On The Beach

4

Next morning, Sunday, everyone in the Holmes household got up in pretty good shape, unlike the previous Sunday that Commander Towers had spent with them. They had gone to bed after a reasonable evening, unexcited by a party. At breakfast Mary asked her guest if he wanted to go to church, thinking that the more she got him out of the house the less likely he was to give Jennifer measles.

"I’d like to go," he said, "if that’s convenient."

"Of course it is," she said. "Just do whatever you like. I thought we might take tea down to the club this afternoon, unless you’ve got anything else you’d like to do."

He shook his head. "I could use another swim. But I’ll have to get back to the ship tonight sometime, after supper, maybe."

"Can’t you stay over till tomorrow morning?"

He shook his head, knowing her concern about the measles. "I’ll have to get back tonight."

He went out into the garden directly the meal was over to smoke a cigarette, thinking to ease Mary’s mind. Moira found him there when she came out from helping with the dishes, sitting in a deck chair looking out over the bay. She sat down beside him. "Are you really going to church?" she asked.

"That’s right," he said.

"Can I come too?"

He turned his head, and looked at her in surprise. "Why, certainly. Do you go regularly?"

She smiled. "Not once in a blue moon," she admitted. "It might be better if I did. Maybe I wouldn’t drink so much."

He pondered that one for a moment. "Could be," he said uncertainly. "I don’t know that that’s got a lot to do with it."

"You’re sure you wouldn’t rather go alone?"

"Why, no," he said. "I’d like your company."

As they left to walk down to the church Peter Holmes was getting out the garden hose to do some watering before the sun grew hot. His wife came out of the house presently. "Where’s Moira?" she asked.

"Gone to church with the captain."

"Moira? Gone to church?"

He grinned. "Believe it or not, that’s where she’s gone." She stood in silence for a minute. "I hope it’s going to be all right," she said at last.

"Why shouldn’t it?" he asked. "He’s dinkum, and she’s not a bad sort when you get to know her. They might even get married."

She shook her head. "There’s something funny about it. I hope it’s going to be all right," she repeated.

"It’s no concern of ours, anyway," he said. "Lots of things are going a bit weird these days."

She nodded, and started pottering about the garden while he watered. Presently she said, "I’ve been thinking, Peter. Could we take out those two trees, do you think?"

He came and looked at them with her. "I’d have to ask the landlord," he said. "What do you want to take them out for?"

"We’ve got so little space for growing vegetables," she said. "They are so expensive in the shops. If we could take those trees out and cut back the wattle, we could make a kitchen garden here, from here to here." She indicated with her hands. "I’m sure we could save nearly a pound a week by growing our own stuff. And it’d be fun, too."

He went to survey the trees. "I could get them down all right," he said, "and there’s a nice bit of firewood in them. It’d be green, of course, too green to burn this winter. We’d have to stack it for a year. The only thing is, getting out the stumps. It’s quite a big job, that."

"There are only two of them," she said. "I could help—keep on nibbling at them while you’re away. If we could get them out this winter and dig the ground over, I could plant it in the spring and we’d have vegetables all next summer." She paused. "Peas and beans," she said. "And a vegetable marrow. I’d make marrow jam."

"Good idea," he said. He looked the trees up and down. "They’re not very big," he said. "It’d be better for the pine if they came out."

"Another thing I want to do," she said, "is to put in a flowering gum tree, here. I think that’d look lovely in the summer."

"Takes about five years to come into bloom," he said.

"Never mind. A gum tree there would be just lovely, up against the blue of the sea. We could see it from our bedroom window."

He paused, considering the brilliance of the scarlet flowers all over the big tree against the deep blue sea, in the brilliant sunlight. "It’d certainly be quite a sensation when it was in bloom," he said. "Where would you put it? Here?"

"A bit more over this way, here," she said. "When it got big we could take down this holly thing and have a seat in the shade, here." She paused. "I went to Wilson’s nurseries while you were away," she said. "He’s got some lovely little flowering gum trees there, only ten and six-pence each. Do you think we could put in one of those this autumn?"

"They’re a bit delicate," he said. "I think the thing to do would be to put in two fairly close to each other, so that you’d have one if the other died. Then take out one of them in a couple of years’ time."

"The trouble is, one never does it," she observed.

They went on happily planning their garden for the next ten years, and the morning passed very quickly. When Moira and Dwight came back from church they were still at it. They were called into consultation on the layout of the kitchen garden. Presently Peter and Mary went into the house, the former to get drinks and the latter to get the lunch.

The girl glanced at the American. "Someone’s crazy," she said quietly. "Is it me or them?"

"Why do you say that?"

"They won’t be here in six months’ time. I won’t be here. You won’t be here. They won’t want any vegetables next year."

Dwight stood in silence for a moment, looking out at the blue sea, the long curve of the shore. "So what?" he said at last. "Maybe they don’t believe it. Maybe they think that they can take it all with them and have it where they’re going to, someplace. I wouldn’t know." He paused. "The thing is, they just kind of like to plan a garden. Don’t you go and spoil it for them, telling them they’re crazy."

"I wouldn’t do that." She stood in silence for a minute. "None of us really believe it’s ever going to happen—not to us," she said at last. "Everybody’s crazy on that point, one way or another."

"You’re very right," he said emphatically.

Drinks came, and put a closure on the conversation, and then lunch. After lunch Mary turned the men out into the garden, thinking them to be infectious, while she washed the dishes with Moira. Seated in deck chairs with a cup of coffee, Peter asked his captain, "Have you heard anything about our next job, sir?"

The American cocked his eye at him. "Not a thing. Have you?"

"Not really. Something was said at that conference with P.S.O. that made me wonder if anything was in the wind."

"What was it that was said?"

"Something about fitting us with new directional wireless of some kind. Have you heard anything?"

Dwight shook his head. "We’ve got plenty of radio."

"This is for taking a bearing—accurately. Perhaps when we’re submerged to periscope depth. We can’t do that, can we?"

"Not with our existing equipment. What do they want us to do that for?"

"I don’t know. It wasn’t on the agenda. It was just one of the back-room boys speaking out of turn."

"They want us to track down radio signals?"

"Honestly, I don’t know, sir. How it came up was that they asked if the radiation detector could be moved to the forward periscope so that this thing could be put on the aft periscope. John Osborne said he was pretty sure it could, but he’d take it up with you."

"That’s right. It can go on the forward periscope. I thought they wanted to fit two."

"I don’t think so, sir. I think they want to fit this other gadget in its place on the aft one."

The American stared at the smoke rising from his cigarette. Then he said, "Seattle."

"What’s that, sir?"

"Seattle. There were radio signals coming from someplace near Seattle. Do you know if they’re still coming through?"

Peter shook his head, amazed. "I didn’t know anything about that. Do you mean that somebody’s still operating a transmitter?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Could be. If so, it’s somebody that doesn’t know how to send. Sometimes they make a group, sometimes a word in clear. Most times it’s just a jumble, like a child might make, playing at radio stations."

"Does this go on all the time?"

Dwight shook his head. "I don’t think so. It comes on the air irregularly, now and then. I know they’re monitoring that frequency most of the time. At least, they were till Christmas. I haven’t heard since."

