Siding Star

by Christopher Bryan

  “I supported him and I think he’s brilliant,” she said. “I just hope we haven’t given him a job that’s simply impossible.”

  Charlie was happy enough to applaud her enthusiasm and indeed, like most Europeans, was an admirer of the PresidentElect. But then he thought of Siding Star and wondered: would the new President have a chance to do anything at all? He sighed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  On one occasion he did come quite near to revealing something.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what would you do if you thought all this” (he waved his arm) “I mean everything, everybody, was likely to be ended, killed, destroyed—quite soon? What would you do?”

  If she wondered whether his question had anything to do with the project he couldn’t tell her about, she didn’t say so. She merely gazed at him.

  “I think,” she said at last, “at least I hope, that I should follow John Wesley’s advice.”

  siding stAr 273 “Which was?”

  “Well, someone once said to him, ‘What would you do Mr. Wesley, if you knew you were going to die at the end of the day?’”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘I’d do exactly what I intend to do anyway.’”

  “Oh.”

  He did tell her about Mickey the cat. She sympathized. A few years back, she’d lost the little gray cat she’d grown up with. “She was called Misty,” she said, and her eyes grew misty as she spoke. “She’d get on the bed in the morning and nuzzle me to wake me up. Then if I didn’t do anything she’d play with my hair. And then if I didn’t do anything she’d sit on my head and start to wash. That usually did it!”

  He decided he liked her better than ever. On Monday the powers-that-be finally decided they had fin - ished with Charlie Brown, so, on his last afternoon in New York, Natalie asked him if he’d like to meet some of her family.

  He would indeed.

  She took him to visit relatives on her late father’s side who lived near the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. The Lawrences were chaotic and delightful. They took him to evensong, gave him a tour of the cathedral, introduced him to the dean and a local rabbi, and finally filled him with sandwiches, cake, and tea.

  Then when it was time for him to leave and he mentioned telephoning for a cab, Natalie offered to drive him in her uncle’s car to the airport. There at last, when the moment came to say goodbye and enter the departure lounge, he did what he’d been wanting to do for some time. He put his arms around her and kissed her.

  He did it rather clumsily, almost losing his glasses in the process.

  “I kissed you!” he said.

  “I noticed,” she said.

  Whatever she thought of the kiss, she was still delightfully in his arms and making no attempt to move.

  Then she said, “I’m going to Paris for a week after Christmas to stay with some friends and celebrate New Year. I’m planning to leave them on the second. But I’ll still have two weeks’ more leave. I could come and visit you in London, if you like. You could show me around!”

  “You—I could. Of course I could. I’d really like that!” He hesitated, then, “You could stay at my house if you want. It’s just me there, I’m afraid, but it’s quite big and I’ve got a proper spare room and everything.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Charlie. I’d really like that.”

  “I’ll phone you when I get back,” he said.

  “That would be nice.”

  Natalie walked thoughtfully back to the car. Obviously, there was a cloud over Charlie. He’d surely touched on it the other day with his question about the end of everything. It must be the secret UN thing.

  She hoped she’d helped.

  She really liked him. He was obviously brilliant. But he was modest, too, self-deprecating. The men she met weren’t like that.

  And he’d actually been nervous about kissing her!

  Softly, she quoted Victor Hugo to herself, Les bêtes sont au bon Dieu ! Mais la bêtise est à l’homme !

  She smiled. Never mind. He might be a little farouche just at present, but when the New Year came, she reckoned she could probably do something about that.

  Proper spare room indeed!

  sixty-Four

  London. Monday, November 17.

  With the clear understanding that he accepted the implications of having signed the Official Secrets Act and would be available to the government for consultation whenever needed, Charlie had been returned (like a fish put back into the river!) to his normal pursuits at London University for the closing weeks of the term. After a few days and somewhat to his surprise he found himself immersed pretty much as usual.

  He was teaching classes as usual.

  He was attending as usual too many committees and faculty meetings in the Senate House, where he found himself bored or nauseated as usual by university politics, futile in the light of what was about to happen—but then, he’d always found them futile.

  He was taking the tube every evening from Tottenham Court Road to Edgware Road, buying a paper, and walking from there to the house in Sussex Gardens.

  And for the moment, at least, Siding Star and its effects were becoming a little more unreal by the day.

  As the term drew to its close he was faced with proofing an article, “Assessing the Age of Large Magellanic Cloud Blue Globular Cluster NGC 2134,” which he had written earlier in the year for Publications of the Astronomical Society of the Pacific, and with marking and evaluating his students’ end-of-term exams. He addressed both these tasks as carefully and well as he could, including making some significant changes to the article in the light of his most recent work.

  Quite why did he take such care, when in his view it was extremely unlikely that the article would ever be published or the students ever graduate?

  The answer to that was obvious.

  Natalie Lawrence was the one factor in his recent experience that did not fade. On the contrary, throughout the days that followed his visit to New York, memories of her, thoughts of her, daydreams and fantasies of her, dominated every moment when he was not consciously paying attention to something else.

