by John Gardner
‘The ideal would be to have two reserves. You see we must use people who are expendable in case of accidents.’
‘So I’m expendable?’
‘Certainly. Can you give me one reason why you should be preserved? Have you any unique talent to give to the world?’
‘I’m unique for Chrissake.’
‘You are a puny middle-aged scientist. A junior at that, by your own admission. To be a junior at your age is a signature on your death sentence. Anyway, whoever carries out this experiment will come back. They have to. If I had to use you, you might be very pleased with the result. You would certainly have fame and possibly fortune.’
Fame and fortune were two words always calculated to calm Boysie. On this occasion they only offered mild sedation.
‘As I said,’ continued the Seducer, ‘it would be ideal to have reserve astronauts for both. It is one thing about the planning that I do not like. It should have been taken into consideration, especially as we are not using trained astronauts for the experiment.’
‘You’re going to shoot people up in space, up above clouds, without training them?’
‘As long as their health is moderately good there is little danger. The whole technical operation is controlled from the ground. The pair will have plenty on their minds. My experiment will occupy them almost totally. The only real training required will be for handling the lifting body, Sext, after re-entry.’
‘Well what is the experiment? And who’ve you conned into taking part?’
The Seducer allowed his pointed face to screw up in a manner which suggested he was smiling. ‘We have one Russian and one American. You will back-up the American. If you have to go, the balance will still be good. One Russian and one Englander.’
‘What about the Russian then?’
‘I do not know what we will do if the Russian gets ill. But at least I will have covered myself if the American goes down. It could happen. They are both a little nervous.’
‘I’m not bloody surprised.’
The headquarters came in sight again.
‘You will now undergo a pretty exhaustive medical,’ said the Seducer as the Landrover came to a standstill. ‘That should take you until lunchtime. After lunch you must be briefed on handling Sext. If anything goes wrong with the American I think we can train you fairly quickly for my experiment.’ He contorted his face again. To Boysie it had the effect normally only observed in crazy mirrors at the fairground. Sighing deeply, and with desperate nervous tremors, Boysie followed the Seducer into the building. It seemed as though the only possible chance for him to find out about the project was some plague visiting the American astronaut. And what might follow was really unthinkable.
There were two doctors. The first, a sallow sliver of a man, dealt solely with Boysie’s body. Eyes, ears, nose, throat, chest, blood pressure, reflexes, clinical history and …
‘Urinate in that would you,’ said the doctor pointing to a tall measuring jar sitting lone and happy on a shelf across the room.
‘From here?’ Boysie asked frivolously.
The doctor gave him a ‘Me-make-heap-bad medicine’ look. Boysie wilted and obeyed to the best of his ability.
There followed an X-ray and the dreaded electro-cardiograph which proved to be difficult, Boysie’s chest being abnormally hairy, thus making it almost impossible to keep the suckers in place.
If the general medical gave Boysie a certain amount of trouble, he certainly was not prepared for the next doctor. Here he was placed face to face with a smooth-faced, chubby man sporting such a heavy Germanic accent that he sounded like a standard Nazi commandant from any British B movie.
‘Just sit down here. That is good. We talk now, ja?’
‘Ja … er … yes.’ Boysie squirmed in his chair.
‘First then let me ask some simple questions about autoeroticism.’
For the next hour Boysie was cross-examined to almost embarrassing degree, about his very private life. Slowly and painstakingly the most incredible information about Boysie’s sex life began to emerge. And the doctor did not just confine himself to questions. A complicated electronic apparatus was strapped to Boysie’s arm.
‘This will test your sexual response to colours, smell, words and many other things,’ said the doctor.
‘I wouldn’t have thought it was my arm you needed to fix it to.’ Boysie now totally surrendering himself to the charade.