The liaison officer said, "But that must mean there’s somebody alive up there."

"It’s just a possibility. You can’t have radio without power, and that means starting up some kind of a motor. A big motor, to run a big station with global range. But—I don’t know. You’d think a guy who could start up an outfit of that size and run it—you’d think he’d know Morse code. Even if he had to spell it out two words a minute with the book in front of him."

"Do you think we’re going there?"

"Could be. It was one of the points they wanted in-formation on way back last October. They wanted all the information on the U.S. radio stations that we had."

"Did you have anything that helped?"

Dwight shook his head. "Only the U. S. Navy stations. Very little on the Air Force or the Army stations. Practically nothing on the civil stations. There’s more radio on the West Coast than you could shake a stick at."

That afternoon they strolled down to the beach and bathed, leaving Mary with the baby at the house. Lying on the warm sand with the two men, Moira asked, "Dwight, where is Swordfish now? Is she coming here?"

"I haven’t heard it," he replied. "The last I heard she was in Montevideo.

"She could turn up here, any time," said Peter Holmes. "She’s got the range."

The American nodded. "That’s so. Maybe they’ll send her over here one day with mail or passengers. Diplomats, or something."

"Where is Montevideo?" asked the girl. "I ought to know that, but I don’t."

Dwight said, "It’s in Uruguay, on the east side of South America. Way down towards the bottom."

"I thought you said she was at Rio de Janeiro. Isn’t that in Brazil?"

He nodded. "That was when she made her cruise up in the North Atlantic. She was based on Rio then. But after that they moved down into Uruguay."

"Was that because of radiation?"

"Uh-huh."

Peter said, "I don’t know that it’s got there yet. It may have done. They’ve not said anything upon the radio. It’s just about on the tropic, isn’t it?"

"That’s right," said Dwight. "Like Rockhampton." The girl asked, "Have they got it in Rockhampton?" "I haven’t heard that they have," said Peter. "It said on the wireless this morning that they’ve got it at Salisbury, in Southern Rhodesia. I think that’s a bit further north."

"I think it is," said the captain. "It’s in the middle of a land mass, too, and that might make a difference. These other places that we’re talking about—they’re all on a coast."

"Isn’t Alice Springs just about on the tropic?"

"It might be. I wouldn’t know. That’s in the middle of a land mass, too, of course."

The girl asked, "Does it go quicker down a coast than in the middle?"

Dwight shook his head. "I wouldn’t know. I don’t think they’ve got any evidence on that, one way or the other."

Peter laughed. "They’ll know by the time it gets here. Then they can etch it on the glass."

The girl wrinkled her brows. "Etch it on the glass?"

"Hadn’t you heard about that one?" She shook her head.

"John Osborne told me about it, yesterday," he said.

"It seems that somebody in C.S.I.R.O. is getting busy with a history, about what’s happened to us. They do it on glass bricks. They etch it on the glass and then they fuse another brick down on the top of it in some way, so that the writing’s in the middle."

Dwight turned upon his elbow, interested. "I hadn’t heard of that. What are they going to do with them?"

"Put them up on top of Mount Kosciusko," Peter said.

"It’s the highest peak in Australia. If ever the world gets inhabited again they must go there sometime. And it’s not so high as to be inaccessible."

"Well, what do you know? They’re really doing that, are they?"

"So John says. They’ve got a sort of concrete cellar made up there. Like in the Pyramids."

The girl asked, "But how long is this history?"

"I don’t know. I don’t think it can be very long. They’re doing it with pages out of books, though, too. Sealing them in between sheets of thick glass."

"But these people who come after," the girl said. "They won’t know how to read our stuff. They may... animals."

"I believe they’ve gone to a lot of trouble about that. First steps in reading. Picture of a cat, and then C-A-T and all that sort of thing. John said that was about all that they’d got finished so far." He paused. "I suppose it’s something to do," he said thoughtfully. "Keeps the wise men out of mischief."

"A picture of a cat won’t do them much good," Moira remarked. "There won’t be any cats. They won’t know what a cat is."

"A picture of a fish might be better," said Dwight. "F-I-S-H. Or—say—a picture of a sea gull."

"You’re getting into awful spelling difficulties."

The girl turned to Peter curiously. "What sort of books are they preserving? All about how to make the cobalt bomb?"

"God forbid." They laughed. "I don’t know what they’re doing. I should think a copy of the Encyclopedia Britannica would make a good kickoff, but there’s an awful lot of it. I really don’t know what they’re doing. John Osborne might know—or he could find out."

"Just idle curiosity," she said. "It won’t affect you or me." She stared at him in mock consternation. "Don’t tell me they’re preserving any of the newspapers. I just couldn’t bear it."

"I shouldn’t think so," he replied. "They’re not as crazy as that."

Dwight sat up on the sand. "All this beautiful warm water going to waste," he remarked. "I think we ought to use it."

Moira stood up. "Make the most of it," she agreed. "There’s not much of it left."

Peter yawned. "You two go and use the water. I’ll use the sun."

They left him lying on the beach and went into the sea together. As they swam out she said, "You’re pretty fast in the water, aren’t you?"

He paused, treading water beside her. "I used to swim quite a lot when I was younger. I swam for the Academy against West Point one time."

She nodded. "I thought you were something like that. Do you swim much now?"

He shook his head. "Not in races. That’s a thing you have to give up pretty soon, unless you’ve got the time to do a lot of it, and keep in training." He laughed. "I think the water’s colder now than when I was a boy. Not here, of course. I mean, in Mystic."

"Were you born in Mystic?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I was born on Long Island Sound, but not at Mystic. A place called Westport. My Dad’s a doctor there. He was a navy surgeon in the First World War, and then he got this practice in Westport."

"Is that on the sea?"

He nodded. "Swimming and sailing and fishing. That’s the way it was when I was a boy."

"How old are you, Dwight?"

"I’m thirty-three. How old are you?"

"What a rude question! I’m twenty-four." She paused. "Does Sharon come from Westport, too?"

"In a way," he said. "Her Dad’s a lawyer in New York City, lives in an apartment on West 84th Street, near the park. They have a summer home at Westport."

"So you met her there."

He nodded. "Boy meets girl."

"You must have married quite young."

"Just after graduation," he replied. "I was twenty-two, an ensign on the Franklin. Sharon was nineteen; she never finished college. We’d made our minds up more than a year before. Our folks got together when they saw that we weren’t going to change, and they decided that they’d better stake us for a while." He paused. "Her Dad was mighty nice about it," he said quietly. "We could have gone on until we got some money somehow, but they thought it wasn’t doing either of us any good. So they let us get married."

"They gave you an allowance."

"That’s right. We only needed it three or four years, and then an aunt died and I got promoted, and we were all set."

They swam to the end of the jetty, got out, and sat basking in the sun. Presently they walked back to Peter on the beach, sat with him while they smoked a cigarette, and then went to change. They reassembled on the beach carrying their shoes, drying their feet in leisurely manner in the sun and brushing off the sand. Presently Dwight started to put on his socks.

The girl said, "Fancy going round in socks like that!"

The commander glanced at them. "It’s only in the toe," he said. "It doesn’t show."

"It’s not only in the toe," she leaned across and picked up his foot. "I thought I saw another one. The heel’s all holes across the bottom!"

