A Wreath of Stars

Chapter Eleven

They returned to the car in silence, each man in the lonely fortress of his own thoughts, and loaded it with the various items of equipment. On reaching the surface, Snook had not been surprised to note that the sky had clouded over in preparation for the grass rains which would last for approximately two weeks. It was as though the world was trying to model itself on his vision of Avernus, making ready for visitors. He shivered and rubbed his hands together, discovering as he did so that his right hand and forearm were curiously numb and tired. The group got into the car, with Ambrose taking the wheel, and the heavy silence continued until the vehicle had passed out through the gates of the mine enclosure.

“Gil’s phone is out of action,” Ambrose said, turning to Helig. “I suppose the first thing we should do is get you to another one.”

Helig smiled complacently and his eyelids drooped more than was usual. “It isn’t necessary, old boy. I’m accustomed to telephones mysteriously breaking down everywhere I go these days—so I brought a radio transmitter.” He tapped his jacket pocket. “I’ll file my story through a colleague in Matsa. All I need is somewhere to sit in peace for twenty minutes.”

“That’s easily arranged. Are you going to write out your story for me to vet it?”

“Sorry—I don’t work that way.”

“I thought you might want me to check the science.”

“I’ve done all the double-checking that’s necessary.” Helig gave Ambrose a quizzical glance. “Besides, the science isn’t important—this is a news story.”

Ambrose shrugged and switched on the windscreen wipers as the first drops of rain began to shatter themselves on the dusty glass in front of him. The dust was momentarily smeared into two brownish sectors which disappeared as the rain grew heavier. There was another silence which lasted until they had stopped at the bungalow, at which point Ambrose turned right round in his seat and tapped Quig’s knee. Quig, who had been sitting with nodding head and closed eyes, gave a start.

“Didn’t you say you have a friend in the lab at the new power station?” Ambrose said.

“Yes, Jack Postlethwaite. He came out at the same time as Benny and myself.”

“Do you know for certain that they have a Moncaster machine in the laboratory?”

“I think so. Isn’t it something like a signal generator, except that it gives you different kinds of radiation fields?”

“That’s exactly what it is.” Ambrose took the ignition keys frorfi the dash and dropped them into Quig’s hand. “Des, I want you and Benny to take my car, drive over to the power station right now and hire that machine from your friend.”

Quig’s jaw sagged. “But those things cost a fortune—and this one isn’t even Jack’s property.”

Ambrose opened his wallet, took out a thousand-dollar bill and dropped it in Quig’s lap. “That’s for your friend, for a couple of days’ hire of the machine. There’ll be the same amount for you when you get back, to divide between you -provided you have the machine with you? Okay?”

“You bet it’s okay.” While Culver nodded vigorously, Quig scrambled out of the car, sped round it to the driver’s door and stood jigging in the rain while Ambrose got out.

“Not so fast/ Ambrose said to him. “We still have to unship our gear.”

Snook, who had been watching the transaction with interest, kept an eye on Ambrose during the unloading operation. Overnight the scientist seemed to have grown a little older, a little harder around the eyes and mouth, and he was moving with the jerky energy of a man whose mind was on fire. As soon as the car had swished away down the hill with Quig at the wheel, Ambrose gave Snook a wry grin.

“Let’s go inside,” he said. “You’ve got one hell of a debriefing session in front of you.”

Snook remained leaning against a wooden upright of the verandah. “Let’s stay out here for a minute.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s more private than in the house. You know, of course, that young Quig and Culver and their friend could get jail—or worse—if they’re caught borrowing that machine. The power station is state property.”

“They won’t get caught,” Ambrose said easily. He opened a pack of cigarettes and handed one to Snook.

“Do you need that machine to bring the Avernians through to Earth?”

“Yes. They couldn’t do it if we didn’t help by setting up the right local environment. I’ll have to get a supply of hydrogen today, as well.”

