Vertigo

one

The drive to Chivenor had been long and tiring. As it had progressed the pain in Hasson’s back had grown worse, and with the pain had come a steady deterioration of his mood. At first there had been stray misgivings, hints of sadness which anybody might have felt on passing through a series of towns and villages where all commerce and community life seemed to have been vanquished by the chill grey rains of Match. By the time they had reached the north Devon coast, however, Hasson felt more than normally dejected, and later when the car surmounted a rise giving its three occupants a glimpse of the Taw estuary — he realized he was terrified of the journey that lay ahead.

How can this be? he thought, unable to reconcile his feelings with those he would have experienced six weeks earlier in similar circumstances. I’m being given a free trip to Canada, three months” leave on full pay, all the time I need to rest and recuperate

“I always think there’s something right about the principle of the flying boat,” said Colebrook, the police surgeon, who was sitting in the rear seat with Hasson. “The whole idea of flying over the sea in ships, having four-fifths of the globe for a landing place

It all seems natural, if you know what I mean — technology and nature going hand-in-hand.”

Hasson nodded. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“Just look at those things.” A gesture of Colebrook’s plump, strong hand took in the slate-blue strip of water and the apparently haphazard scattering of flying boats. “Silver birds, as our Polynesian cousins might say. Do you know why they aren’t painted?”

Hasson shook his head, trying to take an interest in the surgeon’s conversation. “Can’t think.”

The load factor. Economics. The weight of the paint would be equal to the weight of an extra passenger.”

“Is that right?” Hasson smiled, hopelessly, and saw the boyish enthusiasm fade from Colebrook’s face to be replaced by a look of professional concern. He cursed himself for not having made a greater effort to cover up.

“Problems, Rob?” Colebrook turned bodily to get a better look at his patient, pulling his suit into silky diagonal folds across his stomach. “How do you feel?” “A bit tired that’s all. A few aches and pains. I’ll hang together.”

“I’m not asking about that side of it. Have you taken any Serenix today?”

“Well …” Hasson abandoned the attempt to lie. “I don’t like taking pills.”

“What’s that got to do with anything,” Colebrook said impatiently. “I don’t like brushing my teeth, but if I stop the result will be a lot of pain and a mouth full of delph — so I brush my teeth.”

“It’s hardly the same thing,” Hasson protested.

“it’s exactly the same thing, man. Your nervous system is bound to give you hell for a month or two, maybe longer, but the fact that a thing is natural doesn’t mean you have to put up with it. There aren’t any medals for this Rob — no Misery Cross or Depression Diploma…”

Hasson raised a finger. “That’s good, doc. I like that.”

“Swallow a couple of those caps, Rob. Don’t be a fool.” Colebrook, who had too much medical experience to allow himself to be upset by a wayward patient, leaned forward and tapped Air Police Captain Nun on his shoulder, his expansive mood returning. Why don’t we all go to Canada, Wilbur? We could all do with a break.”

Nun had been at the wheel most of the way from Coventry and was showing signs of strain. “Some of us can’t be spared,” he said, refusing to be captivated by pleasantries. “Anyway, it’s too early in the year for me. I’d rather wait till the Iceland-Greenland corridor is cleared.”

“That could take months.”

“I know, but some of us can’t be spared.” Nunn transferred the weight of his forearms on to the steering wheel, managing to convey his disinclination to talk. The sky ahead had cleared to an antiseptic pale blue, but the ground was still wet, and the car’s wheels made swishing sounds on the tarmac curves as it descended towards the airfield and flying boat terminal at Chivenor. Nunn continued to drive fast, with broody concentration, as the view of the estuary was lost behind a row of dripping evergreens.

Hasson, slouched uncomfortably in the rear seat, stared at the 8 back of his chief’s neck and wished there had been no reference to the clearing of the flight corridors. His plane was due to take off in little more than an hour and the last thing he wanted was to think about the possibility of it smashing into any human bodies which might be drifting through the low cloud and fog that often obscured the Atlantic air lines.

Nobody in the west had any clear idea of what was going on in the vast tracts of land spanning the eastern hemisphere from the Zemlayas to Siberia, but each winter a sparse, slow blizzard of frozen bodies — kept aloft by their CG harnesses — came swirling down over the pole, endangering air cargo traffic between Britain and North America.

The general belief was that they were Asian peasants, ignorant of the dangers of boosting to even a modest altitude in a continental winter, or victims of sudden weather changes who had been claimed by frostbite without realising what was happening to them. A hysterical faction, small but vociferous, claimed they were political expendables deliberately cast loose on the geostrophic winds to hinder, even marginally, the flow of western commerce. Hasson had always regarded the latter idea as being unworthy of his consideration, and the fact that it had entered his mind now was yet another pointer to his state of health. He slid his hand into his coat pocket and gripped the container of Serenix capsules, reassuring himself they were available.