"It still doesn’t show," he said. "Not when I’ve got a shoe on."

"Doesn’t anybody mend them for you?"

"They’ve paid off a lot of the ship’s company in Sydney recently," he said. "I still get my bed made up, but he’s too busy now to bother about mending. It never did work very well aboard that ship, anyway. I do them myself, sometimes. Most times I just throw them away and get another pair."

"You’ve got a button off your shirt, too."

"That doesn’t show, either," he said equably. "It’s way down at the bottom, goes underneath my belt."

"I think you’re a perfect disgrace," she remarked. "I know what the admiral would say, if he saw you going round like that. He’d say Scorpion needs another captain"

"He wouldn’t see it," he replied. "Not unless he made me take off my pants."

"This conversation’s taking an unprofitable line," she said. "How many pairs of socks have you got in that condition?"

"I wouldn’t know. It’s quite a while since I went through the drawer."

"If you give them to me I’ll take them home and mend them for you."

He glanced at her. "That’s mighty nice of you, to offer to do that. But you don’t have to. It’s time I got more, anyway. These are just about done."

"Can you get more socks?" she asked. "Daddy can’t. He says they’re going off the market, with a lot of other things. He can’t get any new handkerchiefs, either."

Peter said, "That’s right. I couldn’t get socks to fit me, the last time I tried. The ones I got were about two inches too long."

Moira pressed the point. "Have you tried to buy any more recently?"

"Well—no. The last lot I bought was sometime back in the winter."

Peter yawned. "Better let her mend them for you, sir. You’ll have a job getting any more."

"If that’s the way it is," Dwight said, "I’d be very grateful." He turned to the girl. "But you don’t have to do it. I can do them for myself." He grinned. "I can, you know. I can do them quite well."

She sniffed audibly. "About as well as I can run your submarine. You’d better make up a parcel of everything you’ve got that needs mending, and let me have it. That shirt included. Have you got the button?"

"I think I lost that."

"You should be more careful. When a button comes off, you don’t just chuck it away."

"If you talk to me like that," he said grimly, "I really will give you everything I’ve got that needs mending. I’ll bury you in the stuff."

"Now we’re getting somewhere," she remarked. "I thought you’d been concealing things. You’d better put it all into a cabin trunk, or two cabin trunks, and let me have them."

"There’s quite a lot," he said.

"I knew it. If there’s too much I’ll shove some of it off on to Mummy and she’ll probably distribute it all round the district. The First Naval Member lives quite near us; Mummy’ll probably give Lady Hartman your underpants to mend."

He looked at her in mock alarm. "Say, Scorpion certainly would need another captain, then."

She said, "This conversation’s going round in circles. You let me have everything that you’ve got that needs mending, anyway, and I’ll see if I can’t get you dressed up like a naval officer."

"Okay," he said. "Where shall I bring the stuff to?"

She thought for a moment. "You’re on leave, aren’t you?"

"On and off," he said. "We’re giving leave over ten days, but I don’t get that much. The captain has to stick around, or thinks he has."

"Probably do the ship a world of good if he didn’t," she said. "You’d better bring them down to me at Berwick, and stay a couple of nights. Can you drive a bullock?"

"I’ve never driven one," he said. "I could try."

She eyed him speculatively. "I suppose you’d be all right. If you can command a submarine you probably can’t do much harm to one of our bullocks. Daddy’s got a cart horse now called Prince, but I don’t suppose he’d let you touch that. He’d probably let you drive one of the bullocks."

"That’s all right with me," he said meekly. "What am I supposed to do with the bullock?"

"Spread the dung," she said. "The cow pats. It has a harness that pulls a chain harrow over the grass. You walk beside it, leading it with a halter. You have a stick to tap it with as well. It’s a very restful occupation. Good for the nerves."

"I’m sure it is," he said. "What’s it for? I mean, why do you do it?"

"It makes a good pasture," she said. "If you just leave the droppings where they are, the grass comes up in rank tufts and the animals won’t eat it. Then the pasture isn’t half as good next year as if you’d harrowed it. Daddy’s very particular about harrowing each pasture after the beasts come out. We used to do it with a tractor. Now we do it with a bullock."

"This is all so that he’d get a better pasture next year?"

"Yes, it is," she said firmly. "All right, you needn’t say it. It’s good farming to harrow the paddocks, and Daddy’s a good farmer."

"I wasn’t going to say it. How many acres does he farm?"

"About five hundred. We do Angus beef cattle and sheep."

"You shear the sheep for the wool?"

"That’s right."

"When do you do that?" he asked. "I’ve never seen a shearing."

"Usually we shear in October," she said. "Daddy’s a bit worried that if we leave it till October this year it won’t get done. He’s talking of putting it forward and shearing in August."

"That makes sense," he observed gravely. He bent forward to put on his shoes. "It’s a long time since I was on a farm," he said. "I’d like to come and spend a day or two, if you can put up with me. I expect I can make myself useful, one way or another."

"Don’t worry about that," she said. "Daddy’ll see you make yourself useful. It’s going to be a godsend to him, having another man on the place."

He smiled. "And you’d really like me to bring all the mending with me?"

"I’ll never forgive you if you just turn up with a couple of pairs of socks and say that your pajamas are all right. Besides, Lady Hartman’s looking forward to doing your pants. She doesn’t know it, but she is."

"I’ll take your word for it."

She drove him down to the station that evening in the Abbott buggy. As he got down from the vehicle she said, "I’ll expect you on Tuesday, at Berwick station, in the afternoon. Give me a ring about the time of your train if you can. Otherwise I’ll be there at about four o’clock, and wait."

He nodded. "I’ll call you. You really mean that about bringing all the mending?"

"I’ll never forgive you if you don’t."

"Okay." He hesitated. "It’ll be dark by the time you get home," he said. "Look after yourself."

She smiled at him. "I’ll be all right. See you on Tuesday. Good night, Dwight."

"Good night," he said a little thickly. She drove off. He stood watching her until the buggy turned a corner and was out of sight.

It was ten o’clock at night when she drove into the yard outside the homestead. Her father heard the horse and came out in the darkness to help her unharness and put the buggy in the shed. In the dim light as they eased the vehicle back under cover, she said, "I asked Dwight Towers down here for a couple of days. He’s coming on Tuesday."

"Coming here?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes. They’ve got leave before they go off on some other trip. You don’t mind, do you?"

"Of course not. I hope it’s not going to be dull for him, though. What are you going to do with him all day?"

"I told him he could drive the bullock round the paddocks. He’s very practical."

"I could do with somebody to help feed out the silage," her father said.

"Well, I expect he could do that. After all, if he commands a nuclear-powered submarine he ought to be able to learn to shovel silage."

They went into the house. Later that night he told her mother about their visitor. She was properly impressed. "Do you think there’s anything in it?"

"I don’t know," he said. "She must like him all right."

"She hasn’t had a man to stay since that Forrest boy, before the war."

He nodded. "I remember. Never thought much of him. I’m glad that came to an end."

"It was his Austin-Healey," her mother remarked. "I don’t think she ever cared for him, not really."

"This one’s got a submarine," her father said helpfully. "It’s probably the same thing."