“What’s all the hurry?” Snook stared hard at Ambrose’s face above the transparent blue shoot of his lighter flame. “Why do you have to try this thing when the conditions are all wrong?”

“I disagree with you about the conditions, Gil—they’ll never be as good again. You know that tomorrow top dead centre will occur just a couple of metres above ground level, but from then on Avernus will permanently be swelling out through the Earth’s surface. It’ll be like a flat dome which gets five hundred metres higher every day. That may not seem like much, but we’re dealing with a tangent which is practically zero, which means that the edge of that dome will be spreading out in all directions at tremendous speed.

“True there’ll be two lesser top dead centres, one north of •the equator and one south of it, but they’ll be running away from the equator all the time, and it will be difficult to set up equipment at one of them and hold station with respect to a corresponding point on Avernus. This time, right now, is the only time when we’ll only have to deal with movement in one sense…” Ambrose halted the flow of words, meeting Snook’s gaze.

“But those weren’t the conditions you meant, were they…

“No.”

“You were asking why I want to try it when we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trigger-happy storm-troopers who would shoot us as soon as look at us.”

“Something like that,” Snook said.

“Well, one reason is that nobody in the world today is going to like the idea of a race of alien supermen muscling in on what’s left of our resources. The UN is likely to veto the whole thing on quarantine reasons alone, so it would be better to aim for a fait accompli. The chance is too good to miss.”

Ambrose put his finger into a domed raindrop on the verandah railing and smeared it out flat.

“What’s the other reason?”

“I got on to this thing first. I came here first. It’s mine, Gil, and I need it. This is my one chance to be the person I set out to be a long time ago—can you understand that?”

“I think so, but does it mean so much that you don’t care about people getting hurt?”

“I don’t want anybody to get hurt—besides, I don’t think I could drive Des and Benny off with a shotgun.”

“I was thinking more about Prudence/ Snook said. “Why don’t you use your influence with her and get her out of the country?”

“She’s her own woman, Gil.” Ambrose sounded unconcerned as he turned to go indoors. “What makes you think I’ve got any influence in that direction?”

“You’ve slept with her, haven’t you?” Snook was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Or doesn’t that count any more?”

“That’s all I’ve done—slept with her. I was too whacked for anything else that morning.” Ambrose looked at Snook with new interest. “It’s a good thing I was pole-axed—it probably spared me an embarrassing scene.”

“How?”

“Our Miss Devonald isn’t as casual about sex as she likes people to believe. It’s when you try to treat her like a woman that she begins acting like a man. And not just any man. General George S. Patton, I’d say.” Ambrose walked to the door of the house and then came back.

“How about you, Gil?” he said. “Are you going to pull out on me?”

“No. I’ll stay around.”

“Thanks-but why?”

Snook gave him a brief smile. “Would you believe it’s because I like Felleth?”

By the last decade of the twentieth century the standard of living in even the most advanced of the world’s countries had become patchy. The Orwellian prediction that people would be able to afford nothing but luxuries had been amply fulfilled. It was, for example, difficult to obtain a safely edible fish, and the World Health Organisation had solemnly, and with every appearance of conviction, halved its mid-century estimate of the number of grammes of first-class protein that an adult needed each day to maintain good health.

On the other hand, communications were excellent—the synchronous satellite and the germanium diode ensured that practically everybody on the planet could be informed of an important event within minutes of its occurrence. It was, however, only possible to broadcast information—not understanding—and there were many who maintained that people in general would have been better off, certainly happier, without the ceaseless welter of news which bombarded them from the skies. The principal achievement of the telecommunications industry, they claimed, was that it was now possible to start in minutes the same riot that would have required days a few decades earlier.

