Goodbye California

CHAPTER SIX

Golden mornings are far from rare in the Golden State and this was one of them, still and clear and beautiful, the sun already hot in a deep-blue sky bereft of cloud. The view from the Sierras across the mist-streaked San Joaquin Valley to the sunlit peaks and valleys of the Coastal Range was quite breath-takingly lovely, a vista to warm the hearts of all but the very sick, the very near-sighted, the irredeemably misanthropical and, in this particular instance, those who were held prisoner behind the grim walls of the Adlerheim. In the last case, additionally, it had to be admitted that the view from the western battlement, high above the courtyard, was marred, psychologically if not actually, by the triple-stranded barbed wire fence with its further unseen deterrent of 2000 volts.

Susan Ryder felt no uplift of the heart whatsoever. Nothing could ever make her anything less than beautiful, but she was pale and tired and the dusky blueness under her lower lids had not come from any bottle of eye-shadow. She had not slept except for a brief fifteen-minute period during the night from which she had woken with the profound conviction that something was far wrong, something more terrible than even their incarceration in that dreadful place. Susan, whose mother had been a Scot, had often, and only half-jokingly, claimed that she had the first sight, as distinct from the legendary second sight, inasmuch as she knew that something, somewhere, was terribly wrong at the moment it was happening and not that it was about to happen at some future time. She had awoken, in fact, at the moment when her daughter’s two FBI guards had been gunned down in San Diego. A heaviness of heart is as much a physical as a mental sensation, and she was at a loss to account for it. So much, she thought morosely, for her reputation as the cheerful, smiling extrovert, the sun who lit up any company in which she happened to find herself. She would have given the world to have a hand touch her arm and find herself looking into the infinitely reassuring face of her husband, to feel his rocklike presence by her side.

A hand did touch her arm then took it. It was Julie Johnson. Her eyes were dulled and tinged with red as if she had spent a goodly part of the night ensconced behind the wet bar so thoughtfully provided by Morro. Susan put an arm round the girl’s slender shoulders and held her. Neither said anything. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.

They were the only two on the battlements. Six of the other hostages were wandering, apparently aimlessly, around the courtyard, none speaking to any of the others. It could have been that each wished to be alone with his or her personal thoughts or that they were only now beginning to appreciate the predicament in which they found themselves: on the other hand the inhibitory and intimidatory effects of those bleak walls were sufficient to stifle the normal morning courtesies of even the most gregarious.

The ringing of the bell from the door of the great hall came almost as a relief. Susan and Julie made their way down the stone steps with care — there was no guard-rail — and joined the others at one of the long tables where breakfast was being served. It was a first-class meal that would have done justice to any hotel of good standing, but apart from Dr Healey and Dr Bramwell, who ate with a gusto becoming guests of long standing, the others did no more than sip some coffee and push pieces of toast around. In atmosphere, it was the early morning equivalent of the Last Supper.

They had just finished what most of them hadn’t even started when Morro and Dubois entered, smiling, affable, courteous, freely bestowing good-mornings and hopes that they had all spent the night in peaceful and relaxing slumber. This over, Morro lifted a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I observe that two of our new guests, Professor Burnett and Dr Schmidt, are absent. Achmed’ — this to one of the white-robed acolytes — ‘ask them if they would be good enough to join us.’

Which, after five minutes, the two nuclear scientists did. Their clothes were crumpled as if they had slept in them, which, in fact, was what they had done. They had unshaven faces and what was known to the trade as ‘tartan eyes’ — for which Morro had only himself to blame in having left refreshments so freely available in their suites. In fairness, he was probably not to know that the awesome scientific reputations of the two physicists from San Diego and UCLA were matched only by their awesome reputations in the field of bacchanalian conviviality.

Morro allowed a decent interval to elapse then said: ‘Just one small matter. I would like you all to sign your names. If you would be so good, Abraham?’

Dubois nodded amiably, picked up a sheaf of papers and went round the table, laying a typed letter, typed envelope and pen before each of the ten hostages.

‘What the devil is the meaning of this, you witless bastard?’ The speaker was, inevitably, Professor Burnett, his legendary ill-temper understandably exacerbated by a monumental hangover. ‘This is a copy of the letter I wrote my wife last night.’

‘Word for word, I assure you. Just sign it.’

‘I’ll be damned if I will.’

