it was made for a young girl, father. The name I have is Victoria Taylor. Stewards Cottage. They're down for half a litre because the girl is under 16. She's 15. I could find out if the hand is her's and give it to her if it is.'
A 15-year-old schoolgirl! Damn Faraday to eternal hell fires! `Father?'
`Yes -- that's an excellent idea, Claire. Any other information?'
`Mrs Simmons said that the girl works in the `Earthforce' herbal shop on Saturdays.'
Roscoe was an accomplished actor and gave no outward sign of the rage and hatred that churned his soul. It all fitted: Faraday had gone out on Saturday morning. He had gone to the accursed witch's shop and given her apprentice an invitation to the party. It was an omen, of course -- the way the witch kept crossing his path -- God's way of pointing her out to him -- showing his servant that which had to be destroyed. He smiled benignly at Claire and rose to kiss her on the forehead -- his blessing.
`Thank you, Claire. And now perhaps you'd kindly find Sentinel Nelson, please, and tell him that I'd like to see him.’
Chapter 41.
THE SEEING WAS WONDERFUL.
Harding peered through the eyepiece of his telescope and marvelled at the night sky as he tracked the ecliptic plane to locate Jupiter. No light pollution from street lights; no distant flare of Midhurst's lights to the west. The humidity was higher than he would've preferred but there was no cloud.
He straightened and set the telescope's azimuth and elevation vernier scales to centre Polaris -- the Pole Star or North Star. There was no need to check the time because Polaris was always in the same place. Polaris was a 2nd magnitude star, 680 light-years distant, and almost dead above the earth's North Pole axis so that in the course of a 24-hour period, the heavens appeared to rotate around it. It was a celestial hub whose reliable, stationary presence had helped trigger the explosion of great voyages of exploration in the Middle Ages, and the rapid expansion of trade in the northern hemisphere while the southern hemisphere, without a similar reliable star, had largely stagnated.
And it was gone.
Harding checked the telescope's settings. Elevation -- 42.3 degrees; azimuth -- 358.9 degrees; declination: 89 degrees 13 minutes -- almost 90 degrees which was straight up in relation to the equator.
Nothing.
He searched the heavens with the next best instrument to his telescope -- the naked eye. Polaris was in the constellation Ursa Major. The pattern of stars looked like a serving ladle, hence its more common name of the Little Dipper. Polaris itself was at the extreme end of ladle's handle. He located the Little Dipper and was astonished to see that the entire constellation was offset several degrees from its usual position and that it was rotated through 180 degrees so that Polaris was actually the furthest star in the Little Dipper from celestial north.
Harding realized that his gut feelings were correct, and that Malone's comparison with the London Planetarium showing pictures of the night sky as it appeared in the past was a very close analogy to this strange phenomenon he was now witnessing.
The earth is rotating on its axis like a spinning top, and like a spinning top, it precesses or wobbles. The wobble has a period of 26,000 years. It is this wobble which causes Polaris to drift away over the centuries from true north and drift back again.
After taking measurements with the telescope to establish Polaris's new position, Harding set to work with the Skyglobe planetarium program on his laptop computer. It took him a few minutes to come up with an answer. Or rather several answers, each one correct at intervals and half intervals of 26,000 years either side of the present.
The answer he favoured was the one that said the night sky he was seeing was as it would have appeared 40,000 years ago.
Chapter 42.
VIKKI DROPPED HER WATCH on the grass, took a deep breath, and dived into the new swimming pool. The cold punched the breath from her body but she didn't care. It was a glorious morning and she would be able to spend a few minutes soaking up the sun to dry her costume. The two men who had finished filling the pool yesterday had warned that it would soon become unusable without electricity to run the filtration and bromine treatment equipment. So she had decided to enjoy it while she could.
