by Nevil Shute
Mr. Honey said, “Is it possible to get in touch with Dr. Scott, sir?”
“We can send cables to him. There is a routine in force by which Ottawa can get in contact with the radio in his aeroplane once a day.” The procedure was that a cable from the R.A.E. was telephoned to Ferguson at the Ministry of Supply. It was then radioed to the Department of Civil Aviation in Ottawa, who relayed it to the Royal Canadian Air Force post at Rimouski on the lower St. Lawrence. We could reach Rimouski on the two-way radio in the Norseman, and made contact with them each day at six in the evening to receive or transmit any message of urgency.
Mr. Honey hesitated. “I should like to send him a cable, sir. I’ve got a message here that might be helpful to him.”
“What sort of message, Honey?”
“It’s about this tail unit that he’s trying to find, sir. I think I’ve got something that might help.”
The Director stared at him. “What sort of thing?”
“Automatic writing,” Mr. Honey said reluctantly. “I’ve had a great deal of experience with that—not in office time, of course. It gives really remarkable results in certain cases.”
The Director wrinkled his brows. “Automatic writing? You mean produced by someone in a mental trance?”
Mr. Honey said eagerly, “That’s right, sir. I got it through my daughter, Elspeth last night. She’s only twelve, but she’s really got a remarkable gift. Of course, children do produce the most amazing results sometimes. They don’t often retain their powers in later life, though.”
The Director was too busy to allow Mr. Honey much latitude to discourse on his researches in that field. “What is it that you’ve got?”
Mr. Honey produced a small roll of drawing paper, cut from the large sheet he had pinned down on the drawing-board the night before. “Well, this is what was actually produced,” he said. He unrolled it on the desk.
It was covered all over with pencil jabs, squiggles, and irregular traces. Some of these appeared to form themselves into letters, and some into half words, thus in one part of the paper the letters ING were fairly clear, and in another there was a very definite capital R. Mr. Honey turned the paper round. “This is what I mean, sir.”
Across one corner the squiggles ran consecutively in a fairly straight line. They were certainly writing, jerky and uneven though the letters were; it was not too difficult to decipher the message. It read, UNDER THE FOOT OF THE BEAR.
“I’m sure that means something,” Mr. Honey said. “I think we ought to cable it to Dr. Scott.”
The Director grunted, not unlike the grunts that Mr. Prendergast had dispensed the day before, and Honey winched. “We should have to cable some explanation of how the message was produced,” he said.
“Oh, yes, sir. We must let Dr. Scott have all the facts, of course.”
The Director suffered an instinctive feeling of revulsion, and I don’t blame him. He was in charge of a large Government research establishment of the most serious character. Honey was suggesting that he should send out, in the name of that establishment, a message which could only imply his own confidence in a spiritualistic message produced by a little girl of twelve, the daughter of an official who was believed by many to be mentally unbalanced. This message had to be sent through the Ministry of Supply, who were his parent body, and through Canadian Government organisations. Inevitably its subject-matter would attract attention; it would become the subject of a tea-time joke up in the Ministry. People would start saying he was mentally unbalanced too if he sent out a thing like that.
He said slowly, “I don’t think we should bother Dr. Scott with this, Honey. It’s too unscientific for us to put forward as evidence.”
That touched Honey on the raw; he was the scientist and the Director a renegade who had deserted the pure field of science for the fleshpots of administration. “It’s not unscientific at all,” he said hotly. “It’s the product of a carefully controlled piece of research extending over a good number of years. The fact that aeronautical people don’t know much about research in that field doesn’t prove that it’s unscientific. They don’t know much about cancer research, either.”
The Director was very busy that morning, but he had a few moments to try and placate the angry little man before him. “I didn’t mean that in any derogatory sense, Honey,” he said. “But it’s not the sort of science that usually emanates from this Establishment, and not the sort that anybody here could possibly endorse.”
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Honey retorted.
The Director turned the paper over in his hands. “Before you can say if it’s true or not, you’ve got to decide what it means,” he observed. “UNDER THE FOOT OF THE BEAR. The Bear means Russia, I suppose. I told you yesterday that the Russians had refused to release these parts that they have taken from the wreck of the Reindeer in Labrador. Would it not be correct to say that those parts are, in fact, under the foot of the Bear?”
Mr. Honey stared at him. “I don’t know,” he said weakly. “I never thought of that.”
The Director said, “I merely put that out as a suggestion, Honey, that if this message does, in fact, mean anything, it may merely refer to something we already know about.”
Honey said, “That might possibly be so. But Elspeth knew nothing about the Russians, sir. I didn’t discuss that with her.”
“You knew about it, though,” the Director said. “Might not thought transference come in? I merely put that forward as a suggestion.”
Honey was silent. He could not think of any answer to that one.
The Director handed him back the paper. “I don’t think we could send that out through official channels in the name of the R.A.E., Honey,” he said. “If you feel strongly about it you could write a private letter to Scott, care of the Department of Civil Aviation in Ottawa.”
“Would he get that up in this place where he is, sir?”