It was one o’clock before the medics let him go. Both the Sorcerer and Seducer were waiting for him. The Seducer left to confer with the doctors while Boysie was piloted to a comfortable and pleasantly situated canteen. The food was not bad by institutional standards and Boysie, together with the Sorcerer, sat at a table marked Reserved for Senior Personnel and their Assistants. They were joined by Solomon who did not seem inclined to talk. Boysie glowered in Solomon’s direction, hatred welling up as he again heard Constanza’s final scream. Solomon’s presence at least fortified Boysie’s determination to sabotage progress on Wizard.
The Seducer arrived next.
‘All right?’ asked the Sorcerer with raised eyebrows.
‘Very good indeed.’ The Seducer again went into his facial contortions. ‘In some ways he is better suited than Yetsofar.’
‘Indeed,’ commented the Sorcerer archly.
At that moment there was a slight stir at the far end of the canteen. The dozen or so guards and technical staff stopped eating to look at the door. A small group of people had entered, the most striking being a young woman. Even with her body part hidden by the blue coveralls which she wore, Boysie recognized a really splendid lady. She was tall, leggy one would suppose, an oval face framed with long blonde hair hanging untidily round her shoulders. She walked with the confidence of a model combined with a natural sensuality. It was as though Vogue and Playboy had got together and, between them, produced the amalgamated woman. Boysie found he was holding his breath.
The girl was escorted by a wardress-type female, almost a carbon copy of the one who had led Constanza away to death.
Behind the pair walked a guard accompanying a tall and equally beautiful young man, a rare piece of beef-cake with cropped blond hair and a body which did not shout at you with aggressive muscles. He looked clear eyed, tanned and wholesome as rye bread and corned beef hash.
The man and the woman were escorted to the table. Once they were seated opposite each other, the wardress and the guard stood back.
‘Good morning. Are you well?’ The Seducer addressed them in English.
The couple nodded politely but did not speak.
‘I must introduce you to my apprentice. Apprentice, meet Sonya and Yetsofar, this is the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.’ The girl inclined her head with a grave little smile. ‘Hi-ya buddy,’ said Yetsofar.
‘They are …?’ Boysie began.
‘Our astronauts,’ said the Seducer. ‘Sonya is from Tiflis, Georgia, USSR. And Yetsofar comes from Atlanta, Georgia, USA.’ Then turning to Sonya and Yetsofar. ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice has been briefed concerning the Sorcerer’s part in the operation. No more. You will be circumspect when conversing with him.’
They nodded and immediately put their circumspection to the test by not speaking to Boysie. Boysie tried, vainly, to strike up some kind of a friendship with Yetsofar, who was seated next to him, without success.
After the meal, the astronauts were led away by their respective guards.
‘You keep a tight rein on them,’ said Boysie to the Sorcerer as they walked towards the main entrance of the complex where the inevitable Landrover was waiting to take them out to the launch site.
‘One has to be careful,’ agreed von Humperdinck.
Twenty minutes later they were in the Sorcerer’s hangar.
‘I must now give you the, handling instructions for Sext,’ smiled the Sorcerer, pleased once more at this opportunity to display his triumph. ‘All we really need to do is run over the instruments and controls.’ Then, as though a terrible pr
oblem had struck him. ‘You do fly don’t you? Of course, you would not be in the Simulator business if you couldn’t fly.’
‘Fly?’ said Boysie, gritting his teeth. ‘Me? Like a bird, Sorcerer, like a bloody bird.’
‘Of course.’
‘Like a damn great shithawk,’ muttered Boysie below his breath. For a second he remembered the one terrifying time when he had, alone and unaided except for orders from a ground control, piloted an aircraft to safety. Now, near to the possibility of doing it again, his stomach began a hesitation roll. True he knew the simple things, like if you pushed the stick forward you went down, backwards you went up, unless you did not have enough power, from side to side you dipped the wings in a bank, while pushing on the foot pedals took you in the direction you wished to go. But that was about all.
‘Come, then let’s get you into the cockpit.’
‘Cockpit,’ mused Boysie. ‘More like a cock-up.’
Humperdinck helped him into the pilot’s seat. The whole cockpit was surprisingly wide, controls on the left, and a battery of instruments. Plenty of room in the right hand seat for a passenger. Climbing in beside Boysie, Humperdinck first showed him how to lock the canopy.