She had always loved swimming but now there was a special joy in being able to drive her lithe body through the water using equal power in both hands. She did a fast crawl, marvelling at her amazing increase in speed. Getting used to her new hand had come easier than she dared hope. She rolled over in the shallow end and propelled herself with seemingly little effort to the deep end using a back stroke.
A blue sky above; a mother who loved her; a mother she loved; two wonderful hands. She felt a special joy coursing through her body -- the joy of one who had been singled out by God to experience a wonderful miracle. Just one dark cloud: she wondered when she would see her beloved father again. But the sombre moment passed quickly and then she was off again, splashing the water to a bubbling foam by frenzied thrashing of her arms and legs, revelling in the sheer joyful exuberance of being whole and being young.
The cold eventually overcame her heady exaltation. She grasped the handrails with both hands, pulled herself up the ladder and felt a renewed surge of joy at having two hands to take her weight.
`Victoria Taylor?'
Vikki snatched up her bath towel and spun around to meet a pair of bright blue, smiling eyes belonging to a pretty girl dressed in the short white skirt and short red smock of a Pentworth House diary maid. She was carrying a basket containing half litre milk cartons. The Pentworth House Dairy logo on her breast brought back the terrors of her ordeal.
`Oh I'm sorry -- did I make you jump?'
Vikki tugged the towel around her shoulders and hid her hands. She returned the girl's smile. `A bit.'
`I'm sorry. I did call out. I thought you heard me. Anyway, hallo. I'm Claire Lake from Pentworth House Dairy. We're delivering milk. You probably heard about it on the radio yesterday evening?'
`Yes -- we did.'
`You're down for half a litre.'
`We've got some Long Life.'
`Fresh, full cream milk from our Jersey herd. Don't worry -- it's free.' Claire smiled and held out a carton.
Vikki snaked her right hand from the towel's folds and took it, thanking the girl.
`Are you Victoria Taylor?'
`No one calls me Victoria. It's always Vikki.'
Claire looked puzzled. `But you are Victoria Taylor?'
`Yes -- of course.'
`Oh... This is yours then.' Claire pulled aside a cloth in her basket and held out Vikki's artificial hand. `You lost it at the party. All that panic when the alarms went off -- it was a bit chaotic, wasn't it?'
Again Vikki's right hand emerged from the security of the towel. She stammered her thanks.
Claire's smile was unwavering. `Glad it's found its home. See you tomorrow... Vikki. We've a lot of calls to make. 'Bye.' She reached the front entrance and turned to look back but Vikki was nowhere to be seen.
`Young lady!'
It was an old woman leaning on a stick who had called out from the front gate of a nearby row of cottages. A large siamese cat was sitting on the gatepost beside her. Both were watching her with interest.
`Yes?' asked Claire politely.
`I'd like some of that milk please.'
`I don't think you're on our list.' Claire smiled engagingly. `I don't mean to be rude but I'm sure you're over 16.'
`I am but he isn't.' The woman jabbed a gnarled finger at the cat. `And I like it in my tea, I do. Can't stand that powdered muck. Nor can he.'
`I'm really sorry, Mrs...?'
`Johnson.'
`Mrs Johnson, but the milk is for children.' She stroked the cat who arched his back and purred loudly. `But he is beautiful. What's his name?'
`Hitler.'
`Hitler?'
`Himmler,' the old woman grumbled. `Nev
er can remember... Little sod, he is. 'Specially if he hasn't had his milk. Gives me hell, he does.'
Himmler regarded Claire sleepily with eyes the colour of the sky. He had scented Jersey full cream milk and was prepared to kill.
`Not mine, he isn't. Belongs to the Taylors I think, but he takes it out on me if he don't get fed.'
Claire had an idea. She half lifted a carton from her basket and seemed undecided. Mrs Johnson's eyes glittered greedily.
`The Taylors have a daughter. Vikki.' Claire made the inquiry sound casual.
`That's right.'
`Tall, slender; long, blonde hair? Green eyes?'
`That's her. Why?'
`We have to make sure the milk goes to the right place. Vikki has one hand. Is that right?'
