“Not your father.”
“Never knew my father.”
“And where did you get a seismometer from?”
“I made it.”
“You made it?”
“It wasn't hard. A piezoelectric crystal to pick up the vibrations, an old alarm clock mechanism to drive the drum. I use toilet roll for the recording paper. I made a few, trying to get them more sensitive, like. And I had a go at setting them up in a network.”
“All this in between shifts down the mine.”
“My mum thinks I'm tapped. I mean I haven't even got any O-levels.” He glanced at Jones uncertainly. “Are you laughing at me, Doctor Jones?”
“On the contrary. I'm starting to think you're a very remarkable young man indeed. But what about Lucifer's Tomb?”
“I found patterns in the seismic traces. All centered on this spot, the Tomb. Something's stirring. But I don't know what.”
“But you do think it would be wise to find out before setting off a ruddy great bomb in the middle of it.”
“Spot on, Doctor Jones.”
They reached the valley and stepped into the light of the floods—and a torch, even brighter, glared in their faces. “Halt!”
Jones shielded his eyes with a raised hand. “Who are you? Could you please get that light out of my eyes? And why is that squaddie pointing a gun at me?”
“I think you could probably risk putting aside the automatic, Sergeant. Sorry about that, sir. I'm Captain Robert Phillips, Coldstream Guards. The question is, who are you?”
* * * *
In the Reiver's Arms, the protesters were getting more raucous than ever.
Buck grinned. “Looks as if everybody's oiled enough to get moving.”
Clare said, “So now we all walk to the base and sing ‘Blaydon Races’ to an H-Bomb.”
Thelma smiled. “I'm sure you'll cope, PC Baines. Can I walk with you?”
“Please. It'll be a pleasure not to have beery breath in my face and a miner's big fat grubby hand on my bum.”
Once they had left the pub and were out in the unseasonably cold autumn air, the group calmed down, pulled on coats and hats, and formed up into a loose column. Their talk became a murmur as they began their walk, their breath steaming in the cool air.
* * * *
Out on the moor, Jones could hear a tannoy sounding from the base's distant cluster of lights.
Winston stirred, anxious. “It's nearly time for the test. We need to—”
Captain Phillips blocked his way. “Thus far and no further, I'm afraid, gentlemen. . . .” He looked up, distracted.
There was a wail, like the wind in the telegraph wires, and a shape like a human eye sketched in pale mist hovered overhead.
Winston breathed, “Doctor Jones. Can you see that?”
“I can indeed. I saw this before, you know. And heard it too. It seems to be hovering over the valley, doesn't it? This is why I'm here, in fact. We had a cluster of reports of such things.” From members of the public—not specialists or cranks, ordinary folk, often reluctant and feeling foolish, describing strange visions to police stations or local papers because they thought it was their duty, reports then filtered through to Jones's desk in Whitehall, to be plotted and correlated. “Can't you see it too, Captain Bob?”
“Marsh gas, probably.”
Jones snorted. “You've been well coached in the official denials!”
Winston said, “You say you saw it before, Doctor Jones. When, exactly?”
“Soon after we arrived.” He glanced at his watch; midnight was approaching. “Ninety minutes ago, give or take?”
“I knew it.”
“You did? Don't tell me. You've been monitoring these things too.”
“Lots of local legends about them. People call them Grendels.”
“Ah. Beowulf's monster.”
“But the name's older than the poem. These things have been seen for centuries. And when they show, there's a definite period to them.”
“Is there, by Jove? And you found it. But why ninety minutes?”
Phillips said unexpectedly, “Spaceships.”
“What was that, Captain Bob?”
Phillips was no more than thirty, tall, languid, with an unwise handlebar moustache. Now he seemed to regret speaking at all. “It's just that I'm something of a space buff. Sputnik and so forth. We used to eat up Dan Dare and Quatermass after lights-out at Cambridge—”
“Oh, good grief.”
“Anyway it's the first thing that popped into my head when you said ninety minutes. Isn't that how long it takes to orbit the Earth?”
