* * *
Irritably Schuster said, “What the heck!” The radio had started crackling out Morse—from Washington of all places; Schuster had recognized the orginator’s code group. He listened a moment before giving the acknowledgement of his call-sign. “Coded groups . . . why in hell do they start sending messages all wrapped up at this stage of the flight? And what’s the Pentagon on about, for heaven’s sake? Let’s have the decode tables, Wayne.”
Up to this time both Schuster and Morris had still been busy trying to track down the fault on the retro-systems. Danvers-Marshall had made a pretence of helping. The checks and doublechecks had been endless, going on ever since the failure. All had seemed to be in perfect order on both systems; that indeed was the unnerving part of this business. There simply was no apparent fault. And they were quite unable to tie in the failure with the stress fault said to have been found by the ground computers. On the face of it there just was no reason in the world why the rockets shouldn’t fire next time Schuster pressed the button, but now, as the total outside dark of the space-night through which they were currently passing emphasized the utter alone-ness of their situation, Wayne Morris at any rate was convinced that they were doomed to remain orbiting the globe until their oxygen was exhausted and they died up there in space.
In an absent tone as Morris passed across the US decode tables Schuster said, “Thanks. . . .” The decoding took a little time. When Schuster had written down the first few words of the plain-language version he stiffened, rigid with shock and an utter disbelief that he could possibly be reading correctly . . . something must have gone haywire with the transcription. He went on to finish the decoding, then without a word he passed the sheet of paper to Morris, whose lips shaped a whistle that never came. The two men sat motionless, side by side, as the capsule headed on its high track around the world, passing once again out of the brief space-night into the brilliance of the day. Behind them Danvers-Marshall’s heart was pumping fast; neither of the astronauts had been able to see the tight, grey look that had come into the scientist’s face when he had heard about the message from Washington. He had assessed accurately and without much difficulty what that message contained. Now he slid a finger into a loop of material in his spacesuit, and ripped away some stitches in the lining. He brought out a small-calibre automatic and pointed it at Schuster’s back. Before Schuster could begin to collect his thoughts and react decisively, Danvers-Marshall said, “Greg, believe me, I’m terribly sorry, but this is where I take over.”
Schuster, feeling the blood drain from his face, but conscious now of no particular surprise, looked over his shoulder and saw the gun. Bleakly he said, “Is that so, Professor.”
“I’m afraid it is. . . ."
“You know what it says in the message?”
“I have a pretty good idea, Greg.”
“It’s right—what it says?”
“Yes . . . it’s right, if it says—”
“It says you’re a goddam traitor . . . a Red.” Danvers-Marshall didn’t react to that directly. He said, “I can’t explain now, Greg. It’s . . . because of my wife. They put pressure on me, and then later they were able to threaten me with—revealing certain things. I’m sorry, but from now on out you must do just as I say. Carry on flying, Greg. And remember, there’s nothing whatever they can do now, from the ground.”
“You’ll have to keep awake a godalmighty long time... you Red bastard. We have five days to go. The orders say we stay up after all . . . right through till the last possible minute.”
“Greg, that’s not going to be any problem,” Danvers-Marshall said quietly. He patted at a section of space-suit. “I have tablets that take care of that. I’ll have no difficulty at all keeping awake and on the ball right through to splashdown.”
Schuster said between his teeth, “Where do we splash down, then? The message said the Corns may interfere with our control system by radio, divert us on re-entry. If that’s true, where do they divert us to?”
“Greg, I can’t tell you that because I don’t know, and I wouldn’t say if I did, would I? That’s just what the people down below want to know, isn’t it? Don’t ask me any more questions, Greg, and don’t give any trouble, either you or Wayne. If I have to use this gun, you know what happens. The chances are we’d all die. But I want you to understand one thing very clearly, Greg, and that is, I’m quite ready myself to face that. No-one’s taking me back to America now.” He added, “You needn’t worry any more about the retro-rockets. They’ll fire next time, all right.”
“So Washington’s right you fixed that too?” Schuster asked. He felt profound relief on one point—at least the trouble hadn’t been due to any defect in the spacecraft. “All that worry ... all the checking ... all that was unnecessary?”