‘The flying controls are normal,’ he continued. ‘As are the flight instruments. The panel directly in front of you, as you can see, is standard, except that the instruments are from different countries of origin. We try to get the best. To the left you have the Machmeter; she will exceed speeds of Mach 3, of course. Engine instruments to the right. Throttle control for the turborocket marked in red, on the centre pedestal, below that the twin throttles for the turbofans marked yellow. Flaps and trim on the left of the pedestal.’
Boysie sat back, at least he could identify the throttles and flaps. That would be a help.
‘Gear selector, up or down, under the dash towards the centre. Three warning lights just above it.’ Humperdinck went on oblivious of Boysie’s incomprehension. ‘Now, as well as the standard altimeter, you will notice there are two vertical altimeters, graded in feet and miles. Also, on either side of the panel you have a radio altimeter, these are the dual altimeters which work in connection with a highly developed automatic landing devise based on the Bendix Precision Approach and Landing System.’
‘Really?’ Boysie still keeping his end up.
‘Yes, very interesting. You have an autopilot coupler, which locks on to the ILS beacon amplifier coupler, the dual radio altimeters, two flare computers, a standby gyro-horizon, yaw damper and monitors to check the operation of the auto-pilot and instruments. And, of course, there is the automatic throttle control.’
‘Of course.’ Boysie grinned.
‘See,’ said Humperdinck leaning over the controls and pointing out the instruments. ‘There you have the approach control panel, approach and progress display, first and second low range radio altimeters; autopilot and throttle warning lights. Simple.’
‘You mean I just flick this switch and it all happens?’
‘First catch your airfield, Apprentice, eh?’
‘Yes.’ Boysie prayed he would never be called to operate the infernal machine.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon going through the various drills, concerning Sext. It was interesting enough, thought Boysie, but it certainly did not put him in a stronger position concerning sabotage. He worried at the situation all through dinner. Sonya and Yetsofar joined them again, and again they remained stolidly silent.
At nine-thirty the Sorcerer escorted him back to his room. There followed the same routine as on the previous night. His door was locked from the outside and there followed the snuffling and scratching of a dog.
It was a long time before Boysie got to sleep. And even then his slumber was far from sound. The terror nightmares began to trick his mind. He was in the pilot’s seat of Sext going at an enormous speed. Next to him sat Constanza, her head turned away from him. The ground was coming up fast, then, from nowhere, the killer Alsatians were scratching on the canopy trying to get in. Constanza turned towards him, but her face was only a skull, empty sockets where her eyes should be. Behind her the dog was changing form. A man. Solomon was knocking on the canopy. Softly knocking … knocking … knocking. Boysie woke in a sweat, shaking. A dream? No, the knocking went on. Coming from the window, a soft steady knocking. Boysie swallowed, got out of bed and slowly crossed to the window. The knocking still continued. Another swallow and he clutched at the curtains, pulling them back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SILVERSMITH
The Silversmith has tarnished hands,
A tarnished mind and tarnished heart.
GOLD AND THE LIKE: Granger Carroll
The duty sergeant had a hard job waking Mostyn. James George Mostyn, unlike Brian Ian (Boysie) Oakes, did not dream in technicolor. His dreams, like his waking hours, were clean-cut in black and white. At six in the morning he had just entered the bedroom of a young female cinematograph performer, truth forbade one to describe her as an actress. But she was well known, particularly in Mostyn’s dreams. A large part of his sleeping hours were spent in her company. But the present six o’clock dream would not finish true to form. Mostyn held out his arms to the female, woke and found himself reaching for a sergeant.
‘The General and some other officers will meet you in the gymnasium at six-thirty, sir.’
‘Whasamatter. General. What …’ Then, as consciousness flooded back, ‘what the hell? What’s the bloody time?’
‘Five after six, sir.’
‘In the morning?’ blinked Mostyn in disbelief.