"He can’t take her down the road in that at ninety miles an hour." She paused, and then she said, "Of course, he must be a widower now."

He nodded. "Everybody says that he’s a very decent sort of chap."

Her mother said, "I do hope something comes of it. I would like to see her settled down, and happily married with some children."

"She’ll have to be quick about it, if you’re going to see that," remarked her father.

"Oh dear, I keep forgetting. But you know what I mean."

He came to her on Tuesday afternoon; she met him with the horse and buggy. He got out of the train and looked around, sniffing the warm country air. "Say," he said, "you’ve got some pretty nice country around here. Which way is your place?"

She pointed to the north. "Over there, about three miles."

"Up on that range of hills?"

"Not right up," she said. "Just a bit of the way up."

He was carrying a suitcase, and swung it up into the buggy, pushing it under the seat. "Is that all you’ve got?" she demanded.

"That’s right. It’s full of mending."

"It doesn’t look much. I’m sure you must have more than that."

"I haven’t. I brought everything there was. Honest."

"I hope you’re telling me the truth." They got up into the driving seat and started off towards the village. Almost immediately he said, "That’s a beech tree! There’s another!"

She glanced at him curiously. "They grow round here. I suppose it’s cooler on the hills."

He looked at the avenue, entranced. "That’s an oak tree, but it’s a mighty big one. I don’t know that I ever saw an oak tree grow so big. And there’s some maples!" He turned to her. "Say, this is just like an avenue in a small town in the States!"

"Is it?" she asked. "Is it like this in the States?"

"It certainly is," he said. "You’ve got all the trees here from the Northern Hemisphere. Parts of Australia I’ve see up till now, they’ve only had gum trees and wattles."

"They don’t make you feel bad?" she asked.

"Why, no. I just love to see these northern trees again."

"There are plenty of them round the farm," she said. They drove through the village, across the deserted bitumen road, and out upon the road to Harkaway. Presently the road trended uphill; the horse slowed to a walk and began to slog against the collar. The girl said, "This is where we get out and walk."

He got down with her from the buggy, and they walked together up the hill, leading the horse. After the stuffiness of the dockyard and the heat of the steel ships, the woodland air seemed fresh and cool to him. He took off his jacket and laid it in the buggy, and loosened the collar of his shirt. They walked on up the hill, and now a panorama started to unfold behind them, a wide view over the flat plain to the sea at Port Philip Bay ten miles away. They went on, riding on the flats and walking on the steeper parts, for half an hour. Gradually they entered a country of gracious farms on undulating hilly slopes, a place where well-kept paddocks were interspersed with coppices and many trees. He said, "You’re mighty lucky to have a home in country like this."

She glanced at him. "We like it all right. Of course, it’s frightfully dull living out here."

He stopped, and stood in the road, looking around him at the smiling countryside, the wide, unfettered views. "I don’t know that I ever saw a place that was more beautiful," he said.

"It is beautiful?" she asked. "I mean, is it as beautiful as places in America or England?"

"Why, sure," he said. "I don’t know England so well. I’m told that parts of that are just a fairyland. There’s plenty of lovely scenery in the United States, but I don’t know of any place that’s just like this. No, this is beautiful all right, by any standard in the world."

"I’m glad to hear you say that," she replied. "I mean, I like it here, but then I’ve never seen anything else. One sort of thinks that everything in England or America must be much better. That this is all right for Australia, but that’s not saying much."

He shook his head. "It’s not like that at all, honey. This is good by any standard that you’d like to name."

They came to a flat and, driving in the buggy, the girl turned into an entrance gate. A short drive led between an avenue of pine trees to a single-storey wooden house, a fairly large house painted white that merged with farm buildings towards the back. A wide verandah ran along the front and down one side, partially glazed in. The girl drove past the house and into the farmyard. "Sorry about taking you in by the back door," she said. "But the mare won’t stand, not when she’s so near the stable."

A farm hand called Lou, the only employee on the place, came to help her with the horse, and her father came out to meet them. She introduced Dwight all round, and they left the horse and buggy to Lou and went into the house to meet her mother. Later they gathered on the verandah to sit in the warm evening sun over short drinks before the evening meal. From the verandah there was a pastoral view over undulating pastures and coppices, with a distant view of the plain down below the trees. Again Dwight commented upon the beauty of the countryside.

"Yes, it’s nice up here," said Mrs. Davidson. "But it can’t compare with England. England’s beautiful."

The American asked, "Were you born in England?"

"Me? No. I was born Australian. My grandfather came out to Sydney in the very early days, but he wasn’t a convict. Then he took up land in the Riverina. Some of the family are there still." She paused. "I’ve only been home once," she said. "We made a trip to England and the Continent in 1948, after the Second War. We thought England was quite beautiful. But I suppose it’s changed a lot now."

She left the verandah presently with Moira to see about the tea, and Dwight was left on the verandah with her father. He said, "Let me give you another whisky."

"Why, thanks. I’d like one."

They sat in warm comfort in the mellow evening sun over their drinks. After a time the grazier said, "Moira was telling us about the cruise that you just made up to the north."

The captain nodded. "We didn’t find out much."

"So she said."

"There’s not much that you can see, from the water’s edge and through the periscope," he told his host. "It’s not as if there was any bomb damage, or anything like that. It all looks just the same as it always did. It’s just that people don’t live there any more."

"It was very radioactive, was it?"

Dwight nodded. "It gets worse the further north you go, of course. At Cairns, when we were there, a person might have lived for a few days. At Port Darwin nobody could live so long as that."

"When were you at Cairns?"

"About a fortnight ago."

"I suppose the intensity at Cairns would be worse by now."

"Probably so. I’d say it gets worse steadily as times goes on. Finally, of course, it’ll get to the same level all around the world."

‘They’re still saying that it’s going to get here in September."

"I would say that’s right. It’s coming very evenly, all around the world. All places in the same latitude seem to be getting it just about the same time."

"They were saying on the wireless they’ve got it in Rockhampton."

The captain nodded. "I heard that, too. And at Alice Springs. It’s coming very evenly along the latitudes."

His host smiled, a little grimly. "No good agonizing about it. Have another whisky."

"I don’t believe I will, not now. Thank you."

Mr. Davidson poured himself another small one. "Anyway," he said, "it comes to us last of all."

"That seems to be so," said Dwight. "If it goes on the way it’s going now, Cape Town will go out a little before Sydney, about the same time as Montevideo. There’ll be nothing left then in Africa and South America. Melbourne is the most southerly major city in the world, so we’ll be near to the last." He paused for a moment in thought. "New Zealand, most of it, may last a little longer, and, of course, Tasmania. A fortnight or three weeks, perhaps. I don’t know if there’s anybody in Antarctica. If so, they might go on for quite a while."

"But Melbourne is the last big city?"

"That’s what it looks like, at the moment."

They sat in silence for a little while. "What will you do?" the grazier asked at last. "Will you move your ship?"

"I haven’t decided that," the captain said slowly. "Maybe I won’t have to decide it. I’ve got a senior officer, Captain Shaw, in Brisbane. I don’t suppose he’ll move because his ship can’t move. Maybe he’ll send me orders. I don’t know."

"Would you move, if it was at your own discretion?"