Gene Helig’s account of the events in Barandi National Mine No. 3 was in the hands of his colleague in the neighbouring statelet of Matsa before 8.00 a.m. local time, and in a further ten minutes had been relayed to the Press Association office in Salisbury, Rhodesia. Because both journalists concerned had the highest professional credentials, the story was accepted without question and beamed via satellite to several major centres, including London and New York. From there it was shared out among other agencies with special ethnic, cultural, political or geographical interests. Up to that point the original message had been analagous to the output grid current in a thermionic valve, a puny trickle of electrons, but its characteristics were suddenly amplified by the full power of the global news services and it began to surge massively from pole to pole, swamping the various media. Again as in the case of a thermionic valve, excessive amplification led inevitably to distortion.

The reactions were almost immediate.

Tensions had been high in those equatorial countries in which the Avernians had been sighted, and the news that the immaterial ‘ghosts’ were planning to turn themselves into solid, substantial, material invaders caused people to take to the streets. The terminator, the line which divided night from day—and which also marked the emergence point of the alien planet and its inhabitants—was proceeding westwards along the equator at a leisurely rate of less than 1,700 kilometres an hour, and thus was far outstripped by the rumours of the menace it was supposed to represent. While morning sunlight was filtering down through the rain clouds which covered Barandi, the darkness which still lay over Ecuador, Columbia and three of the new countries which occupied northern Brazil was disturbed here and there by the classical symptoms of panic. And far to the north, in New York, members of several special United Nations committees were summoned from their beds.

President Paul Ogilvie read carefully through the news summary sheets and memoranda which had been left for his attention by his personal secretary, then he pressed a switch on his communicator set and said, “I want Colonel Freeborn here immediately.”

He took a cigar from the silver box on his desk and busied himself with the rituals of removing the band, cutting the sealed end and ensuring that the tobacco was ignited evenly. His hands remained perfectly steady throughout the entire operation, but he was not concealing from himself the fact that he had been shocked by the news he had just read. His other self, the one which obstinately clung to the old tribal name with which he had begun life, felt a deep unease at the idea of ghosts stalking among the lakeside trees, and the prospect of the ghosts materialising into solid flesh smacked even more clearly of magic. The fact that the paraphernalia of nuclear physics was involved did not prevent the magic from being magic—the knowledge that witch doctors used psychological techniques did nothing to render them harmless.

At another level of consciousness, Ogilvie was disturbed by a conviction that his present security and all his plans for the future were being threatened by the new developments at the mine. He enjoyed having fifty expensive suits and a fleet of prestige cars; he relished the superb food and wine, and the exotic women which he imported like any other luxury commodity; and, above all, he savoured Barandi’s growing acceptance among the other countries of the world, the imminence of its full membership of the United Nations. Barandi was his own personal creation, and official recognition by the UN would be history’s seal of approval upon Paul Ogilvie, the man.

He had more to lose than any other man in the country, and his instincts were keener in proportion—it was becoming obvious to him that the affair at Three had been mishandled. Swift, stern measures at the outset might have quashed the whole thing, but it was too late for that now, and the danger was that Freeborn might go off the rails in full view of the world. Now that he thought of it, Colonel Freeborn was fast becoming an anachronism and a liability in a number of respects…

The communicator set buzzed softly and his secretary announced the Colonel’s arrival. “Send him in,” Ogilvie said, closing a mental file for the time being.

“Afternoon, Paul.” Freeborn strode into the big office with an air of barely controlled anger, his long-muscled galley slave’s arms glistening beneath the half-sleeves of his drill shirt.

“Have you seen this stuff?” Ogilvie tapped the sheets on his blotter.

“I got my copies.”

“What do you think?”

“I think we’ve been pussy-footing around for far too long, and this is the outcome. It’s time we went in there…”

“I mean what do you think about these creatures from another world which are supposed to come through a machine?”

Freeborn looked surprised. “I don’t think anything of it—partly because I don’t believe in fairy tales, but mainly because I’m going to kick those white wabwa out of the mine before they cost us any more time and money.”

“We can’t do anything too hastily/ Ogilvie said, examining the ash of his cigar. “I’ve just had word from New York that the United Nations is sending a team of investigators.”