‘It’s a matter of utter indifference to me,’ Morrow said. ‘Asking you to write those letters was purely a courtesy gesture to enable you to assure your loved ones that you are safe and well. Starting from the top of the table you will all sign your letters in rotation, handing your pens to Abraham. Thank you. You look distraught, Mrs Ryder.’

‘Distraught, Mr Morro?’ She gave him a smile but it wasn’t one of her best. ‘Why should I?’

‘Because of this.’ He laid an envelope on the table before her, address upwards. ‘You wrote this?’

‘Of course. That’s my writing.’

‘Thank you.’ He turned the envelope face down and she saw, with a sudden dryness in her mouth, that both edges had been slit. Morro opened the edges, smoothed the envelope flat and indicated a small greyish squidge in the middle of the back of the envelope. ‘Paper was completely blank, of course, but there are chemical substances that bring out even the most invisible writing. Now, even the most dedicated policeman’s wife wouldn’t carry invisible ink around with her. This little squiggle here has an acetic acid basis, most commonly used in the making of aspirin but also, in some cases, nail varnish. You, I observe, use colourless nail varnish. Your husband is a highly experienced, perhaps even brilliant detective and he would expect similar signs of intelligence from his wife. Within a few minutes of receiving this letter he would have had it in a police laboratory. Shorthand, of course. What does it say, Mrs Ryder?’

Her voice was dull. ‘“Adlerheim”.’

‘Very, very naughty, Mrs Ryder. Enterprising, of course, clever, spirited, call it what you like, but naughty.’

She stared down at the table. ‘What are you going to do with me?’

‘Do with you? Fourteen days bread and water? I think not. We do not wage war on women. Your chagrin will be punishment enough.’ He looked round. ‘Professor Burnett, Dr Schmidt, Dr Healey, Dr Bramwell, I would be glad if you would accompany me.’

Morro led the way to a large room next to his own study. It was notable for the fact that it lacked any window and was covered on three sides by metal filing cabinets. The remaining wall — a side wall — was, incongruously enough, given over to repulsively baroque paintings framed in heavy gilt — one presumed they had formed the prized nucleus of Von Streicher’s art collection — and a similarly gilt-edged mirror. There was a large table in the centre, with half a dozen chairs round it and, on it, a pile of large sheets of paper, about four feet by two, the top one of which was clearly some sort of diagram. At one end of the table there was a splendidly-equipped drinks trolley.

Morro said: ‘Well, now, gentlemen, I’ll be glad if you do me a favour. Nothing, I assure you, that will involve you in any effort. Be so kind as to have a look at them and tell me what you think of them.’

‘I’ll be damned if we do,’ Burnett said. He spoke in his normal tone, that of defiant truculence. ‘I speak for myself, of course.’

Morro smiled. ‘Oh, yes, you will.’

‘Yes? Force? Torture?’

‘Now we are being childish. You will examine them and for two reasons. You will be overcome by your natural scientific curiosity — and, surely, gentlemen, you want to know why you are here?’

He left and closed the door behind them. There was no sound of a key being turned in a lock, which was reassuring in itself. But then a pushbutton, hydraulically-operated bolt is completely silent in any event.

He moved into his study, now lit by only two red lamps. Dubois was seated before a large glass screen which, in fact, was completely transparent. Half an inch from that was the back of the one-way mirror of the room where the four scientists were. From this gap the maximum of air had been extracted, not with any insulation purposes in mind but to eliminate the possibility of the scientists hearing anything that was said in the study. Those in the study, however, had no difficulty whatsoever in hearing what the scientists had to say, owing to the positioning of four suitably spaced and cunningly concealed microphones in the scientists’ room. Those were wired into a speaker above Dubois’s head and a tape-recorder by his side.

‘Not all of it,’ Morro said. ‘Most of it will probably be unprintable — unrepeatable, rather — anyway. Just the meat on the bones.’

‘I understand. Just to be sure, I’ll err on the cautious side. We can edit it afterwards.’

They watched the four men in the room look around uncertainly. Then Burnett and Schmidt looked at each other and this time there was no uncertainty in their expressions. They strode purposefully towards the drinks trolley, Burnett selecting the inevitable Glenfiddich, Schmidt homing in on the Gordon’s gin. A brief silence ensued while the two men helped themselves in generous fashion and set about restoring a measure of tranquillity to the disturbances plaguing their nervous systems.