"I haven’t decided that," the captain said again. "I can’t see that there’s a great deal to be gained. Nearly forty per cent of my ship’s company have got themselves tied up with girls in Melbourne—married, some of them. Say I was to move to Hobart. I can’t take them along, and they can’t get there any other way, and if they could there’s nowhere there for them to live. It seems kind of rough on the men to separate them from their women in the last few days, unless there was some compelling reason in the interest of the naval service. He glanced up, grinning. "Anyway, I don’t suppose they’d come. Most of them would probably jump ship."

"I suppose they would. I think they’d probably decide to put the women first."

The American nodded. "It’s reasonable. And there’s no sense in giving orders that you know won’t be obeyed."

"Could you take your ship to sea without them?"

"Why, yes—just for a short run. Hobart would be a short trip, six or seven hours. We could take her there with just a dozen men, or even less. We wouldn’t submerge if we were as short-handed as that, and we couldn’t cruise for any length of time. But if we got her there, or even to New Zealand—say to Christchurch—without a full crew we could never be effective, operationally." He paused. "We’d be just refugees."

They sat in silence for a time. "One of the things that’s been surprising me," the grazier said, "is that there have been so few refugees. So few people coming down from the north. From Cairns and Townsville, and from places like that."

"Is that so?" the captain asked. "It’s just about impossible to get a bed in Melbourne—anywhere."

"I know there have been some. But not the numbers that I should have expected."

"That’s the radio, I suppose," Dwight said. "These talks that the Prime Minister’s been giving have been kind of steadying. The A.B.C.’s been doing a good job in telling people just the way things are. After all, there’s not much comfort in leaving home and coming down here to live in a tent or in a car, and have the same thing happen to you a month or two later."

"Maybe," the grazier said. "I’ve heard of people going back to Queensland after a few weeks of that. But I’m not sure that that’s the whole story. I believe it is that nobody really thinks it’s going to happen, not to them, until they start to feel ill. And by that time, well, it’s less effort to stay at home and take it. You don’t recover from this once it starts, do you?"

"I don’t think that’s true. I think you can recover, if you get out of the radioactive area into a hospital where you get proper treatment. They’ve got a lot of cases from the north in the Melbourne hospitals right now."

"I didn’t know that."

"No. They don’t say anything about that over the radio. After all, what’s the use? They’re only going to get it over again next September."

"Nice outlooks" said the grazier. "Will you have another whisky now?"

"Thank you, I believe I will." He stood up and poured himself a drink. "You know," he said, "now that I’ve got used to the idea, I think I’d rather have it this way. We’ve all got to die one day, some sooner and some later. The trouble always has been that you’re never ready, because you don’t know when it’s coming. Well, now we do know, and there’s nothing to be done about it. I kind of like that. I kind of like the thought that I’ll be fit and well up till the end of August and then—home. I’d rather have it that way than go on as a sick man from when I’m seventy to when I’m ninety."

"You’re a regular naval officer," the grazier said. "You’re probably more accustomed to this sort of thing than I would be."

"Will you evacuate?" the captain asked. "Go someplace else when it gets near? Tasmania?"

"Me? Leave this place?"the grazier said. "No, I shan’t go. When it comes, I’ll have it here, on this verandah, in this chair, with a drink in my hand. Or else in my own bed. I wouldn’t leave this place."

"I’d say that’s the way most folks think about it, now that they’ve got used to the idea."

They sat on the verandah in the setting sun till Moira came to tell them that tea was ready. "Drink up," she said, "and come in for the blotting paper, if you can still walk."

Her father said, "That’s not the way to talk to our guest."

"You don’t know our guest as well as I do, Daddy. I tell you, you just can’t get him past a pub. Any pub."

"More likely he can’t get you past one." They went into the house.

There followed a very restful two days for Dwight Towers. He handed over a great bundle of mending to the two women, who took it away from him, sorted it, and busied themselves over it. In the hours of daylight he was occupied with Mr. Davidson upon the farm from dawn till dusk. He was initiated into the arts of crutching sheep and of shovelling silage up into a cart and distributing it in the paddocks; he spent long hours walking by the bullock on the sunlit pastures. The change did him good after his confined life in the submarine and in the mother ship; each night he went to bed early and slept heavily, and awoke refreshed for the next day.

On the last morning of his stay, after breakfast, Moira found him standing at the door of a small outside room beside the laundry, now used as a repository for luggage, ironing boards, gum boots, and junk of every description. He was standing at the open door smoking a cigarette, looking at the assortment of articles inside. She said, "That’s where we put things when we tidy up the house and say we’ll send it to the jumble sale. Then we never do."

He smiled. "We’ve got one of those, only it’s not so full as this. Maybe that’s because we haven’t lived there so long." He stood looking in upon the mass with interest. "Say, whose tricycle was that?"

"Mine," she said.

"You must have been quite small when you rode around on that."

She glanced at it. "It does look small now, doesn’t it? I should think I was four or five years old."

"There’s a Pogo stick!" He reached in and pulled it out; it squeaked rustily. "It’s years and years since I saw a Pogo stick. There was quite a craze for them at one time, back home."

"They went out for a time, and then they came back into fashion," she said. "Quite a lot of kids about here have Pogo sticks now."

"How old would you have been when you had that?" She thought for a moment. "It came after the tricycle, after the scooter, and before the bicycle. I should think I was about seven."

He held it in his hands thoughtfully. "I’d say that’s about the right age for a Pogo stick. You can buy them in the shops here, now?"

"I should think so. The kids use them."

He laid it down. "It’s years since I saw one of those in the United States. They go in fashions, as you say." He glanced around. "Who owned the stilts?"

"My brother had them first, and then I had them. I broke that one."

"He was older than you, wasn’t he?"

She nodded. "Two years older—two and a half."

"Is he in Australia now?"

"No. He’s in England."

He nodded; there was nothing useful to be said about that.

"Those stilts are quite high off the ground," he remarked. "I’d say you were older then."

She nodded. "I must have been ten or eleven."

"Skis." He measured the length of them with his eye. "You must have been older still."

"I didn’t go skiing till I was about sixteen. But I used those up till just before the war. They were getting a bit small for me by then, though. That other pair were Donald’s."

He ran his eye around the jumbled contents of the little room.

"Say," he said, "there’s a pair of water—skis!"

She nodded. "We still use those—or we did up till the war." She paused. "We used to go for summer holidays at Barwon Heads. Mummy used to rent the same house every year..." She stood in silence for a moment, thinking of the sunny little house by the golf links, the warm sands, the cool air rushing past as she flew behind the motorboat in a flurry of warm spray. "There’s the wooden spade I used to build sand castles with when I was very little...

He smiled at her. "It’s kind of fun, looking at other people’s toys and trying to think what they must have looked like at that age. I can just imagine you at seven, jumping around on that Pogo stick."

"And flying into a temper every other minute," she said. She stood for a moment looking in at the door thoughtfully. "I never would let Mummy give any of my toys away," she said quietly. "I said that I was going to keep them for my children to play with. Now there aren’t going to be any."

"Too bad," he said. "Still that’s the way it is." He pulled the door to and closed it on so many sentimental hopes. "I think I’ll have to get back to the ship this afternoon and see if she’s sunk at her moorings. Do you know what time there’d be a train?"