“Quite right. That could be quite an insight.”
Winston said, “But what does it mean?”
“I don't know—yet. But in the meantime I think you're right, Winston Stubbins. Whatever's going on here, this is a very foolish place to set off a thermonuclear weapon.”
Phillips said, “And talk like that will get you into trouble, Doctor Jones. I rather think it would be best if you went back the way you came, don't you?”
But Jones could hear voices. He turned to see a crowd approaching, torch beams piercing the misty air.
Winston grinned. “Too late for that, Captain.”
* * * *
The shouts of the protesters were tinny in the command centre's speakers.
Godwin asked, “How's the countdown proceeding, Tremayne?”
“Perfectly well, Commodore Godwin. But I do find myself somewhat distracted by what's going on outside.”
“I'm sure the British authorities will be able to contain any incidents.”
“But that's not the point, is it? It's all very well for us. If anything were to go wrong with the test, we'd be fine. Whereas they—"
Godwin said, “They are not going to stand in the way of the test. After all—let me remind you, Tremayne, that our whole purpose here is to protect this rabble.”
“Rabble? Even if it means killing a few of them to do it?” Tremayne stood, pushing back his chair.
“What are you doing?”
“Maybe if I can make them see the value of the project, they'll disperse peacefully.” He walked away. “Do what you have to do.”
“Kind of wilful, your prof,” he heard Crowne say.
“Boffins! Utopian fools, all of them. The sooner they're all replaced by computers the better off we'll be. Oh, let him out. But continue the countdown.”
“All right. But I think I'd better go after him. . . .”
* * * *
Out on the moor things seemed to be coming to a head, Jones thought. In the dark the shifting lights were confusing, but over the crowd's murmur he heard the flap of a helicopter somewhere overhead—and, he thought, that distant tannoy voice counting down: "Ten minutes."
Thelma found him, trailed by Clare Baines and Buck Grady. “Ah, Thelma. Run out of Babycham, did they?”
“Jones. I should have known I'd find you under arrest.”
“Not yet, Thelma, not yet. But the night is young.”
Clare said, “And you, Winston. I hope he hasn't been giving you any trouble, Captain Phillips.”
Winston said, “So you all know each other. How cosy.”
“We just work together to keep the peace, that's all,” Clare said. “And, cosy or not, this is as far as your boy's-brigade protest march goes.”
Thelma asked, “Jones? What now?”
“Winston here has done a cracking job, but we need to know what's really going on here—aboveground and below. And we certainly need to stop that wretched bomb going off, if we can.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“By going into that base and throwing my weight around.”
Phillips said, “Sir, I must warn you that if you step over the perimeter you'd be liable for arrest for trespassing on MOD property.”
“Trespassing! With an immense thermonuclear egg about to crack under our feet? Oh, isn't that wonderfully British? And besides, I am the MOD.
”
Buck said, “Yeah, well, if you get as far as that fence over there you'll come up against the US army and you'll get your ass shot off. And that won't be so British, will it?”
Winston grinned. “Never mind him, Doctor Jones. You're not alone. Haway the lads!” His rabble-rousing was rewarded by a ragged cheer, and the crowd behind him began to march towards the lights of the base.
Phillips said, “Well, that's torn it. Oh, do put that automatic away, Sergeant, you wave it around like a magic wand. Look—tell the men to fall back to fifty yards from the fence and establish a perimeter. And you, PC Baines, I suggest you call for a bit of back-up. Right, you lot. Move!”
* * * *
Crowne stood with Tremayne just outside the base fence. The crowd noise competed with the helicopter passes, and the tinny bellow of the tannoy. “Professor Tremayne, are you sure about this?”
“Major, a civilised society can only organise its affairs through reason and dialogue.”
“Okay, Professor, if you say so. Look, I want to leave all this to the British authorities if I can. But the first sign of trouble and my boys wade in. Is that clear, sir?”
“Perfectly, Major Crowne.”
“Here they come. And who the heck is this?”
Jones marched up to the fence boldly; he had never believed in timidity. “Who's in charge here?”