  And he certainly had not forgotten her story: “‘What would you do, Mr. Wesley, if you knew you were going to die at the end of the day?’ ‘I’d do exactly what I intend to do anyway.’” So he proofed his article and graded his papers, making a point of doing it all as well as he could.

  A telephone call from Jodrell Bank and a couple of summonses to conferences at the Department of the Environment served to remind him, nonetheless, that Siding Star was still there. At both these conferences, he met with representatives from the Ministry of Defence. His opinions and advice were sought, but he had the distinct impression that he was being told nothing—certainly nothing of any substance.

  Three times in six weeks he had the Dream. More and more it seemed to center on the man in the black robe. The man behind whom there was something else, something dark and looming. And now for the first time—perhaps for no other reason than the obvious reason that it was on his mind—he found himself wondering if it all had anything to do with Siding Star and the threat it presented. How could anything he did affect a galactic explosion 27,000 years ago? He had no idea. Yet it was always

  siding stAr 277 the same man, and he always gave the same command, “You must!” And now when Charlie heard it he found himself thinking, “Siding Star! I must do something about it,” as if there were something he could do.

  But then, as always, he awoke, flustered and frustrated, the big question unanswered: “Must what?”

  sixty-Five

  Exeter. Tuesday, November 18.

  The first person Cecilia saw when she arrived in the car park at the Heavitree Police Station on Tuesday morning was Verity Jones, who was walking towards her car. Although she’d evidently been on duty for much of the night, her suit (silver-gray today) looked pristine. As for her hair? In heaven’s name, how did sh
e do it? Cecilia’s dark curls seemed to lead a life entirely of their own.

  “Joseph is waiting to see you, ma’am,” Verity Jones said as they passed. “He looks extremely pleased with himself!”

  “Does he?” Cecilia said, just managing not to laugh at her young subordinate’s hopeless attempt to allow Joseph to give her his news himself. She was willing to bet he’d found their hacker.

  His wheelchair was parked right outside her office and the expression on his face was indeed wonderfully smug. She held the door open and he fairly zoomed in.

  “I’ve solved your little problem,” he said once she’d closed the door.

  “That soon!”

  “I got help from some pals in the FBI who owed me one, and to be honest I got lucky. It happens sometimes.”

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  ChristoPher BryAn “I’m all ears,” Cecilia said.

  “Well, as Verity said, it’s not surprising it took us so long—it was the Ministry of Defence. I found traces of two of their security codes embedded in the encryption.”

  That certainly made sense, in view of all that had happened.

  “Thank you very much indeed. Well done!”

  Joseph beamed.

  “Look,” Cecilia said, “I know it’s a lot to ask, but—do we happen to know just who in the M.O.D. did this?”

  “The answer is, yes and no. As I say, I found traces of two of their security codes—one for the department that made the entry to our system, the other for the particular official who authorized it. But there’s a problem. The M.O.D. says that just what and to whom those codes refer is classified, and they won’t tell us. In other words, ordinary coppers simply can’t be trusted with stuff like that. We might sell it to Osama bin Laden or one of his mates, I suppose.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I must go. Meeting time! But I just thought you’d like to know where I’d got to.”

  “You were right. I do—like to know, I mean! Thanks again, Joseph!”

  “My pleasure!” Again she held the door for him, and as he trundled through it he turned in the chair and held out his hand—which, though surprised, Cecilia took. “As I say, nothing that’s on a computer can be hidden forever if you know how to look for it. And I mean nothing. Take care. Catch you later.” And he was away, shooting his wheelchair down the corridor, adroitly avoiding a tea trolley, and cornering at the far end on a penny.

  Cecilia closed the door and only then became aware of the two post-it notes that had been pressed into her palm.

  She looked at them.

  On each were a few words, neatly printed in capital letters with a ballpoint pen.

  siding stAr 281 One said, WEAPONS RESEARCH ESTABLISHMENT. HARTON DOWN. The other said, DR. HENRY WHEATLEY.

  She grinned.

  Classified my foot.

  No one can do this sort of thing without leaving a footprint somewhere.

  There it was at last, literally in the palm of her hand. The smoking gun! It made her wish—not for the first time, but now for an entirely different reason—that Henry Wheatley hadn’t succeeded in killing himself.

  sixty-six

  London. Friday January 2, 2009.

  Natalie had said to Charlie that he could “show her around” in London. But she’d not been with him more than a few hours before it became obvious that she actually knew the city a good deal better than he did, at least when it came to places to have fun and good food.

  “Tell you what,” she said on her second evening, after they’d walked in Green Park in the afternoon and then, as it got dark, looked at the brightly lit shops along Piccadilly, “let’s go to my favorite restaurant in the world, and I’ll buy you a wonderful dinner.”

  “I’d have thought your favorite restaurant in the world would be in Paris.”

  “Well, it is French, and it’s run by two Parisians I got to know when I was at the Sorbonne.”

  “Then I’d like that very much! Do we need to get a taxi?”

  “We can walk. It’s not far—just off the Haymarket. But we ought to go now. Later they’ll be full, and without reservations we’ll be a nuisance.”