"I don’t, but we can ring the station and find out. You don’t think you could stay another day?"

"I’d like to, honey, but I don’t think I’d better. There’ll be a pile of paper on my desk that needs attention."

"I’ll find out about the train. What are you going to do this morning?"

"I told your father that I’d finish harrowing the hill paddock."

"I’ve got an hour or so to do around the house. I’ll probably come out and walk around with you after that."

"I’d like that. Your bullock’s a good worker, but he doesn’t make a lot of conversation."

They gave him his newly mended clothes after lunch. He expressed his thanks for all that they had done for him, packed his bag, and Moira drove him down to the station. There was an exhibition of Australian religious paintings at the National Gallery; they arranged to go and see that together before it came off; he would give her a ring. Then he was in the train for Melbourne, on his way back to his work.

He got back to the aircraft carrier at about six o’clock. As he had supposed, there was a pile of paper on his desk, including a sealed envelope with a security label gummed on the outside. He slit it open and found that it contained a draft operation order, with a personal note attached to it from the First Naval Member asking him to ring up for an appointment and come and see him about it.

He glanced the order through. It was very much as he had thought that it would be. It was within the capacity of his ship to execute, assuming that there were no mines at all laid on the west coast of the United States, which seemed to him to be a bold assumption.

He rang up Peter Holmes that evening at his home near Falmouth. "Say," he said, "I’ve got a draft operation order lying on my desk. There’s a covering letter from the First Naval Member, wants me to go and see him. I’d like it if you could come on board tomorrow and look it over. Then I’d say you’d better come along when I go to see the admiral."

"I’ll be on board tomorrow morning, early," said the liaison officer.

"Well, that’s fine. I hate to pull you back off leave, but this needs action."

"That’s all right, sir. I was only going to take down a tree."

He was in the aircraft carrier by half-past nine next morning, seated with Commander Towers in his little office cabin reading through the order. "It’s more or less what you thought it was going to be, sir, isn’t it?" he asked.

"More or less," the captain agreed. He turned to the side table. "This is all we’ve got on the minefields. This radio station that they want investigated. They’ve pinpointed that in the Seattle area. Well, we’re all right for that." He raised a chart from the table. "This is the key minefield chart of the Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound. We should be safe to go right up to Bremerton Naval Yard. We’re all right for Pearl Harbor, but they don’t ask us to go there. The Gulf of Panama, San Diego, and San Francisco—we’ve got nothing on those at all."

Peter nodded. "We’ll have to explain that to the admiral. As a matter of fact, I think he knows it. I know that he’s quite open to a general discussion of this thing."

"Dutch Harbor," said the captain. "We’ve got nothing on that."

"Would we meet any ice up there?"

"I’d say we would. And fog, a lot of fog. It’s not so good to go there at this time of year, with no watch on deck. We’ll have to be careful up around those parts."

"I wonder why they want us to go there."

"I wouldn’t know. Maybe he’ll tell us."

They pored over the charts together for a time. "How would you go?" the liaison officer asked at last.

"On the surface along latitude thirty, north of New Zealand, south of Pitcairn, till we pick up longitude one-twenty. Then straight up the longitude. That brings us to the States in California, around Santa Barbara. Coming home from Dutch Harbor we’d do the same. Straight south down one-six-five past Hawaii. I guess we’d take a look in at Pearl Harbor while we’re there. Then right on south till we can surface near the Friendly Islands, or maybe a bit south of that."

"How long would that mean that we should be submerged?"

The captain turned and took a paper from the desk. "I was trying to figure that out last night. I don’t suppose that we’d stay very long in any place, like the last time. I make the distance around two hundred degrees, twelve thousand miles submerged. Say six hundred hours cruising—twenty-five days. Add a couple of days for investigations and delays. Say twenty-seven days."

"Quite a long time underwater."

"Swordfish went longer. She went thirty-two days. The thing is to take it easy, and relax."

The liaison officer studied the chart of the Pacific. He laid his finger on the mass of reefs and island groups south of Hawaii. "There’s not going to be much relaxing when we come to navigate through all this stuff, submerged. And that comes at the end of the trip."

"I know it." He stared at the chart. "Maybe we’ll move away towards the west a trifle, and come down on Fiji from the north." He paused. "I’m more concerned about Dutch Harbor than I am of the run home," he said.

They stood studying the charts with the operation order for hail an hour. Finally the Australian said, "Well, it’s going to be quite a cruise." He grinned. "Something to tell our grandchildren about."

The captain glanced at him quickly, and then broke into a smile. "You’re very right."

The liaison officer waited in the cabin while the captain rang the admiral’s secretary in the Navy Department. An appointment was made for ten o’clock the following morning. There was nothing then for Peter Holmes to stay for; he arranged to meet his captain next morning in the secretary’s office before the appointment, and he took the next train back to his home at Falmouth.

He got there before lunch and rode his bicycle up from the station. He was hot when he got home, and glad to get out of uniform and take a shower before the cold meal. He found Mary to be very much concerned about the baby’s prowess in crawling. "I left her in the lounge," she told him, "on the hearthrug, and I went into the kitchen to peel the potatoes. The next thing I knew, she was in the passage, just outside the kitchen door. She’s a little devil. She can get about now at a tremendous pace."

They sat down to their lunch. "We’ll have to get some kind of a playpen," he said. "One of those wooden things, that fold up."

She nodded. "I was thinking about that. One with a few rows of beads on part of it, like an abacus."

"I suppose you can get playpens still," he said. "Do we know anyone who’s stopped having babies—might have one they didn’t want?"

She shook her head. "I don’t. All our friends seem to be having baby after baby."

"I’ll scout around a bit and see what I can find," he said.

It was not until lunch was nearly over that she was able to detach her mind from the baby. Then she asked, "Oh, Peter, what happened with Commander Towers?"

"He’d got a draft operation order," he told her. "I suppose it’s confidential, so don’t talk about it. They want us to make a fairly long cruise in the Pacific. Panama, San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle, Dutch Harbor, and home, probably by way of Hawaii. It’s all a bit vague just at present."

She was uncertain of her geography. "That’s an awfully long way, isn’t it?"

"It’s quite a way," he said. "I don’t think we shall do it Dwight’s very much against going into the Gulf of Panama because he hasn’t got a clue about the minefields, and if we don’t go there that cuts off thousands of miles. But even so, it’s quite a way."

"How long would it take?" she asked.

"I haven’t worked it out exactly. Probably about two months. You see," he explained, "you can’t set a direct course, say for San Diego. He wants to keep the underwater time down to a minimum. That means we set course east on a safe latitude steaming on the surface till we’re two-thirds of the way across the South Pacific, and then go straight north till we come to California. It makes a dogleg of it, but it means less time submerged."

"How long would you be submerged, Peter?"

"Twenty-seven days, he reckons."

"That’s an awfully long time, isn’t it?"

"It’s quite long. It’s not a record, or anywhere near it. Still, it’s quite a time to be without fresh air. Nearly a month."

"When would you be starting?"

"Well, I don’t know that. The original idea was that we’d get away about the middle of next month, but now we’ve got this bloody measles in the ship. We can’t go until we’re clear of that."