In a few minutes the car had reached the airfield and was skirting its perimeter on the way to the flying boat docks. The tall silvery fins of the boats could be seen here and there above the complex of quayside sheds and portable offices. A number of men, their clothing marked with dayglo panels, were flying between the quay and the boats anchored further out in the estuary, registering on the edge of Hasson’s vision as a constant agitation of colourful specks.

Nunn brought the car to a halt in a parking bay which was outside the mesh fence of the departure area. As Hasson’s department head, he had been burdened with most of the behind-the scenes work associated with smuggling Hasson out of the country and finding a place where he could live in safe obscurity for three months. No formal machinery existed for hiding and protecting key witnesses whose lives could be under threat, and 9 Captain Nunn had been put to considerable trouble to find a suitable host for Hasson in another country. In the end he had come to an arrangement with a Canadian police officer who had been on an exchange visit to the Coventry force some years earlier. Nun was a man who hated anything to upset his administrative routine and now he was anxious to get Hasson off his hands.

“We won’t go in with you, Rob,” he said, switching off the engine. “The Less we’re seen together the better. No point in taking any chances.”

“Chances!” Hasson snorted to show his disapproval of what he thought of as a charade. “What chances? Sullivan is a mobster, but he’s also a business man and he knows he’ll be finished if he starts killing cops.”

Nun drummed with his fingers on the serrated rim of the steering wheel. “We’re not cops Rob — we’re air cops. And people kill us all the time. How many of your original squad are still alive?”

“Not many.” Hasson turned his head away to hide an unexpected, unmanning quiver of his lower lip.

“I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have said that.” Nunn sounded irritated rather than apologetic.

Colebrook, ever watchful, gripped Hasson’s arm just above the elbow and squeezed it firmly. “Take two capsules right now, Rob. That’s an order.”

Embarrassed and shamed, Hasson brought the plastic dispenser out of his pocket, fed two green-and-gold capsules into his palm and swallowed them. They felt dry and weightless in his mouth, like the blown-out eggs of tiny birds.

Nun cleared his throat. “The point I was making is that the Sullivan case is out of the hands of the Air Police and we have to do what SCQ tells us. If they think your evidence is worth the Sullivan organisation’s trying to shut you up for good we have to accept what they say. It’s their patch.”

“I know, but it’s all so …” Hasson gazed around him helplessly. “I mean … fake identity, fake passport! How am I going to get used to calling myself Haldane?”

“That doesn’t seem much of a problem to me,” Nunn said brusquely, compressing his lips. “Try to adopt a more positive attitude, Rob. Get yourself off to Canada and do a lot of sleeping and eating and drinking, and enjoy it while you have the chance. We’ll send for you when you have to testify.”

“Speaking as a medical man, that sounds like good advice.” Colebrook opened the door at his side, got out and went to the back of the car. He lifted the lid of the trunk and began unloading Hasson’s cases.

“I won’t get out,” Nunn said, reaching a hand into the rear seat. “Take care of yourself, Rob.”

“Thanks.” Hasson shook the offered hand and let himself out of the car. The sky had completely cleared now, to the palest wash of blue, and a searching breeze was whipping in from the Atlantic. Hasson shivered as he thought of the thousands of kilometres of open sea that lay between him and his destination. The journey seemed too great for any aircraft, and even more incredible was the idea that only a few months ago he, Robert Hasson, faced with the task of getting to Canada, would have brashly strapped on a counter-gravity harness and made the flight alone, with no protection other than a helmet and heated suit. At the thought of going aloft again, of being able to fall, a looseness developed in Hasson’s knees and he leaned against the vehicle, taking care to make the action look casual. The enamelled metal chilled his fingers.

“I’ll go with you as far as reception,” Colebrook said. “Nobody’s going to worry about seeing you with a doctor.”

“I’d rather go in alone, thanks. I’m all right.”

Colebrook smiled approvingly. “That’s good. Just remember what the physiotherapist told you about how to lift heavy weights.” Hasson nodded, said goodbye to the surgeon and went towards the gate which led to the departure building. He carried a large and a small case in each hand, keeping his back straight and the load in balance. The pain from his spine and the rebuilt joint of his left knee was considerable, but he had learned that movement — no matter how uncomfortable — was his ally. The real pain, the devasting and paralysing agony, came after he was forced to remain immobile for a long period, and then had to perform a once simple action such as getting out of bed. It was as though his body, denying the magic of surgery, had a masochistic yearning for crippledom.

He went to the passenger terminal where he and his baggage were subjected to a series of fairly perfunctory checks. It turned out that there were about twenty other people on his particular flight, which meant that the flying boat had almost its full quota of passengers. For the most part, they were middle-aged couples who had the flustered, expectant look of people who were not used to long-distance travel. Hasson guessed they were going abroad to visit relatives. He stood apart from them, sipping machine-made coffee and wondering why anybody who had the option of remaining safely at home would set out to cross a wintered ocean.