Healey watched them sourly then made a few far from oblique references to Morro, which was one of the passages that Morro and Dubois would have to edit out of the final transcript. Having said that, Healey went on: ‘He’s right, damn him. I’ve just had a quick glance at that top blueprint and I must say it interests me strangely — and not in a way that I like at all: and I do want to know what the hell we are doing here.’

Burnett silently scrutinized the top diagram for all of thirty seconds and even the aching head of a top physicist can absorb a great deal of information in that time. He looked round the other three, noted in vague surprise that his glass was empty, returned to the drinks trolley and rejoined the others armed with a further glass of the malt whisky, which he raised to the level of his speculative eyes. ‘This, gentlemen, is not for my hangover, which is still unfortunately with me: it’s to brace myself for whatever we find out or, more precisely, for what I fear we may find out. Shall we have a look at it then, gentlemen?’

In the study next door Morro clapped Dubois on the shoulder and left.

Barrow, with his plump, genial, rubicund face, ingenuous expression and baby-blue eyes, looked like a pastor — to be fair, a bishop — in mufti: he was the head of the FBI, a man feared by his own agents almost as much as he was by the criminals who were the object of his life-long passion to put behind bars for as long a period as the law allowed and, if possible, longer. Sassoon, head of the Californian FBI, was a tall, ascetic, absent-minded-looking man who looked as if he would have been far more at home on a university campus, a convincing impression that a large number of convicted Californian felons deeply regretted having taken at its face value. Crichton was the only man who looked his part: big, bulky, tight-lipped, with an aquiline nose and cold grey eyes, he was the deputy head of the CIA. Neither he nor Barrow liked each other very much, which pretty well symbolized the relationship between the two organizations they represented.

Alec Benson, Professor Hardwick by his side, bent his untroubled and, indeed, his unimpressed gaze on the three men, then let it rest on Dunne and the two Ryders in turn. He said to Hardwick: ‘Well, well, Arthur, we are honoured today — three senior gentlemen from the FBI and one senior gentleman from the CIA. A red-letter day for the Faculty. Well, their presence here I can understand — not too well, but I understand.’ He looked at Ryder and Jeff. ‘No offence, but you would appear to be out of place in this distinguished company. You are, if the expression be pardoned, just ordinary policemen. If, of course, there are any such.’

‘No offence, Professor,’ Ryder said. ‘There are ordinary policemen, a great many of them far too ordinary. And we aren’t even ordinary policemen — we’re ex-ordinary policemen.’

Benson lifted his brows. Dunne looked at Barrow, who nodded. ‘Sergeant Ryder and his son Patrolman Ryder resigned from the force yesterday. They had urgent and private reasons for doing so. They know more about the peculiar circumstances surrounding this affair than any of us. They have achieved considerably more than any of us who have, in fact, achieved nothing so far, hardly surprising in view of the fact that the affair began only last evening. For good measure. Sergeant Ryder’s wife and his daughter have both been kidnapped and are being held hostage by this man Morro.’

‘Jesus!’ Benson no longer looked untroubled. ‘My apologies, certainly — and my sympathies, certainly. It may be us who have not the right to be here.’ He singled out Barrow, the most senior of the investigative officers present. ‘You are here to ascertain whether or not CalTech, as spokesmen for the various other State institutes, and especially whether I, as spokesman for the spokesmen, so to speak, have been guilty of misleading the public. Or, more bluntly, have I been caught lying in my teeth?’

Even Barrow hesitated. Formidable man though he was, he recognized another formidable man when he met one and he was aware of Benson’s reputation. He said: ‘Could this tremor have been triggered off by an atomic device?’

‘It’s possible, of course, but it’s equally impossible to tell. A seismograph is incapable of deciding the nature of the source of shock waves. Generally, almost invariably, we are in no doubt as to the source. We ourselves, the British and the French announce our nuclear tests: the other two members of the so-called nuclear club are not so forthcoming. But there are still ways of telling. When the Chinese detonated a nuclear device in the megaton range — a megaton, as you are probably aware, is the equivalent of a million tons of TNT — clouds of radiation gas drifted eventually across the US. The cloud was thin, high and caused no damage, but was easily detected — this was in November nineteen-seventy-six. Again, earthquakes, almost invariably, give off after-shocks.