`Course it's right! Got it torn off in an accident when she was four -- poor little mite. Has to wear a horrible plastic thing.'
`Well -- maybe we can stretch a point this time.'
The carton was snatched from Claire's hand. Mrs Johnson muttered a hurried `thank you' and tried to beat Himmler through the front door but wasn't quick enough.
Chapter 43.
CATHY PRICE HAD ALWAYS BEEN ABLE to stand for short periods in much the same way that a coin can be stood on edge. Simple activities such as cleaning her teeth -- tasks that could be carried out without significant changes in her centre of gravity -- were possible, but she needed to have the security of grab handles close to hand. For this reason her bathroom was fitted with plenty of handles at strategic points.
Thirty seconds under the icy cold shower was as much as she could bear. She backed out of the shower cabinet, her hair and eyes still running with unrinsed shampoo, and groped blindly for a towel. It wasn't in its normal place. She remembered she had left it hanging on the door and took a step towards the door. She reached for a grab handle, and missed. Normally she would've stumbled but this time, to her astonishment, she actually managed to take three steps and reach the door, steady herself, and snatch the towel.
She sat on her linen bin, wiped her eyes, and contemplated the distance from the shower to the door.
Not possible, she told herself. Dear God, I'm having some bad dreams lately.
But you don't have dreams, good or bad, when you're wide awake and your skin is stinging in protest at being under a freezing shower. She pulled on her dressing gown and felt in the pocket for the radio remote control to bring her wheelchair nearer. The machine started towards her, its motor purring sluggishly, and stopped.
Cathy stabbed the remote control but the wheelchair refused to budge.
Damn! It hasn't been charged for two nights. Now what do I do?
She hated crawling. Measuring the distance between herself and the wheelchair with a practiced eye, she decided that a good lurch would enable her reach it. Once seated she could propel it manually. Nuisance not having power but at least she'd be mobile again.
The wheelchair's flat battery meant that its automatic parking brake had failed to engage. The thing rolled out of her clutches when she staggered towards it but instead of falling over she somehow remained standing in an awkward posture that normally would have meant a certain fall.
I'm standing! My God! I'm actually standing!
A moment later Cathy discovered that she could do more than merely stand.
She could walk.
Chapter 44.
THE CHANGE IN ASQUITH Prescott was a surprise to most of the 14 men and women seated at the long table in his Regency-furnished dining room. The usual flamboyant waistcoat had been replaced by a sober short-sleeved white safari suit. He sat at the head of the long table, arms folded, his normally, bland, florid features now set in a stern glower that was directed at the town clerk. Diana Sheldon felt decidedly uncomfortable. Hitherto Asquith Prescott had always been malleable.
`You heard my broadcast yesterday evening, town clerk?'
`Yes, Mr Chairman.'
`And yet you came here by car. Everyone else arrived on foot, or on a bicycle, or in a trap. You came by car--'
`But I had so many papers to bring. The files--'
`I made it abundantly clear that it was to be an informal meeting,' said Prescott mildly. He pointed to a blackboard. `That's the agenda, town clerk. No mention of reading and approving minutes or wading through reports and correspondence. We have urgent business to transact and do not have the time to mess about with your bits of paper. If you were pelted with stones as you came through the town, then all I can say is that you're lucky they weren't bricks. Is that right, Inspector Evans?'
For this meeting the senior police officer was wearing his uniform. `There have been a number of incidents of bricks thrown at vehicles,' he said cautiously, not happy with this set-up.
`But generally the response to my appeal has been 99 per cent?'
The statement was unnecessary; before the meeting had started there had been much comment about the almost total lack of motor vehicles that morning.
`It's been a remarkable response,' Evans replied. He caught Malone's eye. It annoyed him that Prescott had invited a junior officer to attend.
`Self policing is effective policing,' Prescott observed. `It seems that I already have the support of the people.'
