Temple of the Winds

by James Follett

  `You sound horribly crackly,' said Adrian Roscoe curtly, his voice losing little of its richness over the antiquated system.

  `Try shaking the headphone. It always works for a few minutes and then you have to do it again. Something to so with shaking up carbon granules according to my engineers who did the installation.'

  Roscoe grunted. `That's better. Well -- congratulations, Asquith. A working telephone system.'

  `You're my third call,' said Prescott smugly. `It's going to make our work of effective administration so much easier. Official opening is on Tuesday. You've received your invitation, I trust?'

  `I need to see you before then.'

  `Like when?'

  `Like now.'

  `The carnival will be getting underway soon,' said Prescott. `I'll put you back to my secretary who will be pleased to make an appoint--'

  `It's an urgent matter which is in both our interests to discuss, yours particularly. I'll be around in five minutes.' Roscoe hung up before Prescott had a chance to reply.

  He replaced the headphone on the unfamiliar hook and turned to the window. He had a good idea of what was on the cult leader's mind and took a pair of binoculars from his desk drawer. It didn't take long to pick out Vikki Taylor's long, ash blonde hair. She was wearing rubber gloves, helping soak chicken quarters in marinade. He focussed on her left hand and noticed that the fingers were half-clenched, and when she needed to hold something using her left hand, she did so by holding it in an awkward manner against her body with her wrist. There had been a mistake, of course; the girl with two normal hands in the camcorder tape that Roscoe had him shown just had to be a different girl.

  Ellen Duncan joined the girl and they chatted animatedly. Prescott wondered if Roscoe's justified hatred of the woman could be turned to his advantage. He had a rough plan worked out by time Diana was showing the leader of the Bodian Brethren into his office.

  `Adrian!' said Prescott expansively, slipping the binoculars into the drawer. `A rare pleasure. Please take a seat. What do you think of my new office? Impressive, eh?'

  Roscoe was wearing his customary white monk-like habit. He sat and trained the full power of his cobalt blue eyes on Prescott without showing a flicker of interest in the office. `I've heard a most disturbing rumour that you're planning some sort of assault on the Wall, Asquith. Is this true?'

  `Not true,' Prescott replied, pleased that he no longer experienced discomfort when Roscoe fixed those hypnotic eyes on him. `But Bob Harding is hatching something.'

  `On your authority.'

  `On his own authority. We're a free society, Adrian. If a man wants to use his initiative--'

  `Raising a hand against the Wall would be a blasphemy! It was placed there by God as a punishment for our sins, and will be removed by Him only when we have cleansed ourselves of the evil within.'

  Prescott had heard this before. Roscoe had taken to touring the town to preach his message from a phaeton, using his gift of oratory and those extraordinary unblinking eyes to gather surprisingly large and attentive crowds.

  `He's good,' Diana had reported to Prescott. `He held forth at the public loo near the fire station and I got the impression that a number of people believed him.'

  `So you're saying,' said Prescott to Roscoe, choosing his words carefully, `that God will smite down anyone who raises their hand against the Wall?'

  `I'm not saying anything of the sort, Asquith. What I'm saying is that such actions will add to the sum total of the stinking cesspool of sin in this community and make His removal of the Wall that much more unlikely.'

  Prescott nodded. `I understand your point of view on the matter, Adrian. Perhaps you'd listen to mine. The people want the Wall destroyed--'

  `God's will is all-important!' Roscoe snapped. `What the people want is of no consequence!'

  Prescott held up his hand. `They have suffered a great deal as a result of the Wall, Adrian. They do not see it in the same light as you do.'

  `We are winning converts everyday,' Roscoe interrupted.

  `I'm delighted to hear it. But forgive me, Adrian, not everyone thinks as you do. I have to take all views into consideration. Bob Harding believes that the Wall has been put in place by extra-terrestrials that may be dead now for all we know. He is convinced that the Wall's physical properties must conform to engineering principles that we may be able to overcome even if we don't understand them.'

  `And you approve of this blasphemy?'