‘In the morning, sir. You are operational tonight. Remember, sir?’
Mostyn remembered gloomily. ‘Yes. Where’s the gym?’
‘Not far, sir. I’m to take you over. Nice cup of hot tea here, sir.’
Mostyn looked at the dark brown brew as though it was an unpleasant happening on the table. He ran his fingers through his tight wiry hair and shook his head as if to sweep sleep away.
‘All right, sar’nt. Wait outside.’
The duty sergeant left, and, with ill grace, Mostyn showered and shaved, throwing out regular mental curses concerning the day when he had first met Boysie.
Walking from the comparative warmth of the officers’ quarters into the open air was like plunging into a pool of iced water. The air nearly froze Mostyn’s lungs, and he was decidedly out of breath by the time they reached the gymnasium.
The General was waiting with four other officers.
‘Ah. Colonel Mostyn.’ He was a man of sardonic wit and terrifying vocal ferocity. When the General spoke it was like being hit in the face with a wet kipper. Mostyn took a step back as the force of the greeting reached him.
‘Nice to have you here,’ the General continued. ‘Gentlemen, this is Colonel Mostyn. Fine operational record with Intelligence. Second-in-Command of Special Security until he retired last year. Volunteered to sign on again and help us out of the present bit of trouble.’
Mostyn inclined his head in mock modesty. Lifting his eyes he found himself locked in the General’s gaze. He could read the satire in the senior officer’s eyes. He knew damn well that Mostyn had been press-ganged into the job. And he knew that Mostyn knew he knew. A wicked conspiracy of silence passed between the two men while the other officers stood suitably overawed by the whole business.
‘Now,’ shrieked the General. ‘If we’re going to get Colonel Mostyn off tonight there’s a lot to be done. Leave you in the tender hands of these officers and we’ll talk later.’ He gave a curt nod and strode out of the gymnasium, purposefully, towards bacon, eggs, coffee and toast.
For a second, Mostyn had a mental picture of the. remaining officers advancing on him, while he backed away muttering, ‘No … no … no …’ It did not quite happen like that, but Mostyn was soon swept into a whirlpool of military techniques which he thought he had left behind many years before.
A parachute training instructor went over all the elementary lessons, Mostyn digg
ing back into his memory, recalling things like critical speeds, oscillation and squidding.
By mid-morning Mostyn was really struggling. This time with a brutish PTI, brushing up on unarmed combat and its allied sciences. ‘And don’t forget, sir,’ barked the PTI, ‘never hit a man when he’s down. Just kick him.’ It was a nostalgic phrase which Mostyn himself had used many times when lecturing to recruits at the Special Security training centre.
Before lunch, they helped him into parachute harness, bundled him into one of the Albatross amphibians and then made him leap from the skies in the first parachute jump he had made since the forties.
After lunch, Mostyn was faced with kitting out. Stores provided him with the bare essentials; K rations, compass and a small personal medical kit. The General had insisted that Mostyn should choose the more warlike kit himself. He already carried the small transistorized direction finder pack which would lead him to Boysie’s electronic shoes. He also carried his own personal survival kit, consisting of a half-litre flask of brandy, the omnipotent jalap, toilet paper, a bottle of travel sickness pills and a leather-bound copy of War and Peace which he intended to read one day.
He chose a French TR-PP-11 subminiature radio rigged for fixed frequency transmission. Later, at the briefing, he was given times when there would be a listening aircraft within range.
For protection Mostyn signed for a short bladed fighting knife and chose a Smith and Wesson 399 mm automatic and ten magazines. He eschewed the Weather PPK on grounds of snobbery, but, as though to make up for it, he added one torch and one Polaroid 104 Land Camera to his possessions.
The General and his officers had gone to town for the briefing, providing a three dimensional model of the island which had been hastily prepared, following a careful high altitude photoreconnaissance that morning.
The photographs had picked up an area which could possibly be a launch pad, four tracks large enough to be roughly made up roads, and an E-shaped building which definitely showed signs of habitation.