`I would be grateful of some police protection when I drive home,' said Diana Sheldon. She was a self-effacing, nervous woman of 55, deeply embarrassed at being the focus of attention. As a practicing solicitor, she hated appearing in court, which was why she had upset her father by leaving the family's law firm and taken on the job of town clerk.
`You won't be driving home, town clerk. I'm sure someone will drop you off in their trap.'
`But--'
`As a local government officer you have a clear duty to set an example just as everyone else has,' said Prescott curtly. `Your car will be looked after but you will not be driving it. It has already been disabled.'
Rather than burst into tears in front of everyone, Diana made a stammered apology, gathered up her belongings, and dashed from the room.
`To business,' said Prescott briskly.
Ellen was about to raise a point of order but was beaten to it by Dan Baldock, a pig-headed pig farmer who made it his business to argue with everything. Not so much because he disliked Prescott, but because he was naturally argumentative. He was a small, greying, sour-faced man. It grieved him that his candour ensured that he was more well-liked than his belligerent manner warranted. He had been made deputy chairman very much against his wishes.
`Point of order, Mr Chairman,' he said. `Can we continue without the town clerk?'
`I was about to move suspension of standing orders, councillor,' Prescott replied. `We need contributions from everyone. Proposer and seconder, please. Only councillors can vote.'
The motion went through on a solid show of hands with Dan Baldock's objections being overruled by Prescott.
`We don't have a law officer present,' Ellen whispered to David. `This can't be legal.'
`You tell 'em, m'dear.'
Ellen decided to remain silent although she was certain that Prescott, who knew Diana Sheldon's sensitive nature, had deliberately provoked her into leaving.
Prescott placed a cassette tape recorder on the table and started it recording. `A one hour tape,' he said. `That's as long as we need. My wife will type a transcript and copies will be made public. I'd like to extend a warm welcome to Inspector Harvey Evans, Sussex Police's Pentworth sector inspector; Gerald Young -- a sanitation engineer, and Dr Millicent Vaughan, head of largest group practice in the area. Detective-Sergeant Mike Malone is here as my aide.'
Malone's impassive expression gave no indication of his dislike of the surprise post.
`That's the agenda on the blackboard, ladies and gentlemen. Let's get started. An apology for absence has been received from Councillor Father Adrian Roscoe. I have a proposal to make concerning our policy towards this crisis and I'd like to hear your views.
`We don't know how long the crisis will last although
Councillor Harding has some views on the matter which we will hear later. What I propose is that this meeting concerns itself with short term essential matters to get us through the next seven days. If the crisis persists, then we will hold another meeting a week from today to deal with the medium term problems to get us through another month. If the crisis persists for thirty days from today, then we will hold a key meeting to decide policy to take us through a year. Let us pray that it won't come to that, but with this approach we establish clear objectives right from the outset. This way we do a few things at a time properly, rather than try to tackle everything at once. Any comments before we vote?'
The majority of those seated at the table were looking at Prescott in admiration mixed with surprise. They had never seen their chairman being so assertive. Even Ellen had to admit to herself that he was showing an astonishing degree of commonsense, and Dan Baldock, who regarded Prescott as something that pigs kept under their tails, looked quite taken back.
`An excellent policy, Mr Chairman,' said a councillor with almost reverence.
Again, the vote was solid. Ellen raised her hand in favour, telling herself that she was there to represent peoples interests and that her personal prejudices were irrelevant.
`Thank you. We start with a report from Councillor Robert Harding on the nature of the force wall and his evaluation of the crisis facing us.'
The tall, stooping figure rose, obliging those sitting near him to twist their necks. Prescott said that he could sit and ruled that all meetings would be conducted sitting.
Using the psychological advantage of being in his own home to establish a few innocuous precedents, thought Malone. Paving the way for more serious ones later. Interesting.
Harding spoke quickly from notes, briefly outlining what everyone now knew about the force wall and moving on to his findings the previous night.
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