Danvers-Marshall said, “Yes, Greg. You see, I had orders not to allow the capsule to ditch too far ahead of schedule if there were any leaks—just to be sure they were all ready for us at the base . . . where we’re going to splash down.” He shifted his position, making himself more comfortable for keeping the gun covering the two men. “From now on out, Greg, there’s to be no more talk with mission control. I’m going to play this very safe, and I’m not taking any chances at all . . . even though, as I said, there’s nothing anyone can do now to stop the plan going through.”
“Don’t speak too soon,” Schuster said grimly.
It was just a few minutes after that when mission control came up again, this time vocally and in plain language. It was Klaber, talking from Kennedy. Schuster was forced to sit in helpless silence under Danvers-Marshall’s gun as the NASA chief tried vainly to raise an acknowledgement. Klaber kept repeating, “Can’t you hear me, Greg? What’s gone wrong with your communication?” until he said in a high, cracked voice that showed his mounting anxiety, “All right, Greg, maybe you just can’t answer, so I’ll just pass the message and hope you receive me.” There was a pause. “We’re doing our best to get another spacecraft up to you, a vehicle that can accommodate five men . . . Skyprobe V. She’s being prepared for orbit and docking on to you for transfer of personnel. I’ll repeat that. . . .”
When Schuster had listened to the repetition Danvers-Marshall said, “I don’t believe they can ever do it in the time, Greg, it’ll be a miracle, but if they do it’s not going to help. You’re never going to open up the hatch.”
* * *
Next day the world’s Press had moved closer to the truth. Mary Schuster and Linda Morris read it together. Klaber read it and his apprehension mounted. Harry Lutz looked utterly horrified, but not surprised. Grant, the man from CIA, read it and swore viciously and grabbed for a couple of telephones simultaneously; for amongst other things true and untrue, the news had leaked that Professor Danvers-Marshall was aboard the spacecraft.
Right across the world Shaw, too, read some of the papers.
FIFTEEN
Shaw did his reading when the BOAC jetliner touched down at Bangkok on the last-but-one leg of the Hong Kong flight. The headlines were all about Danvers-Marshall and there was almost feverish speculation as to what his presence aboard Skyprobe IV meant and why the news had been kept so quiet. Typical of the secondary headlines was EARLY SPLASHDOWN CANCELLED—SKYPROBE TO ORBIT ON. That was innocuous enough, but another fresh slant came in the smaller print which said, American and British Security Concerned. In the airmail edition of one London newspaper the scientific correspondent wrote: The American CIA are believed to be investigating the possibility of some outside interference with the capsule. It is probably not entirely impossible for a radio signal from earth to be used in such a way that it could cut out the control system of a spacecraft in orbit. If this is on the cards, it would naturally point to some act of a hostile Power, for what purpose one can only guess. It could be merely to prove that such a signal is effective, in which case one would assume the capsule is being used as an experimental guinea-pig. This, however, seems a totally unacceptable theory when one considers the virt
ual certainty of retaliation against any Power using another nation’s space vehicle in such a fashion. In the light of the recent leak, one is bound to wonder whether the presence of British-born Professor Danvers-Marshall aboard Skyprobe has attracted the interest of some Power who wishes to gain access to Western space data. The news columns of the same paper reported: It is understood that certain movements of United States sea, land and air forces are taking place in the North Pacific, but official spokesmen in Washington deny strongly that there is any connection between these movements and the possibility of the failure aboard Skyprobe IV being due to circumstances outside the control of the crew. Other newspapers carried similar reports and speculation; every one Shaw read carried a leader on the spacemen’s predicament. The thoughts of all the world were centered on them now. . . .
Shaw looked up from the New York Times soon after take-off from Bangkok to see the hostess hovering over him. She was a tall brunette with blue eyes and an inviting smile. She asked, “Would you like breakfast, sir?”
“Sounds a good idea.” He smiled back at her and took the menu. “Grapefruit, bacon and eggs, and coffee.”
“Thank you, sir.” The girl hesitated by his seat, seeming reluctant to leave him, and looking down at his newspaper. “Isn’t it dreadful. . . about those men?”
He nodded. “It is. But I’m sure they’ll get them down somehow.”