  The walk took about ten minutes.

  “Restaurant” said a cream awning that stretched along a frontage just long enough for a pair of tables and their benches,

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  ChristoPher BryAn although the evening was certainly too cool for eating outside. “Cuisine traditionelle” announced the window. The room inside was brightly lit and cheerful, with places for about twenty people.

  “Oh good!” Natalie said. “They’ve just opened for dinner. Come on—we’re first.”

  As soon as they entered, a small, dark man behind the bar looked up from the glasses he was polishing, broke into a broad smile, and bustled forward.

  “Alors, ma chère Natalie, je suis contente de te revoir! Denise! Denise!”

  “Ah, Marcel, moi aussi, ça fait un moment que je ne suis pas venue.”

  A pert, pretty woman emerged from the back of the restaurant, saw Natalie, and all but ran to embrace her.

  Natalie hugged her back.

  Marcel stood smiling.

  “Et alors, Mademoiselle Natalie,” he said, “une table pour deux ce soir?”

  Natalie laughed, then turned and held out her hand towards Charlie, who was still standing in the doorway.

  “Mais oui. Tu vois que je ne suis plus toute seule! Charlie, these are my friends Denise and Marcel, the owners of Florimel, which as I told you is my favorite restaurant in the whole world! Denise et Marcel, je vous présente Charlie Brown.”

  “Enchanté, Monsieur. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Charlie grinned. “Enchanté,” he said, painfully conscious of his atrocious accent. But Marcel only beamed as he and Denise ushered them to a corner where there was a table for two.

  “Voilà la carte et comme hors-d’œuvre ce soir nous proposons des huîtres fraîches et succulentes et comme plat principal, un filet d’espa- don préparé avec une sauce hollandaise.”

  “Merci, Marcel.”

  Of all this, Charlie understood not a word except “merci.” Natalie translated for him. “Lovely succulent oysters to start,

  siding stAr 285

  and then swordfish cooked in a hollandaise sauce. How’s that sound?” “Splendid!” He beamed at everybody. Denise fussed over him, carefully arranging his cutlery and napkin, which to him appeared to have been perfectly well arranged already. Then she smiled at Natalie.

  “Alors, Natalie, qui est ton nouvel ami?” “ Nous nous sommes rencontrés aux Nations Unies. Il ne parle pas un mot de français.”

  “C’est bien ce que j’avais compris. Dis-donc, il est mignon!”

  “Et toi, tu es très flirt! Attention, il est à moi!”

  “Excuse me,” said Charlie at last, “would one of you be kind enough to translate?”

  The two women looked at each other and laughed.

  “Certainly not!” Natalie said. “One of the things I like about you is that you aren’t conceited.”

  Halfway through the oysters, it occurred to Charlie that he was happy. Simply and idiotically happy.

  Surely he had no right to be, with the world ending? Should he not be praying, or at least worrying? What of the Dream? The call of the man in the black robe was so urgent. It wasn’t logical, it wasn’t scientific, but what if there really was some- thing he ought to be doing? Something he must do? He really —

  “Don’t!” Natalie said, laying her hand lightly across his.

  Charlie looked up at her. Her expression was as serious as he’d yet seen it.

  “You’ll know what to do when it’s time, Charlie Brown, and you’ll do it. Meantime, if something makes you happy, be happy.”

  He looked at her astonished.

  “Are you a mind reader? Do you know what’s going on?”

  “I’m not and I don’t. And I don’t want you to break your promises and tell me. But I do think perhaps I know something about you. And whatever’s going on,
Charlie Brown, I’d say you’ll do your duty when you have to. And in the mean time, there’s no reason not to be happy with what God gives you. In fact, it may be rather rude not to be. Rude to God, I mean.”

  “Oh.” For some reason tears were welling in his eyes. He blinked. “All right then.”

  “A promise?”

  He nodded. He could hardly speak.

  “A promise,” he said at last.

  The truth was, despite Siding Star, he was ridiculously happy. And Natalie was the reason. And without Siding Star, he’d never have met her.

  So where did that chain of reasoning get him?

  To his hors-d’oeuvre, he decided.

  “These oysters,” he said after a few minutes, “are incredible.”

  “Didn’t I mention this was a good restaurant?”

  sixty-seven

  St. Andrew’s Vicarage,

  Holborn Circus, London. Saturday, January 3.

  VANDALISM LINKED TO POWER FAILURES Homes, businesses, and shops in London’s East End have yet again found themselves without power, after suspected vandalism caused major fire damage to high voltage electricity cables. This is the district’s eleventh power outage since November 1st. A spokesperson for EDF Energy UK said this morning that properties in Poplar, Bethnal Green, Stepney, and the southern part of Hackney lost power supply at 0156 GMT. Engineers have restored power to some areas but it may be another 36 hours before electricity is restored to all. The Royal London Hospital was also affected by the power cut, though a back-up generator started working immediately, a spokesman said. This was a marked improvement on the situation in early November when a power outage was accompanied by a failure of the hospital’s own generator.