“I should rather doubt it. I shouldn’t think he’d get it till he returns to Ottawa.”
Honey said irritably, “What’s the use of that? It wouldn’t be any help to him to let him have this after the job is over.”
The Director did not think that it would be any help to me anyway, but all he said was, “I’m sorry, Honey, but that’s the only thing I can suggest. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a great many things to do this morning.”
Mr. Honey said hotly, “And I bet they’re none of them more important than this,” and flounched out of the room. The Director stared after him a little sadly. Was Prendergast right, after all? He had had doubts of Honey’s mental stability himself from time to time, but my faith in the little man had reassured him and had made him stalwart in his defence at the D.R.D. meeting. Now I, the buffer, was away in Canada and he had had a taste of Honey direct from the cup, pure and undiluted. He sighed as he turned to other work. Was another problem looming up before him, another scientist upon his staff who would start pilfering from small shops or behaving rudely in the park?
Mr. Honey went back to his office in frustrated rage, not for the first time. He was convinced from his experience in psychic matters that the words they had received were an indication that would be helpful in the future and were not a mere record of current knowledge; he had received too many in connection with the excavation of the Roman aqueduct not to know the style. The flat denial of official methods of communication was sheer frustration to him, because a little reflection showed him that there was, in fact, no possible means of getting into touch with me except through the official channels. He could give no attention to his work, could think of nothing but the grievance that he suffered from, the disregard with which his seniors treated him. He raged inwardly all through lunch, thinking of other jobs that he was going to apply for so that he could shake the dust of the R.A.E. from off his feet. In the middle of the afternoon he came suddenly to his senses. He had done nothing and now he was exhausted by his rage, with a nervous headache. He would do no work that day, and in his present
mood he would not stay upon the scene of his frustration for mere office discipline. If the R.A.E. didn’t like his way of doing things, well, they could get along without him; he would be leaving before long in any case. At half-past three he put on his hat and went home.
He got back to Copse Road in time for tea. Marjorie was in the kitchen laying out a tray with tea for two. She said. “Oh, Theo, you’re back early. You’re just in time for tea.” She explained. “I thought Elspeth had better stay in bed today, so we’re having it upstairs. I’ll cut some more bread and butter.”
He was naively surprised. “Isn’t Elspeth well?”
The girl hesitated. “She’s all right,” she said. “She was just tired, and I thought she’d better stay in bed.” She did not want to hurt him or to remind him that they had had some difficulty in getting Elspeth out of her trance the night before; Marjorie had carried her upstairs and put her to bed still in a dazed state, and had sat with her holding her hand till she was sleeping naturally. She had certain things to say to Mr. Honey about that, but they could wait a favourable chance. She said, “You must have got off early.”
“I know,” he said. “Everything went wrong at the office today and it didn’t seem to matter, so I thought I’d come home.”
He sounded tired and depressed, and she could guess the reason. She had talked it all over with Shirley that morning, who knew more than she about the workings of the R.A.E. “They won’t pay any attention to him,” Shirley had said. “Dennis might, if he was home, although I’m not too sure about that. But everybody else regards him as a joke, you know.”
Marjorie had flushed. “If that’s the way they think about him, the sooner they accept his resignation the better,” she said angrily.
“Dennis believes in him,” said Shirley gently. “And Dennis is his boss. But planchette at the R.A.E.… It’s going to take a bit of stomaching, you know.”
“I suppose it is,” said Marjorie slowly. “They ought to listen to him, if they’re proper scientists.”
“We’ll see,” Shirley had said. “I don’t think they’re as scientific as all that.”
And so Marjorie said hesitantly to Mr. Honey, “Couldn’t you get them to do anything, Theo?”
He shook his head. “They’re so stupid. It’s maddening having to work under fools like that.…”
“Oh, Theo, I am sorry!” And then, to ease his burden and divert his mind, she said, “This tray’s all ready to go up. If you’ll take it, I’ll bring up the teapot and the hot water.”
They went up together to the bedroom and had tea with Elspeth. Elspeth was reading Swallows and Amazons, bought for her that morning by Marjorie, the first child’s book that she had had for over a year with the exception of those she got at school. She told her father all about it. “It’s ever so exciting, Daddy,” she said. “They did all sorts of things in boats, without any grown-ups with them at all! Can we go somewhere in the holidays and sail a boat, Daddy? Marjorie says there’s a sort of series of books all about the same children. May I have another for my birthday?”
He sat looking at Arthur Ransome’s pictures with her, his troubles assuaged and sunk into the background of his mind. Presently Marjorie took the tray down to the kitchen to begin washing up, and after a few minutes Mr. Honey went down to dry for her. And there he asked, “Aren’t you going to let her get up at all today?”
She was filled suddenly with a great pity for the two of them; he was so completely innocent of any will to hurt. There were things she had to say to him. By the draining-board, piled with the soiled dishes, she reached impulsively for his hand; it was the first time that they had done that.
“Theo,” she said, “I don’t want to be beastly to you. Please don’t take offence at this. But honestly, you oughtn’t to have done that last night with Elspeth. It’s terribly bad for her.”