"Have there been any more cases?"

"One more—the day before yesterday. The surgeon seems to think that’s probably the last. If he’s right we might be cleared to go about the end of the month. If not—if there’s another one—it’ll be sometime in March."

"That means that you’d be back here sometime in June?"

"I should think so. We’ll be clear of measles by the tenth of March whatever happens. That means we’d be back here by the tenth of June."

The mention of measles had aroused anxiety in her again. "I do hope Jennifer doesn’t get it."

They spent a domestic afternoon in their own garden. Peter started on the job of taking down the tree. It was not a very large tree, and he had little difficulty in sawing it half through and pulling it over with a rope so that it fell along the lawn and not on to the house. By teatime he had lopped its branches and stacked them away to be burned in the winter, and he had got well on with sawing the green wood up into logs. Mary came with the baby, newly wakened from her afternoon sleep, and laid a rug out on the lawn and put the baby on it. She went back into the house to fetch a tray of tea things; when she returned the baby was ten feet from the rug trying to eat a bit of bark. She scolded her husband and set him to watch his child while she went in for the kettle.

"It’s no good," she said. "We’ll have to have that playpen.

He nodded. "I’m going up to town tomorrow morning," he said. "We’ve got a date at the Navy Department, but after that I should be free. I’ll go to Myers’ and see if they’ve still got them there."

"I do hope they have. I don’t know what we’ll do if we can’t get one."

"We could put a belt round her waist and tether her to a peg stuck in the ground."

"We couldn’t, Peter!" she said indignantly, "She’d wind it round her neck and strangle herself!"

He mollified her, accustomed to the charge of being a heartless father. They spent the next hour playing with their baby on the grass in the warm sun, encouraging it to crawl about the lawn. Finally Mary took it indoors to bathe it and give it its supper, while Peter went on sawing up the logs.

He met his captain next morning in the Navy Department, and together they were shown into the office of the First Naval Member, who had a captain from the Operations Division with him. He greeted them cordially, and made them sit down. "Well now," he said. "You’ve had a look at the draft operation order that we sent you down?"

"I made a very careful study of it, sir," said the captain.

"What’s your general reaction?"

"Minefields," Dwight said. "Some of the objectives that you name would almost certainly be mined." The admiral nodded. "We have full information on Pearl Harbor and on the approaches to Seattle. We have nothing on any of the others."

They discussed the order in some detail for a time. Finally the admiral leaned back in his chair. "Well, that gives me the general picture. That’s what I wanted." He paused. "Now, you’d better know what this is all about.

"Wishful thinking," he observed. "There’s a school of thought among the scientists, a section of them, who consider that this atmospheric radioactivity may be dissipating—decreasing in intensity, fairly quickly. The general argument is that the precipitation during this last winter in the Northern Hemisphere, the rain and snow, may have washed the air, so to speak." The American nodded. "According to that theory, the radioactive elements in the atmosphere will be falling to the ground, or to the sea, more quickly than we had anticipated. In that case the ground masses of the Northern Hemisphere would continue to be uninhabitable for many centuries, but the transfer of radioactivity to us would be progressively decreased. In that case life—human life—might continue to go on down here, or at any rate in Antarctica. Professor Jorgensen holds that view very strongly."

He paused. "Well, that’s the bare bones of the theory. Most of the scientists disagree, and think that Jorgensen is optimistic. Because of the majority opinion nothing has been said about this on the wireless broadcasting, and we’ve been spared the press. It’s no good raising people’s hopes without foundation. But clearly, it’s a matter that must be investigated."

"I see that, sir," Dwight said. "It’s very important. That’s really the main object of this cruise?"

The admiral nodded. "That’s right. If Jorgensen is correct, as you go north from the equator the atmospheric radioactivity should be steady for a time and then begin to decrease. I don’t say at once, but at some point a decrease should be evident. That’s why we want you to go as far north in the Pacific as you can, to Kodiak and to Dutch Harbor. If Jorgensen is right, there should be much less radioactivity up there. It might even be near normal. In that case, you might be able to go out on deck." He paused. "On shore, of course, ground radioactivity would still be intense. But out at sea, life might be possible."

Peter asked, "Is there any experimental support for this yet, sir?"

The admiral shook his head. "Not much. The Air Force sent out a machine the other day. Did you hear about that?"

"No, sir."

"Well, they sent out a Victor bomber with a full load of fuel. It flew from Perth due north and got as far as the China Sea, about latitude thirty north, somewhere south of Shanghai, before it had to turn back. That’s not far enough for the scientists, but it was as far as the machine could go. The evidence they got was inconclusive. Atmospheric radioactivity was still increasing, but towards the northern end of the flight it was increasing slowly." He smiled. "I understand the back-room boys are still arguing about it. Jorgensen, of course, claims it as his victory. He says there’ll be a positive reduction by the time you get to latitude fifty or sixty."

"Sixty," the captain said. "We can make that close inshore in the Gulf of Alaska. The only thing up there is that we’d have to watch the ice."

They discussed the technicalities of the operation again for a time. It was decided that protective clothing should be carried in the submarine to permit one or two men to go on deck in moderate conditions and that decontamination sprays should be arranged in one of the escape chambers. An inflatable rubber dinghy would be carried in the superstructure, and the new directional aerial would be mounted on the aft periscope.

Finally the admiral said, "Well, that clears the decks so far as we are concerned. I think the next step is that I call a conference with C.S.I.R.O. and anybody else who may be concerned. I’ll arrange that for next week. In the meantime, Commander, you might see the Third Naval Member or one of his officers about this dockyard work. I’d like to see you get away by the end of next month."

Dwight said, "I think that should be possible, sir. There’s not a lot of work in this. The only thing might hold us up would be the measles."

The admiral laughed shortly. "The fate of human life upon the world at stake, and we’re stuck with the measles! All right, Captain—I know you’ll do your best."

When they left the office Dwight and Peter separated, Dwight to call at the Third Naval Member’s office, and Peter to go to find John Osborne in his office in Albert Street. He told the scientist what he had learned that morning. "I know all about Jorgensen," Mr. Osborne said impatiently. "The old man’s crackers. It’s just wishful thinking."

"You don’t think much of what the aeroplane found out—the reduced rate of increase of the radioactivity as you go north?"

"I don’t dispute the evidence. The Jorgensen effect may well exist. Probably it does. But nobody but Jorgensen thinks that it’s significant."

Peter got to his feet. "I’ll leave the wise to wrangle," he quoted sardonically. "I’ve got to go and buy a playpen for my eldest unmarried daughter."

"Where are you going to for that?"

"Myers’."

The scientist got up from his chair. "I’ll come with you. I’ve got something in Elizabeth Street I’d like to show you."

He would not tell the naval officer what it was. They walked together down the centre of the traffic-free streets to the motorcar district of the town, turned up a side street, and then into a mews. John Osborne produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the double doors of a building, and pushed them open.

It had been the garage of a motor dealer. Silent cars stood ranged in rows along the walls, some of them unregistered, all covered in dust and dirt with flat tires sagging on the floor. In the middle of the floor stood a racing car. It was a single seater, painted red. It was a very low-built car, a very small car, with a bonnet sloping forward to an aperture that lay close to the ground. The tires were inflated and it had been washed and polished with loving care; it shone in the light from the door. It looked venomously fast.