An older man in civilian clothes stepped forward. “That's an interesting question, philosophically.”
“Philosophically, eh? I'm Doctor Chapman Jones. And you are?”
“Professor John Tremayne. Attached to Advanced Concepts, Ministry of Defence.”
Thelma walked up. “Professor, we're Ministry of Defence too—from Defence Secretariat 8.”
Tremayne stared. “DS8? Not the saucer-chasers!”
Jones, irritated, tried to be stern. “Is this your project, Tremayne, this great bomb in the Earth?”
“Project Hades was my conception, yes.”
“Then you have to stop it, man, if you still can.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because the geology here may be unstable in some way. There's a focus of seismic activity right under our feet.”
“You have evidence for this, I suppose.”
“Winston! Come here.”
Winston trotted up, grinning, excited.
Tremayne asked, “And you are?”
“Winston Stubbins, sir.”
“Oh, I don't care about your name, boy. What's your affiliation? Cambridge, London, the Geophysical Survey?”
Jones said, “His affiliation is with me. He's an independent scientist, and potentially a fine one, if I'm any judge. And he has strong evidence that—”
“Show me this evidence,” Tremayne snapped.
Winston said, “It's at home. I have this trunk where I keep the toilet rolls.”
“Toilet rolls? Is this some kind of joke?
A wavering wail cut the air, and a shifting light fled overhead.
Thelma cried, “Another one! What are those things?”
Jones said, “Professor—look up at what's buzzing your base! Have you any idea what that is?”
“Do you?”
“Well, no. Not yet. But I'm not the one about to let off a bomb, am I?”
“Oh, this is stuff and nonsense. Jabbering about seismic foci from a boy who's probably been reading too much science fiction. And visions in the sky from you!”
Jones said, exasperated, “All right. But at least just wait a bit until we can find out more.”
“I'm afraid progress has its own timetable, Jones.”
“And will you risk all these people's lives for the sake of that timetable? Ah, that got through to you, didn't it? I can see you have a conscience, Tremayne. Men like you always do, oddly. Scientists who go to war: Archimedes, Leonardo, Oppenheimer. I've studied them, and the dilemma's always the same.”
“I won't stop the countdown, sir. I can see I'm wasting my time.” Tremayne, looking oddly disappointed, turned and walked back towards the open gate in the fence.
* * * *
Winston was agitated and unhappy. The people who had marched up behind him were growing restless, their vague drunkenness turning sour. The squaddies hefted their weapons uncertainly.
"One minute commit point approaching. One minute go no-go. Committed. Committed—"
Jones checked his watch. “One minute to midnight! How appropriate that the Devil's coffin should be blown open at the stroke of Halloween.”
Thelma said, “So what do we do, Jones?”
“We need more information. Where's the nearest university library?”
“Newcastle, I imagine. Why?”
“Get over there. Take Winston. Dig up all you can. Seismic traces and the like. Winston has his own records going back several years—fetch those too. And anecdotes, folklore about these Grendels. Anything you can find.”
“And how exactly are we supposed to get into Newcastle at this time of night?”
Winston grinned. “I can think of a way.”
“My best bet is that if that wretched bomb goes off we'll have ninety minutes of grace before—whatever it is—responds. If you can report back before then—”
Thelma murmured, “A full research project in ninety minutes, eh? And what are you going to do, Jones?”
“See what I can learn about what's going on here. Which means, I'm afraid, getting into that wretched base.”
“Now, Jones—”
“Go, go, shoo!” And he ducked into the shadows and ran towards the fence, chasing after Tremayne.
He heard Clare Baines calling after him. “Doctor Jones! Doctor Jones!” She came running, moving rather more rapidly than he was.
“Tremayne! Surely it still isn't too late to stop all this!”
"Zero."
The explosion was like a door slamming deep in the Earth.
* * * *
2
Monday 31st October. 0012.