He blinked through his thick glasses. “Oh, do you think so? She’s done it quite a lot of times before.”
“I know she has,” the girl said. “But, Theo, she must never do it again. It’s a terrible thing to make any child do. And Elspeth’s only just getting over concussion.…” He was silent and distressed. “I know it was important,” she said gently. “But Elspeth is important, too. You could warp her whole life by making her do this sort of thing, at her age. You could make her grow up morbid and neurasthenic. She might get fits of depression; she might even become suicidal. Things like that do happen, Theo, I know. I’ve been a nurse. One always thinks they happen to other people, that they can’t happen to you. But they can. And, Theo, children’s brains aren’t balanced like ours are. They—well, they’re just young. They can’t throw off unhealthy influences like we can. You could do terrible harm to her. Honestly, Theo, she must never do that again.”
She stood holding his hand, looking at him in appeal. She knew that this was a crux in their relations. She knew that she could help him, and she wanted to help him more than anything in the world, but she could only help him if he would accept her ruling in the matters that were properly her sphere. If he took her interference as a slight or turned the matter off with a laugh, she might as well go home.
He stared at her with blurred eyes behind his thick spectacles. “I never thought of it like that,” he said unhappily.
She squeezed his hand in sympathy with his distress. “Of course you didn’t. But you do want to watch out, Theo—honestly you do. She doesn’t seem to know any other children and she talks quite like an old woman sometimes. It’s not natural, you know. It’s not as she should be.”
He said miserably, “I know. I know she’s not like other children, but I don’t see what one can do about it.” He glanced at the girl beside him. “I know one thing. It makes a very great deal of difference to her having you here.”
“That’s only natural,” she replied. “She’s got somebody to talk to, instead of being alone all day.” Gently she freed her hand. “But do remember, Theo—try and treat her as a child, not quite so much as a grown-up. It’s better for her—really it is.”
“I suppose it must be,” he said. “But living alone as we do, it’s so difficult to know where to begin.”
“I know it is,” she said. She stood in thought for a moment. She could not tell him to start playing with his child; he was as he was, and her words could not change his character. If Elspeth got played with it would be through other people, through herself. She turned to the draining-board. “Let’s just wash these few things.”
He dried for her as she washed; as they worked together they talked about the water-heater, about children’s books, and about Elspeth’s clothes, and presently she said, “Tell me some more about the R.A.E., Theo; wouldn’t they pay any attention to the message?”
He shook his head, his face clouded. “I saw the Director. I don’t think he believed in it at all. He wouldn’t let me send a cable through official channels, and there is no other way to get a cable to Dr. Scott except through the official channels. They’re just afraid of being laughed at, by sending out a cable dealing with matters they don’t understand.” He laid down the plate that he was drying and stared out of the window, the cloth drooping unheeded from his hand. “I’m sure this does mean something,” he said quietly. “It always did before, when we were finding out about the aqueduct. It’s a very well established means of getting information, this—only those fools haven’t bothered to learn about it.”
She was impressed again by his sincerity of purpose. “Is there no possible way of letting Dr. Scott know, so that he could form his own judgment?” she asked.
He snorted in disgust. “They said I could write him a private letter. And when I asked when that would get to him they said when he got back to Ottawa! That’s after the job is all over!”
“Oh, Theo!”
She took the drying-up cloth from his hand as he stood in abstraction, and dried the last two plates, unnoticed by Mr. Honey. Presently she asked, “Where, exactly, is Dr. Scott, Theo?”
He said v
aguely, “In Canada, I think—or else in Labrador. Sometimes they say one and sometimes the other.”
“It’s on the north side of the St. Lawrence River, isn’t it?”
He said, “I really couldn’t tell you. I could find out, perhaps.”
She said thoughtfully, “Mrs. Scott would probably know.”
She sent him up to play a game of dominoes with Elspeth after tea, and told him she was going out to the post. Instead, she walked round to see Shirley in our flat. She said, “Mrs. Scott, can you tell me just where Dr. Scott is now? You were quite right about the people at the R.A.E. They’ve not been very helpful.”
“Won’t they send his message?”
Marjorie shook her head. “He’s awfully disappointed.”
Shirley said, “I had a night letter from Dennis, from a place called Ivanhoe. He said they were about a hundred miles due north of it, and ten miles to the west of Small Pine Water, and I could look it up on the map. Well, I looked in the atlas, but the map’s all just plain white paper north of Ivanhoe.” She pulled out the atlas and they studied it together. “There’s Ivanhoe.”
“That doesn’t help much.”
“No.”
Marjorie frowned, staring at the map. “However did it come to get up there? I’ve been on the Montreal route for three months, but we don’t go north of the St. Lawrence at all. We go just south of the Gaspe peninsula, here. We don’t come to the St. Lawrence till we’re nearly into Montreal.”
“Dennis said that this machine went to Goose because there was fog at Gander. Goose is up here somewhere, isn’t it? It doesn’t seem to be marked either—I do think this is a rotten atlas. But I know he told me once the crash was on the line between Goose and Montreal.”