‘There was one classical exception — again, oddly enough, in November of nineteen-seventy-six. Seismology stations in both Sweden and Finland detected an earthquake — not major, on the four-something Richter scale — off the coast of Estonia. Other scientists disputed this, figuring that the Soviets have been responsible, accidentally or otherwise, for a nuclear detonation on the floor of the Baltic. They have been disputing the matter ever since. The Soviets, naturally, have not seen fit to give any enlightenment on the matter.’

Barrow said: ‘But earthquakes do not occur in that region of the world.’

‘I would not seek, Mr Barrow, to advise you in the matter of law enforcement. It’s a minor area, but it’s there.’

Barrow’s smile was at its most genial. ‘The FBI stands corrected.’

‘So whether this man Morro detonated a small nuclear device there or not I can’t tell you.’ He looked at Hardwick. ‘You think any reputable seismologist in the State would venture a definite opinion one way or another on this, Arthur?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s the answer to one question, unsatisfactory though it may be. But that, of course, is not the question you really want to ask. You wanted to know whether we — I, if you like — was entirely accurate in locating the epicentre of the shock in the White Wolf Fault instead of, as Morro claims, in the Garlock Fault. Gentlemen, I was lying in my teeth.’

There was a predictable silence.

‘Why?’ Crichton was not a man noted for his loquacity.

‘Because in the circumstances it seemed the best thing to do. In retrospect, it still seems the best thing.’ Benson shook his head in regret. ‘Pity this fellow Morro had to come along and spoil things.’

‘Why?’ Crichton was also noted for his persistency.

‘I’ll try to explain so that Mr Sassoon, Major Dunne and the two policemen here — sorry, ex-policemen — will understand. For you and Mr Barrow it may not be so easy.’

‘Why?’

It seemed to Alec Benson that Crichton was a man of remarkably limited vocabulary, but he refrained from comment. ‘Because those four are Californians. You two are not.’

Barrow smiled. ‘A State apart. I always knew it. Secession next, is that it?’

‘It is a State apart, but not in that sense. It’s apart because it’s the only State in the Union where, in the back — and maybe not so far back — of the mind of any reasonably intelligent person lies the thought of tomorrow. Not when tomorrow comes, gentlemen. If tomorrow comes.

‘Californians live in a state of fear or fearful resignation or just pure resignation. There has always been the vague thought, the entertainment of the vague possibility, that one day the big one is going to hit us.’

Barrow said: ‘The big one. Earthquake?’

‘Of devastating proportions. This fear never really crystallized until as late as nineteen-seventy-six — third time I’ve mentioned that year this morning, isn’t it? Nineteen-seventy-six was the bad year, the year that made the minds of people in this State turn to thoughts they’d rather not think about.’ Benson lifted a sheet of paper. ‘February four, Guatemala. Seven-point-five on the Richter scale. Tens of thousands died. May six, North Italy. Six-point-five. Hundreds dead, widespread devastation, and later on in the same year another ‘quake came back to wipe out the few buildings that were still left standing after the first earthquake. May sixteen, Soviet Central Asia. Seven-point-two. Death-rate and damage unknown — the Soviets are reluctant to discuss those things. July twenty-seven, Tangshan. Eight-point-two, in which two-thirds of a million died and three-quarters of a million were injured: as this occurred in a densely-populated area, large cities like Peking and Tientsin were involved. Then in the following month the far south of the Philippines. Eight-point-zero. Widespread devastation, exact deaths unknown but running into tens of thousands — this partly due to the earthquake, partly due to the giant tsunamai — tidal wave — that followed because the earthquake had occurred under the sea. They had a lesser earthquake in the Philippines some way further north on November nine. Six-point-eight. No precise figures released. In fact, November of that year was quite a month, with yet another earthquake in the Philippines, one in Iran, one in Northern Greece, five in China and two in Japan. Worst of all Turkey. Five thousand dead.