"My goodness!" Peter said. "What’s that?"

"It’s a Ferrari," said John Osborne. "It’s the one that Donezetti raced the year before the war. The one he won the Grand Prix of Syracuse on."

"How did it get out here?"

"Johnny Bowles bought it and had it shipped out. Then the war came and he never raced it."

"Who owns it now?"

"I do."

"You?"

The scientist nodded. "I’ve been keen on motor racing all my life. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, but there’s never been any money. Then I heard of this Ferrari. Bowles was caught in England. I went to his widow and offered her a hundred quid for it. She thought I was mad, of course, but she was glad to sell it."

Peter walked round the little car with the large wheels, inspecting it. "I agree with her. What on earth are you going to do with it?"

"I don’t know yet. I only know that I’m the owner of what’s probably the fastest car in the world."

It fascinated the naval officer. "Can I sit in it?"

"Go ahead."

He squeezed down into the little seat behind the plastic windscreen. "What will she do, all out?"

"I don’t really know. Two hundred, anyway." Peter sat fingering the wheel, feeling the controls. The single seater felt delightfully a part of him. "Have you had her on the road?"

"Not yet."

He got out of the seat reluctantly. "What are you going to use for petrol?"

The scientist grinned. "She doesn’t drink it."

"Doesn’t use petrol?"

"She runs on a special ether-alcohol mixture. It’s no good in an ordinary car. I’ve got eight barrels of it in my mother’s back garden." He grinned. "I made sure that I’d got that before I bought the car."

He lifted the bonnet and they spent some time examining the engine. John Osborne had spent all his leisure hours since they returned from their first cruise in polishing and servicing the racing car; he hoped to try her out upon the road in a couple of days’ time. "One thing," he said, grinning in delight, "there’s not a lot of traffic to worry about."

They left the car reluctantly, and locked the garage doors. In the quiet mews they stood for a few moments. "If we get away upon this cruise by the end of next month," Peter said, "we should be back about the beginning of June. I’m thinking about Mary and the kid. Think they’ll be all right till we get back?"

"You mean—the radioactivity?"

The naval officer nodded.

The scientist stood in thought. "Anybody’s guess is as good as mine," he said at last. "It may come quicker or it may come slower. So far it’s been coming very steadily all round the world, and moving southwards at just about the rate that you’d expect. It’s south of Rockhampton now. If it goes on like this it should be south of Brisbane by the beginning of June—just south. Say about eight hundred miles north of us. But as I say, it may come quicker or it may come slower. That’s all I can tell you."

Peter bit his lip. "It’s a bit worrying. One doesn’t want to start a flap at home. But all the same, I’d be happier if they knew what to do if I’m not there."

"You may not be there anyway," John Osborne said. "There seem to be quite a few natural hazards on this course—apart from radiation. Minefields, ice—all sorts of things. I don’t know what happens to us if we hit an iceberg at full cruising speed, submerged."

"I do," said Peter.

The scientist laughed. "Well, let’s keep our fingers crossed and hope we don’t. I want to get back here and race that thing." He nodded at the car behind the door.

"It’s all a bit worrying," Peter repeated. They turned towards the street. "I think I’ll have to do something about it before we go."

They walked in silence into the main thoroughfare.

John Osborne turned towards his office. "You going my way?"

Peter shook his head. "I’ve got to see if I can buy a playpen for the baby. Mary says we’ve got to have it or she’ll kill herself."

They turned in different directions and the scientist walked on, thankful that he wasn’t married.

Peter went shopping for a playpen, and succeeded in buying one at the second shop he tried. A folded playpen is an awkward thing to carry through a crowd; he battled with it to the tram and got it to Flinders Street station. He got to Falmouth with it at about four o’clock in the afternoon. He put it in the cloakroom till he could come and fetch it with his bicycle trailer, took his bicycle, and rode slowly into the shopping street. He went to the chemist that they dealt with, whose proprietor he knew, and who knew him. At the counter he asked the girl if he could see Mr. Goldie.

The chemist came to him in a white coat. He asked, "Could I have a word with you in private?"

"Why, yes, Commander." He led the way into the dispensary.

Peter said, "I wanted to have a talk with you about this radiation disease." The chemist’s face was quite expressionless. "I’ve got to go away. I’m sailing in the Scorpion, the American submarine. We’re going a long way. We shan’t be back till the beginning of June, at the earliest." The chemist nodded slowly. "It’s not a very easy trip," the naval officer said. "There’s just the possibility that we might not come back at all."

They stood in silence for a moment. "Are you thinking about Mrs. Holmes and Jennifer?" the chemist asked.

Peter nodded. "I’ll have to make sure Mrs. Holmes understands about things before I go." He paused. "Tell me, just what does happen to you?"

"Nausea," the chemist said. "That’s the first symptom. Then vomiting, and diarrhoea. Bloody stools. All the symptoms increase in intensity. There may be slight recovery, but if so it would be very temporary. Finally death occurs from sheer exhaustion." He paused. "In the very end, infection or leukaemia may be the actual cause of death. The blood-forming tissues are destroyed, you see, by the loss of body salts in the fluids. It might go one way or the other."

"Somebody was saying it’s like cholera."

"That’s right," the chemist said. "It is rather like cholera."

"You’ve got some stuff for it, haven’t you?"

"Not to cure it, I’m afraid."

"I don’t mean that. To end it."

"We can’t release that yet, Commander. About a week before it reaches any district details will be given on the wireless. After that we may distribute it to those who ask for it." He paused. "There must be terrible complications over the religious side," he said. "I suppose then it’s a matter for the individual."

"I’ve got to see that my wife understands about it," Peter said. "She’ll have to see to the baby... And I may not be here. I’ve got to see this all squared up before I go."

"I could explain it all to Mrs. Holmes, when the time comes.

"I’d rather do it myself. She’ll be a bit upset."

"Of course..." He stood for a moment, and then said, "Come into the stock room."

He went through into a back room through a locked door. There was a packing case in one corner, the lid part lifted. He wrenched it back. The case was full of little red boxes, of two sizes.

The chemist took out one of each and went back into the dispensary. He undid the smaller of the two; it contained a little plastic vial with two white tablets in it. He opened it, took out the tablets, put them carefully away, and substituted two tablets of aspirin. He put the vial back in the red box and closed it. He handed it to Peter.

"That is for anybody who will take a pill," he said. "You can take that and show it to Mrs. Holmes. One causes death, almost immediately. The other is a spare. When the time comes, we shall be distributing these at the counter."

"Thanks a lot," he said. "What does one do about the baby?"

The chemist took the other box. "The baby, or a pet animal—dog or cat," he said. "It’s just a little more complicated." He opened the second box and took out a small syringe. "I’ve got a used one I can put in for you, here. You follow these instructions on the box. Just give the hypodermic injection under the skin. She’ll fall asleep quite soon."

He packed the dummy back into the box, and gave it to Peter with the other.

The naval officer took them gratefully. "That’s very kind of you," he said. "She’ll be able to get these at the counter when the time comes?"

"That’s right."

"Will there be anything to pay?"

"No charge," the chemist said. "They’re on the free list."