“Oh, I hope so!” She looked past him, out of the window of the jetliner. The sky was a brilliant blue above them; below was the endless dark green of thick jungle, stretching away to the border with Viet Nam, and beyond to the South China Sea. “In this job . . . you have a kind of fellow-feeling, more than most. Perhaps it’s presumptuous to say that. .. but we’re all fliers basically, aren’t we? It would be too awful if what the papers say is true.”
He looked up at her, at the clean line of her chin as she went on staring out of the window. “What are you thinking about in particular?” he asked.
“About some outside interference, isn’t that what they said?”
“Yes, but that’s just newspaper talk. They have to fill the things with something, haven’t they? Personally, I wouldn’t say that was the case.”
“Wouldn’t you?” she asked doubtfully. “I’m not so certain. The Communists would do anything. I only hope somebody’s really doing something about it . . . and not just saying it couldn’t happen that way.”
Shaw smiled. “Sorry!”
She met his eye and flushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean that personally. I’m so sorry. After all, it’s not your job to. . . .”
“To do anything about it? No . . . and I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I expect the authorities have it well in mind, you know.”
The hostess nodded and moved away, going forward along the aisle. She stopped at a seat four up from Shaw’s and had a word with a girl who had joined the flight at Bangkok, a girl Shaw had recognized at once, a girl who had studiously avoided him but who was obviously just as aware of him as he was of her. Her presence intrigued him a good deal with its possible implications, for the girl was Ingrid Lange from the Savoy Hotel, London.
* * *
Shaw, who meantime had returned to his papers, looking in vain for any factual reports as to the progress on the launch of the second capsule, watched Miss Lange as they all fastened their seat belts for the Hong Kong arrival. What was she on this flight for? Why was she avoiding him—why was she so obviously anxious for him not to acknowledge her? He intended to find that out as soon as they landed. He glanced out of the window as the jetliner lost height; a mist cloud was touching Taimoshan and the mountain peaks on the Red China mainland, bringing to them a mantle of purple and blue as the sun went down the sky in Eastern splendour. All around, the sea was a darkening carpet of ultramarine.
Once they were down and the steps had been run into place, Miss Lange disembarked ahead of Shaw without a backward glance and preceded him to the customs and immigration check. There, while still totally disregarding him, the girl managed to get next to him for the customs examination, making certain he couldn’t miss her hand-case on which was prominently displayed a label bearing the address, Hotel Shanghai. The name on the label was Helma Tegner.
So—Miss Ingrid Lange, if even that was her real name, had a definite purpose in coming to Hong Kong at the same time as himself and he fancied that purpose wasn’t just to stand with him on some moonlit terrace and watch the harbour fights. Well—he would play it her way for now and not approach her just yet. He found a taxi and told the Chinese driver to take him to his own hotel, a somewhat less glamorous, if equally expensive, establishment where he had been booked in from London and which, as it happened, wasn’t far from the Shanghai. After checking in he kept a discreetly-arranged appointment with the Governor and the Commander British Forces. The Governor was clearly a worried man, his anxiety showing in the tired eyes and the jerky movements of his hand as he brushed continually at a close-cropped, grey moustache.
After the preliminaries Shaw asked, “Which areas have been covered by the reconnaissance forces so far, sir?”
The Governor waved a hand towards Fielding, the Forces Commander. Fielding said, “They’re sweeping north. Both our people and the Americans have flown all the missions possible, but. . . .” He shrugged.
“And the results?”
Fielding spread his hands. “Blank, Shaw. A complete and utter blank. We haven’t found anything out of place anywhere.”
“Uh-huh.” Shaw moved across the room towards a map similar to the one in Latymer’s flat. He studied it, his eye narrowed thoughtfully. A hunch was forming. He looked at the Sea of Okhotsk, fringed to the east by the chain of islands forming the Kurile group—islands that stretched away northward from Hokkaido, islands that in 1945 had been taken from Japan and handed on a plate to the Soviet Union. The area was Russian, yes—but it was utterly remote and lonely and probably totally unvisited. More often than not the islands were shrouded in thick, clinging fog. Much could go on there that the outside world would never know about. The Sea of Okhotsk itself would be icebound at this time of year, but not so the North Pacific which washed the eastern shores of the Kuriles . . . and a spacecraft could very well be brought down east of the Kuriles and then quickly be picked up and taken to those Russian islands, and thence to the mainland of the Soviet, where it would vanish from Western eyes. . . .