‘And all those earthquakes, with the exception of the ones in Greece and Italy, were related to the movement of what they call the Pacific plate, which causes the so-called ring of fire around the Pacific. The section that mainly concerns us, as everyone knows, is the San Andreas Fault where the north-east-moving Pacific plate rubs against the westward-pressing American plate. In fact, gentlemen, where we are now is, geologically speaking, not really part of America at all but part of the Pacific plate, and it hardly requires an educated guess to know that in the not-too-distant future we won’t physically be part of America either. Some day the Pacific plate is going to carry the western seaboard of California into the oceanic equivalent of the wild blue yonder, for where we’re sitting at the moment lies to the west of the San Andreas Fault — only a few miles, mind you, it passes under San Bernadino, just a hop, skip and jump to the east. For good measure, we’re only about the same distance from the Newport-Inglewood Fault to the west — that’s what caused the Long Beach ‘quake of nineteen-thirty-three — and not all that much further from the San Fernando Fault to the north, which caused, as you may recall, that very nasty business back in February ‘seventy-two. Seismologically speaking, only a lunatic would choose to live in the county of Los Angeles. A comforting thought, isn’t it, gentlemen?’

Benson looked around him. No one seemed to find it a comforting thought at all.

‘Little wonder, then, that people’s thoughts started turning inwards. Little wonder that they increasingly wondered, “When’s our time going to come?” We’re sitting fair and square astride the ring of fire and our turn might be any time now. It is not a happy thought to live with. And they’re not thinking in terms of earthquakes in the past. We’ve only had four major earthquakes in our known past, two of them really big ones on the order of eight-point-three on the Richter scale, Owens Valley in eighteen-seventy-two and San Francisco in nineteen-o-six. But, I say, it’s not those they’re thinking of. Not in the terms of major earthquakes but of monster earthquakes, of which there have been only two recorded in history, both of the Richter order of eight-point-nine, or about six times the destructive force of the San Francisco one.’ Benson shook his head. ‘An earthquake up to ten on the Richter scale — or even twelve — is theoretically possible but not even the scientific mind cares to contemplate the awfulness of it.

‘Those two monster ‘quakes occurred also, perhaps not coincidentally, in the first place in nineteen-o-six and nineteen-thirty-three, the first in Ecuador, the second in Japan. I won’t describe the effects to you two gentlemen from Washington or you’d be taking the plane back east — if, that is to say, you managed to get to LA airport before the ground opened up beneath you. Both Ecuador and Japan sit astride the Pacific ring of fire. So does California. Why shouldn’t it be our turn next?’

Barrow said: ‘That idea about a plane is beginning to sound good to me. What would happen if one of those struck?’

‘Assuming a properly sombre tone of voice, I must admit I’ve given a great deal of thought to this. Say it struck where we’re sitting now. You’d wake up in the morning — only of course the dead don’t wake — and find the Pacific where Los Angeles is and Los Angeles buried in what used to be Santa Monica Bay and the San Pedro Channel. The San Gabriel Mountains might well have fallen down smack on top of where we are now. If it happened at sea —’

‘How could it happen at sea?’ Barrow was a degree less jovial than he had been. ‘The fault runs through California.’

‘Easterner. It runs out into the Pacific south of San Francisco, by-passes the Golden Gate, then rejoins the mainland to the north. A monster ‘quake of the Golden Gate would be of interest. For starters, San Francisco would be a goner. Probably the whole of the San Francisco peninsula, Marin County would go the same way. But the real damage —’

‘The real damage?’ Crichton said.

‘Yes. The real damage would come from the immense ocean of water that would sweep into the San Francisco Bay. When I say “immense” I mean just that. Up in Alaska — we have proof — earthquakes have generated water levels three and four hundred feet above normal. Richmond, Berkeley, Oakland, all the way down through Palo Alto to San Jose would be drowned. The Santa Cruz Mountains would become an island. And even worse — to anticipate, Mr Crichton, there is worse — the agricultural heart of California, the two great valleys of San Joaquin and Sacramento, would be flooded, and the vast part of those valleys lie under an altitude of three hundred feet.’ Benson became thoughtful. ‘I hadn’t really thought of it before but, come to that, I don’t think I’d much care to be living in the capital either at that time for it would be dead in line of the first great wall of water rushing up the Sacramento river valley. Perhaps you are beginning to understand why I and my colleagues prefer to keep people’s minds off such things?’

‘I think I’m beginning to.’ Barrow looking at Dunne. ‘How do you — as a Californian, of course — feel about this?’

‘Unhappy.’

‘You go along with this way of thinking?’

‘Go along with it? If anything, I’m even ahead of it. I have the unpleasant feeling that Professor Benson is not only catching me up in my thinking but passing me by.’