  `I want to see that Wall destroyed as much as anyone,' Prescott replied. It was a monumental lie -- the destruction of the Wall would mean the end of his power and he planned to veto Harding's plan when it was put forward, but there was no harm in letting Roscoe think otherwise.

  The cult leader gestured to the intercom. `Is that thing live?' `We can talk,' said Prescott.

  `You remember the last time you dined at Pentworth House?'

  `Indeed I do. An excellent meal.'

  `You got a little drunk.'

  `I did?' Prescott looked suitably shocked.

  `Perhaps you were too drunk to recall that one of my sentinels, a rather lovely girl called Theta, took you back to her room for some massage treatment... I'm sorry to have to admit to this, Asquith, but a member of my staff is keen on candid photography. He's been a nuisance at times with his camera. Digital -- just the thing for taking pictures in low light without flash. When I discovered that he'd taken pictures of you and Theta, I was naturally extremely angry. Imagine the fuss if such pictures got into circulation...'

  The two men regarded each other. Prescott thought fast -- his political cunning at its sharpest when his hide was on the line. He chuckled. `Please don't worry, Roscoe. They must be very boring pictures because nothing happened between Theta and myself.'

  `You are hardly likely to recollect what happened,' said Roscoe pointedly. `You were drunk.'

  `Drunk in a friend's house? Dear me. I would never allow such a thing to happen. I rather pride myself on being able to hold my drink. Yes -- we went back to the lovely Theta's room, and, yes -- she did give me a massage.' Prescott met Roscoe's eye and chuckled again. `An excellent massage, too -- just as you promised. You see? I can recall your words. Naturally, seeing the excited state the girl was in, and not wishing to abuse your splendid hospitality, I deemed it best to pretend to fall asleep. On my stomach, of course. A little sex siren, that young lady, Roscoe. Why -- she even tried to turn me over. But I'm a big man. So please don't worry. As I say, they must be extremely boring pictures.' He paused and added, `As I'm sure you must be aware.'

  Roscoe had been a professional actor therefore there was nothing about his demeanour to suggested anything other than an icy calm.

  Prescott sat back and smiled blandly. His political antenna told him that Roscoe was shaken; he was pleased with himself for having turned everything to his advantage. The truth was that he had been drunk, but Roscoe had overdone the brandy -- he would've gone along with the girl had he not fallen asleep. Like most seasoned drinkers, he could recall his activities when drunk. He knew he had fallen asleep on his stomach, woken in the same position, and correctly guessed that nothing had happened that he didn't know about other than his snoring.

  `Next time you want my co-operation, Adrian, it might be best if you came right out with it instead of resorting to silly games.'

  Roscoe remained silent, temporarily wrong-footed by this unexpected political sleight from a man he had considered stupid.

  `Let me guess what on your mind, Adrian,' said Prescott softly. `The Duncan woman? Correct?'

  `God wants that daughter of Satan destroyed!' Roscoe snapped, recovering his spirit. `What I want is of no consequence. I am merely His servant.'

  `Yes -- well it may be that what God wants, what you want, and what I want, are one and the same thing,' said Prescott smoothly. `For example, I could find a use for those security men you're stuck with.'

  `They've been useful on the farm,' said Roscoe guardedly.

  `That's not wh
at I've heard, Adrian. I need a security team to guard this building so it could be that you and I could do a little deal.'

  Roscoe left ten minutes later leaving Prescott feeling very pleased with himself. It was now only a matter of time before he was rid of Ellen Duncan, and possibly her lover. With those two off the council, plus persuading two more to stand down so that he could co-opt a couple of compliant friends, would give him absolute control.

  Of course, to do that would mean ruling out an election on the grounds of cost even if ten electors demanded it under the Representation of the People Act, but that shouldn't prove too difficult. Much depended on getting around Diana Sheldon.

  That was the easy bit.

  Chapter 63.

  FROM THE NUMBERS ARRIVING early to be sure of a good position, it seemed that the entire population of Pentworth was going to be crowded into Market Square for the spring carnival.