Shaw turned to the Governor and asked casually, “What about the Sea of Okhotsk?”
The Governor shrugged. “That’s Russian territorial waters, my dear fellow.”
“I was aware of that, sir. I know the risks, too. I still think the area would be worth attention.”
“There is no authority to violate Russian territorial airspace, Shaw. Both the British and American Commanders-in-Chief of the searching forces are quite powerless to act in that direction.”
Shaw nodded slowly. He was convinced such authority would never be forthcoming. Latymer, for one, would himself be dead against it; the department was accustomed to working in other ways, and Shaw was their man on the spot. He believed in his hunch, so it was up to him to find a way to get inside the Sea of Okhotsk—and he hadn’t much time left now.
* * *
After returning to his hotel Shaw called the Shanghai. He said, “I’d like to speak to a Miss Tegner, Miss Helma Tegner.”
“Yes, sir,” a polite Chinese voice answered, speaking excellent English. “I will have the lady called. What is your name, please, sir?”
“Smith.”
“Please will you hold the line, sir.”
Shaw waited. He waited a full five minutes and then there was a crackle and the girl’s voice said, “Smith? Is it really you?”
“As if you didn’t know. I’m waiting for an explanation.”
“It is so nice to hear you again. I was in the bath. I am so surprised! What is it you want, Smith?”
He answered impatiently. “I’ll give you three guesses. That ought to be two too many.”
Her laugh came light and silvery along the line. Suddenly he wanted her very badly. She said, “Yes, I think one will be quite enough, certainly, Smith!” She paused as if expecting some further comment but when none came she went on, “As you are in Hong Kong also, Smith, you may take me out to dinner somewhere nice. That is, if you would like to, Smith?”
“I’d like nothing better,” he assured her, conscious of the blood racing in his veins, but more than that, conscious that the girl must have something important to talk to him about. “Where shall it be? I’m out of touch with Hong Kong life these days. I don’t know about you, of course. If you haven’t any other suggestions, let’s meet—”
She said quickly, “I am told there is a nice place, offering very excellent food, and not too expensive you will be relieved to know, Smith . . . in the Ho Teh Road, which is off Ch’ung Street, across the harbour in Kowloon. It is called Mi Ling’s. I will be there at nine o’clock.”
She didn’t give him time even to say he’d be there too. The phone clicked in his ear. He shrugged and went across the foyer into the bar, where a Chinese barman smilingly mixed him a Manhattan. He was vaguely irritated by the girl's reference to the place in the Ho Teh Road being not too expensive. He had a very generous expense account and he enjoyed spending it on a contact when the contact happened to be as intriguingly beautiful as Ingrid Lange . . . and Latymer had never been known to query an item in the account. Yet.
He finished the Manhattan and glanced at his watch. Time was getting on. He went up to his room, showered in his private bathroom, then changed into a white dinner jacket. He checked the slide of his Beretta and went down into the street where the doorman signalled up a ricksha.
“The Kowloon ferry,” he told the boy. The Chinese nodded; Shaw climbed in and the coolie started off, jog-trotting between the shafts of his vehicle. They passed along streets brilliantly lit with blazing neon signs, along other streets of hanging banner signs—the new Hong Kong and the old, criss-crossed with roads and alleys, all packed with young and old, with pretty, feminine girls, with virile young men and ancient, worn-out beggars. After crossing in the ferry Shaw picked up another ricksha. Here in Kowloon he had largely left the bright streets behind him and was passing along dark, dingy roads where vaguely-seen, shadowy forms flitted in and out of doorways, where now and again a cry was heard and where young Chinese girls smiled invitingly from the few lighted windows along the way. This was a different side of Hong Kong life from the millionaires’ paradise he had left across the harbour. Hong Kong was a strange but thriving medley, a place where East and West met, a busy port and a frontier garrison—with Red China vast and implacable and mysterious on its doorstep, a place still of mystery and intrigue and violence behind the trimmings, behind the wealth on the one hand and the poverty on the other.
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