Benson said: ‘That’s as maybe. There are, I must admit, another couple of factors. In the past year or so people have begun delving into records and then wishing they hadn’t delved. Take the northern part of the San Andreas Fault. It is known that a great earthquake struck there in eighteen-thirty-three although, at the time, there was no way of calibrating its strength. The great San Francisco ‘quake of nineteen-o-six struck there sixty-eight years later. There was one in Daly City in nineteen-fifty-seven but at a magnitude of five-point-three it was geologically insignificant. There hasn’t been, if I may use the term, a “proper” earthquake up north for seventy-one years. It may well be overdue.

‘In the southern San Andreas there has been no major ‘quake since eighteen-fifty-seven. One hundred and twenty years ago. Now, triangulation surveys have shown that the Pacific plate, in relation to the American plate, is moving northeast at two inches a year. When an earthquake occurs one plate jerks forward in relation to the other — this is called a lateral slip. In nineteen-o-six slips of between fifteen and eighteen feet have been measured. On the two inches a year basis, one hundred and twenty years could mean an accumulated pressure potential amounting to twenty feet. If we accept this basis — not everyone does — a major earthquake in the Los Angeles area is considerably overdue.

‘As for the central area of the San Andreas, no major ‘quake has ever been recorded. Lord only knows how long that one may be overdue. And, of course, the big one may occur in any of the other faults, such as the Garlock, the next biggest in the State, which has been quiet for centuries.’ Benson smiled. ‘Now, that would be something, gentlemen. A monster lurking in the Garlock Fault.

‘The third thing that rather tends to preoccupy people’s minds is that reputable scientists have begun to talk out loud — in print, radio and television — about the prospects that lie ahead of us. Whether they should talk out loud or not is a matter for their own principles and consciences: I prefer not to, but I’m not necessarily correct.

‘A physicist, and a highly regarded one, Peter Franken, expects the next earthquake to be of a giant size, and he has openly predicted death toll figures between twenty thousand and a million. He has also predicted that if it happens in the long-quiescent central section of the San Andreas the severity of the shock waves would rock both Los Angeles and San Francisco — in his own words, “quite possibly wiping them out”: it is perhaps not surprising that, per head of population, California consumes more tranquillizers and sleeping tablets than any place on earth.

‘Or take the San Francisco emergency plan. It is known that no fewer than sixteen hospitals in “kit” form are stored in various places around the city ready to be set up when disaster strikes. A leading scientist commented somewhat gloomily that most of those, should a major earthquake occur, would probably be destroyed anyway, and if the city was inundated or the peninsula cut off the whole lot would be useless. San Franciscans must find this kind of statement vastly heartening.

‘Other scientists settle on a maximum of five years’ existence for both Los Angeles and San Francisco. Some say two. One seismologist gives Los Angeles less than a year to live. A crackpot? A Cassandra? No. The one person they should listen to. A James H. Whitcomb of CalTech, the best earthquake forecaster in the business. He has predicted before with an almost uncanny degree of accuracy. Won’t necessarily be located in the San Andreas Fault, but it’s coming very soon.’

Barrow said: ‘Believe him?’

‘Let me put it this way. If the roof fell in on us while we’re sitting here I wouldn’t raise an eyebrow — provided, that is, I had time to raise an eyebrow. I personally do not doubt that, sooner rather than later, Los Angeles will be razed to the ground.’

‘What were the reactions to this forecast?’

‘Well, he terrified a lot of people. Some scientists just shrugged their shoulders and walked away — earthquake prediction is still in its infancy or, at best, an inexact science. Most significantly, he was immediately threatened with a law suit by a Los Angeles city official on the grounds that such reports undermined property values. This is on record.’ Benson sighed. ‘All part of the “Jaws Syndrome” as it has come to be called. Greed, I’d call it. Recall the film — no one who had commercial interests at stake wanted to believe in this killer shark. Or take a dozen years ago in Japan, a place called Matsushiro. Local scientists predicted an earthquake there, of such and such a magnitude at such and such a time. Local hoteliers were furious, threatened them with God knows what. But, at the predicted place, magnitude and time, along came the earthquake.’

‘What happened?’