  `Looks like we needn't have bothered setting up the radio link,' one of Bob Harding's assistants observed as he and a colleague tested the microphones that had they had installed on the stage. `Radio Pentworth's first outside broadcast and there won't be anyone at home to hear it.'

  Helpers were carrying plastic garden tables and chairs from the Crown and stacking them around the square. Several consignments of folding trestle tables and folding benches had arrived on horse-drawn carts, the beasts less nervous and skittish these days having got used to the unfamiliar harnesses. Electricians were stringing coloured lights from the buildings overlooking the square and routing the supply cable to the big mobile generator parked in an adjoining street. The speakers, sound amplifiers and light show equipment that had been rented for the party at Pentworth House were also being pressed into service.

  Aluminium kegs filled with raw but drinkable cider, and crates of plastic bottles of apple and pear juice were stacked around the town stocks. By tradition, the worm-eaten timbers of the ancient punishment device were still pressed into service for a few minutes every 1st January, amid much hilarity and lewd behaviour, as a ritual punishment for the first drunk of the new year. A large sign proclaimed similar treatment for tonight. The maypole had already been erected in its traditional position near the Crown. A custard pie vendor was setting up a stall. His wares had become the traditional ammunition to be used against the spring witch.

  Vikki and Sarah, both dressed in denim shorts and halter-neck blouses at Sarah's insistence, had been among the helpers who had started work early that morning. Because they were under 16 they had to do only six hours of community service at weekends before they could receive fully-charged batteries from the power depot for their tape players. Life without pop music was unbearable and helping with the carnival seemed as an agreeable way as any of meeting their commitments.

  The long barbecue occupied one side of the square. Charlie Crittenden and his sons were unloading sacks of charcoal from a hay wain drawn by Titan, and a team of butchers were busy with cleavers and saws, preparing the sides of beef on makeshift shambles. 20 beasts donated by Prescott Estates had been slaughtered for the event. Tony Warren, a master butcher who ran a family butchers shop on the outskirts of the town, was in charge of the cooking. A big, powerful man -- plagued with worries about there not being enough meat to feed a possible 6000 revellers but delighted to have the chance to do some real butchering and cooking of prime beef. But the amateurs he had working for him... If the crisis continued there would have to be a training scheme.

  `You're cutting those steaks too thick!' he bellowed at Sarah.

  `Knife's got blunt again!'

  Warren sighed and seized his steel. They didn't even know how to put an edge on knives without the aid of electric sharpeners.

  `Vikki! Where the hell is that girl?'

  `Right here, Mr Warren.' The butcher wheeled around. He found it impossible to be angry with such impossibly green eyes. `Go and find out what's happened to that wagon load of spuds.'

  `Right away, Mr Warren.'

  Vikki darted through the crowd to the Government House. She was the messenger between the carnival organizers and Pentworth's centre of government. She no longer worried about people seeing her left hand simply because she had learned not to use it in a dexterous manner in public and always wore gloves now. There were the inevitable rumours about her having a special bionic hand that had cost her father thousands, but the few overt starers were thwarted by the gloves. Even her return to school hadn't been the ordeal she had expected, largely because her fellow pupils had been drilled by teachers over the terms into not taking much notice of her hand.

  `And you think this is one of Prescott's better ideas,' Ellen commented sourly to David who was helping her on the tea stall to prepare bags of her herbal tea. Pentworth's stock of conventional was virtually exhausted.

  David grinned. `Council meeting held in public? Followed by a barby, and music and dancing? I thought you were in favour of open government, m'dear?'

  It wasn't the first time that Ellen realized that she was beginning to find David's mode of address irritating. `I am. But we weren't given the chance to decide, were we? All we get now are fait accomplis. Like that requisition you received for the community to have the use of your wagons and horses for so many hours a week.'

  It was David's turn to be annoyed. `The rural museum isn't important now, Ellen, but the implements are.' He stopped work and watched Charlie Crittenden piling empty sacks onto the hay wain. `In fact I get a real kick out of seeing my wagons being put to good use.'