“United Nations! United Nations! That’s all I hear from you these days, Paul.” Freeborn clenched his fist around his gold-topped cane. “What has happened to you? This is our country—we don’t have to let anybody in if we don’t want them.”

Ogilvie sighed, sending a flat cloud of grey smoke billowing on the polished wood of his desk. “Everything can be handled diplomatically. The UN people want Doctor Ambrose to stop whatever it is he’s doing, which suits us perfectly. As a matter of interest, did your friend Snook make any attempt to contact you and keep you informed as we arranged?”

“I’ve had no messages from him.”

“There you are! He ignored his brief, and that entitles me to tell him and Doctor Ambrose to get out of the mine. And we’ll be complying with the UN’s wishes.”

Freeborn dropped into a chair and rested his forehead on one hand. “I swear to you, Paul—this is making me ill. I don’t care about Ambrose, but I’ve got to have this man, Snook. If I sent the Leopards back into…”

“Are you sure they could deal with him, Tommy? I’ve heard that when he’s armed with a piece of cutlery he can overcome a platoon of Leopards.”

“I’ve just heard about that and haven’t had time to investigate, but apparently there was an incident, a trivial incident, involving three of my men.”

“Three men and an officer, wasn’t it?”

Freeborn did not raise his head, but a vein began to pulse on his shaven temple. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get Snook’s telephone line connected again,” Ogilvie said. “I want to talk to him right now.” He sat back in his chair and watched as Freeborn took a small military communicator from his shirt pocket and spoke into it, noting with amusement that—even for such a minor detail—the Colonel used a prearranged code word. A minute later Freeborn nodded and put his radio away. Ogilvie instructed his secretary to get Snook on the line. He stared thoughtfully at the rain-streaming windows, deliberately presenting the appearance of a man in effortless control of his circumstances, until the connection was made.

“Good afternoon, Snook,” he said. “Is Doctor Ambrose with you?”

“No, sir. He’s down at the mine setting up some equipment.”

Freeborn stirred restlessly as Snook’s voice reached him through the phone’s loudspeaker attachment.

“In that case,” Ogilvie said, “I’ll have to deal with you, won’t I?”

“Is there anything wrong, sir?” Snook sounded helpful, ready to please.

Ogilvie gave an appreciative laugh, recognising Snook’s way of touching gloves with him. “There appear to be quite a few things wrong. I don’t like having to listen to the British Broadcasting Corporation to find out what’s happening in my country. What happened to our arrangement that you would keep Colonel Freeborn informed of all developments at the mine?”

“I’m sorry, sir—but things have been happening so quickly, and my telephone has been out of order. In fact, yours is the first call to get through for days. I don’t understand how it happened, because I’ve never had any trouble with the telephone before now. It might be something to do with the…”

“Snook! Don’t overdo it. What’s all this about a plan to make our so-called ghosts materialise into flesh and blood?” •

“Is that what they said on the radio?”

“You know it is.”

“Well, that’s Doctor Ambrose’s department, sir. I don’t even see how such a thing would be possible.”

“Neither do I,” Ogilvie said, “but apparently some of the UN’s science advisers think there could be something in it, and they don’t like the idea any more than I do. They’re sending a team of investigators with whom I’m going to cooperate to the fullest extent. In the meantime, Doctor Ambrose is to suspend all activities. Is that clear?”

“Very clear, sir. I’ll contact Doctor Ambrose at once.”

“Do that.” Ogilvie replaced the phone and sat tapping it with a fingernail. “Your friend Snook is as slippery as an eel—how many times did he address me as sir?”

Freeborn stood up, swinging his cane. “I’d better get out to the mine and make sure they clear out of it.”

“No. I want the Leopards pulled right out and I want you to stay in Kisumu, Tommy—Snook gets under your skin too easily. I don’t want any more trouble than I’ve already got.” Ogilvie gave Freeborn a moody, speculative stare.

“Besides, we both agree that the whole thing about visitors from another world is a ridiculous fairy tale.”