‘The hotels fell down. Commercial interests, commercial interests. Say Dr Whitcomb predicted a ‘quake on the Newport-Inglewood Fault. One certain result would be the temporary closing of the Hollywood Park Race Track — it’s almost smack on the fault, and you can’t have tens of thousands of people jammed into a potential death-trap. A week goes by, two weeks, and nothing happens. Loss of profits might run into millions. Can you imagine how much Dr Whitcomb would be sued for?

‘And the Jaws Syndrome is just first cousin to the Ostrich Syndrome. Put your head in the sand, pretend it’s not there and it’ll go away. But fewer and fewer people are indulging in that, with the result that fear, in many areas, is reaching a state dangerously close to hysteria. Let me tell you a story, not my story, but a very prophetic short story written some five years ago by a writer called R. L. Stevens.

‘If I recall correctly it was called The Forbidden Word. There was a California Enabling Act which prohibited all reference to earthquakes in print or public. Penalty of five years. The State, apparently, has lost, by death or flight, fifty per cent of its population because of earthquakes. Roadblocks at State lines and people forbidden to leave. A man and girl are arrested for mentioning the word “earthquake” in a public place. I wonder when we’re going to have a real life Enabling Act, when a mounting hysteria will drive us into a nineteen-eighty-four Orwellian situation?’

‘What happened?’ Barrow said. ‘In the story?’

‘It’s not relevant, but they got to New York which was crowded by the millions of Californians who’d fled east and were arrested by the Population Control Board for mentioning the word “love” in public. You can’t win. The same as we can’t win in this situation. To warn, to cry doom, the end of the world is nigh? Or not to warn, not to frighten them into a state of near-panic? For me, there is one crucial factor. How can you evacuate three million people, as in Los Angeles, on a mere prediction? This is a free society. How in God’s name can you close down coastal California, ten millions, maybe more, and hang around for an indeterminate time while you wait for your predictions to come true? Where are you going to go, where are you going to put them? How can you make them leave when they know there is no place to go? This is where their homes are, their jobs are, their friends are. There are no homes anywhere else, no jobs anywhere else, no friends anywhere else. This is where they live, this is where they’ll have to live, and, even though it’s sooner rather than later, this is where they’ve going to have to die.

‘And while they’re waiting to die, I think they should be allowed to live with as much peace of mind, relative though that may be, as is possible. You’re a Christian in the dungeons in Rome and you know it’s only a matter of time before you’re driven into the arena where the lions are waiting. It doesn’t help a great deal if you are reminded of the prospect every minute. Hope, however irrational, springs eternal.

‘Well, that’s my attitude and that’s my answer. I have lied in my teeth and I intend to go on doing so. Any suggestions that we were wrong will be vehemently denied. I am not, gentlemen, committed to a lie: I am committed to a belief. I have, I think, made my position very clear. Do you accept it?’

Barrow and Crichton looked briefly at each other, then turned to Benson and nodded in unison.

‘Thank you, gentlemen. As for this maniac Morro, I can be of no help there. He’s all yours, I’m afraid.’ He paused. ‘Threatening to explode an atomic bomb, or suchlike. I must say that, as a concerned citizen, I’d dearly love to know what he’s up to. Do you believe him?’

Crichton said: ‘We have no idea.’

‘No inkling what he’s up to?’

‘None.’

‘Suspense, war of nerves, tension. Creating fear, hoping to panic you into precipitate and misguided action?’

‘Very likely,’ Barrow said. ‘Only, we haven’t got anything to act against yet.’

‘Well, just as long as he doesn’t let it off under my seat or in any other inhabited area. If you learn the time and place of this proposed — ah — demonstration, may I request a grandstand seat?’

‘Your request has already been granted,’ Barrow said. ‘We were going to ask you anyway. Would there be anything else, gentlemen?’

‘Yes,’ Ryder said. ‘Would it be possible to borrow some reading material on earthquakes, especially recent ones?’

Everyone looked at him in perplexity. Everyone, that is, except Benson. ‘My pleasure, Sergeant. Just give this card to the librarian.’

Dunne said: ‘A question, Professor. This Earthquake Preventitive Slip Programme of yours. Shouldn’t that delay or minimize the great ‘quake that everyone seems to think is coming?’

‘Had it been started five years ago, perhaps. But we’re only just beginning. Three, maybe four years before we get results. I know in my bones that the monster will strike first. It’s out there, crouched on the doorstep, waiting.’