  Ellen spotted Bob Harding's tall figure in the crowd and dived after him, telling David that she would be gone only a few minutes. She was back twenty minutes later. `Five councillors agree that we should have the chance to vote on the matter,' she declared. `With your vote and mine, that ought to be enough to swing it.'

  David chuckled. `You mean we vote on whether or not to vote?'

  `We vote to keep power with the council where it belongs!' Ellen snapped.

  `Your lobbying had an audience,' David commented. `Prescott is watching you from his office window.

  Ellen looked up at the fourth floor of Government House just as Asquith Prescott was closing his sash window. `Bugger,' she said succinctly. `I'd forgotten about his new lair. Do you think he's guessed?'

  David shook his head uncertainly. `I don't know, m'dear. A month ago I would have said that he was too stupid to put two and two together and make anything other than three or five. Now I'm not so sure.’

  Chapter 64.

  THE BUSTLE OF PREPARATIONS in the square below was muted when Prescott slammed the sash shut. The window tended to jam. It annoyed him that an important detail had been overlooked when the room had been prepared for him. Looking resplendent and relaxed in a fresh white safari suit, he stood gazing across the square at Ellen Duncan and David Weir for a few moments before turning to regard his visitor.

  `Well, Harvey?'

  The senior police officer shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Prescott's huge desk was intended to be intimidating but Harvey Evans was not easily intimidated. `I can't accept the idea, Asquith,' he said bluntly.

  Prescott perched his large frame on a corner of the desk and idly swung a leg. `Why not?'

  `The dissolution of the police force--'

  `That's not the word I used,' said Prescott mildly. `I said, reconstitution.'

  `God dammit, man! It amounts to the same thing! I can't accept it.'

  `Unfortunately we're not in the position of being able to enjoy the luxury of personal choice, Harvey.' Prescott pointed to a stack of papers on his desk. `Those are a whole host of council orders that need to be implemented quickly. They cover the ten per cent transaction tax that the bank working party has come up with, the requisitioning of food stocks held by growers, forfeiture of hoarded stocks, spot fines for unlicensed fires or illegal use of motor vehicles, and the handing over of all shotguns, cartridges, and CB radios. All unpopular measures and yet they must be enforced in the wider interests of the whole community
. We've tried coping with the existing police force and we've failed. We don't want a repeat of the Howland's Farm debacle, do we?'

  Evans did not have an immediate answer ready. The previous week two police officers had accompanied a government bailiff with a search warrant to an outlying farm. The bailiff had found a tonne of seed potatoes which he decided to impound. The farmer had refused to recognise the legality of the search warrant or the authority of the bailiff. He used a CB radio to summons help and the whole thing would have turned into a major incident with serious injuries all round had Evans not ordered his men to withdraw. One of the officers was still off sick which meant that he had one WPC and two PCs on daytime response. All his other officers were committed on escort and enforcement duties.

  The silence in the office was broken by the sound of the public address system in the square being tested. Evans stood and looked down at the activity below. Tables and chairs for councillors were being positioned on the stage, and more kegs of cider were being unloaded around the stocks.

  `With respect, Asquith. These fun and games you're organising only add to the pressure on my officers.'

  `Bringing the Mayday carnival forward is a big morale booster, Harvey. And Sergeant Malone's novel ideas on the control of excessive drinking should ensure that it doesn't get too out of hand. Anyway, dealing with drunkenness is hardly a problem -- nothing like the trouble we're getting with people refusing to accept the transaction tax or hand over their CBs and shotguns. You can't cope, Harvey. And you know you can't.'

  `There's my list of five specials to be recruited,' Evans began.

  `Five! What damned use are five? You said yourself that the ideal number to provide proper 24-hour response cover would be at least fifty.' Prescott picked up a list and gave them to the police officer. `Names and addresses of 20 volunteers that my staff have collected. Fulltime. That starts to give us a sensible force with your five.'

  Evans ran his eye down the list. `Some of these are in my morris men side.'