Jones, with Clare Baines, was hurried in through the gate and past the surface buildings of the sprawling base—Jones thought he recognised a softball field—and then taken down a flight of steps into an underground facility, a steel cave that echoed with shouts and sirens, and a deeper mechanical groan, the aftershock of the detonation. It was pretty obviously a nuclear bunker, Jones thought. They were led down corridors and pushed at last into a blank-walled holding room. Buck Grady took up a position by the open door, his hand resting on his holstered revolver.
Jones sighed. “Well, this is turning out to be a jolly Halloween night. Anyone got a pumpkin?”
Grady said, “Don't push your luck, Jones.”
A senior Air Force officer approached—a commodore, Jones recognised—accompanied by the tweedy figure of Tremayne, and an American officer.
“Ah, Tremayne!” Jones called. “So who's this chap with the fruit salad all over his chest?”
“That is Air Commodore Godwin, who's in command here, and you'd better rein in those jokes of yours, Jones.”
The American said, “And my name's Joseph Crowne, Major, US Army. Senior American officer here. And you are, sir?”
Clare said, “This is Doctor Chapman Jones—”
“Of Defence Secretariat 8, Ministry of Defence.”
Godwin said, “And what are you doing here?”
“I'm going to find out exactly what you're up to here, Commodore Godwin,” Jones said. “And, if necessary, put a stop to it.”
Tremayne bristled. “By what authority?”
And Godwin said calmly, “Sergeant Grady. Draw your weapon.”
Buck hesitated. “Sir, his credentials do check out.”
“Just do it, soldier.”
Buck glanced at Crowne.
“Do as he says, Sergeant.” Buck took his revolver from a holster.
Clare said, “Commodore Godwin. That's not necessary. I'm a police officer. This man is in my custody.”
“I'll tell you why it's necessary. Here we h
ave a man who has just declared his specific intent to disrupt the operations of my base.”
“And I am a copper who sees a gun being drawn.”
“Little girl, you are out of your depth. Stand aside now or share his fate.”
Jones said, “You don't need to do this, Clare.”
“I'm not going anywhere.” Clare stood her ground.
Godwin snapped, “Then take them both down to a holding cell.”
Again Buck hesitated. Crowne said, “It's all right, Sergeant, do as he says.”
“I'm sorry, Doctor Jones, Clare,” Buck said. “Let's go.”
Jones called over his shoulder, “I can see we're going to have some interesting chats, you and I, Commodore!”
Tremayne was saying, “You've exceeded your authority, Commodore. I'm going to report this to my own superiors at the ministry.”
“Do what you like. I've got work to do.”
* * * *
Thelma Bennet had never ridden a motorbike in her life. As they plummeted along a darkened road she clung to Winston's back like a child to its mother.
Winston called over his shoulder, “Fifteen minutes to Newcastle. You all right back there, Thelma?
“Not really! How come you learned to handle a police motorcycle?”
“Clare's given me a few joy rides. Mind you, she'll kill me for pinching this.”
“You are close, you two, aren't you?”
“Oh, she's much too good for me.”
“Don't ever think that. And did Clare teach you how to hot-wire it too?”
“Not exactly.”
“You're a complicated person, Winston.”
“It's life that's complicated. Woah!”
The bike swerved drastically, avoiding an oncoming truck by inches, and Thelma gasped.
“Sorry.”
“Where are we going first?”
“Home. Gateshead, over the Tyne. I've got some toilet rolls to pick up. And you can meet my mum.”
* * * *
Outside the base, there was little disorder. But the protesters had not dispersed, Phillips saw; gradually sobering up, they gathered in little knots, blowing on their hands.
Buck Grady approached, drawing on a cigarette.
“Ah, Sergeant Grady.”
“Sir. Everything under control out here?”
“After a fashion. Listen, I couldn't scrounge a ciggie, could I?” Phillips took a cigarette from Buck's pack, found a match, and lit up. “Ah, that's good. Gave all mine away to pacify the locals. Just farmers, mostly, fuelled by the local witches’ brew. But they've a right to be concerned, haven't they, Sergeant? It's the sense of powerlessness, you see. Even though the project is under nominal British control.”
Analog SFF, July-August 2010 Page 31