“Your attention, please,” called a stewardess who had razor- cut golden hair and neat, hard features. “Flight Box 62 is scheduled to take off for St John’s in approximately twenty minutes. Due to the strength and direction of the breeze which has sprung up within the last few hours, we have been forced to anchor the aircraft further out than is usual and our motor launches are having to cope with extra work — but we can avoid delaying our departure if we fly out to the aircraft. Are there any passengers with boarding cards for Flight Bo162 who are unable to make a personal flight of half a kilometre?”

Hasson’s heart lurched sickeningly as he glanced around the group and saw that all of them were nodding in tentative agreement.

“Very well,” the stewardess said, nodding her head. “You will find standard CG harnesses on the rack beside the…”

“I’m sorry,” Hasson cut in, “I’m not allowed to use a harness.”

The girl’s eyes flickered briefly and there was a disappointed murmur from the other passengers. Several women glanced at Hasson, their eyes speculative and resentful. He turned away without speaking, feeling the chill air rush upwards past him at terminal velocity as he bombed down into Birmingham’s crowded commuter levels after a fall of three thousand metres, and the lights of the city expanded beneath him like a vast jewelled flower…

“In that case there’s no point in any of us flying.” The stewardess’s voice was neutral. “If you will all make yourselves comfortable I will call you as soon as a launch is available. We will do everything we can to keep delays to a minimum. Thank you.” She went to a communications set in the corner of the glass-walled lounge and began whispering into it.

Hasson set his cup down and, acutely conscious of being stared at, walked into the toilets. He locked himself into a cubicle, leaned against the door for a moment, then took out his medicine dispenser and fed two more capsules into his mouth. The two he had swallowed in the car had not yet taken effect, and as he stood in the sad little closed universe of partitions and tiles, praying for tranquillity, it dawned on him how complete his breakdown had been. He had seen other men crack up under the strain of too much work, too many hours of cross-wind patrols at night when the danger of collision with a rogue flier made the nerves sing like telephone wires in a gale, but always he had viewed the event with a kind of smug incomprehension. Underlying his sympathy and intellectual appreciation of the medical facts had been a faint contempt, a conviction that, given his mental stability, the wilted air cops, the sick birds, would have been able to shrug off their woes and carry on as before. His sense of security had been so great that he had totally failed to recognise his own warning symptoms -the moods of intense depression, the irritability, the growing pessimism which drained life of its savour. Without realising it, Hasson had been terribly vulnerable, and in that fragile condition-shorn of all his armour — he had gone into the arena against a grinning opponent who wore a black cloak and carried a scythe…

A sudden claustrophobia caused Hasson to open the cubicle door. He went to a wash basin, put cold water in it and was splashing some on his face when he became aware of somebody standing beside him. It was one of the passengers from his own flight, a man of about sixty who had a florid complexion and sardonically drooping eyelids.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” the man said in a north country accent.

“What?” Hasson began drying his face.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. That’s what I was telling them out there. Some people just can’t use a harness, and that’s that.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Hasson fought down an urge to tell the stranger he had done a great deal of flying but was temporarily barred from it for medical reasons. If he started justifying himself to everybody he met he would be doing it for the rest of his life and there was also the fact that the story was a lie. There was no physical necessity for him to avoid personal flight.

“On the other hand,” the red-faced man continued, “some people take to it like a duck takes to water. I was nearly forty when I got my first harness, and within a week I was cloud- running with the best of them.”

“Very good,” Hasson said, edging away.

“Yes, and I still fly in a tough area. Bradford The kids up there think nothing of coming in close, deliberate-like, and dropping you twenty or thirty metres.” The stranger paused to chuckle. “Doesn’t bother me, though. Strong stomach.”

“That’s great.” Hasson hurried to the door, then it occurred to him that a garrulous companion might be just what he needed to numb his mind during the Atlantic crossing. He paused and waited for the other man to catch up with him. “But you’re going to Canada the easy way.”

“Have to,” the man said, tapping himself on the chest. “Lungs won’t take the cold any more — otherwise I’d save myself the price of a plane ticket. Bloody robbery, that’s what it is.”

Hasson nodded agreement as he walked back to the lounge with his new companion. Personal flying was both easy and cheap, and with the advent of the counter-gravity harness conventional aviation had fallen into an abrupt decline. At first it had been simply a matter of economics, then the skies had become too clustered with people — millions of liberated, mobile, foolhardy, uncontrollable people — for aircraft to operate safely, except in strictly policed corridors. The formerly lucrative passenger traffic across the North Atlantic had been replaced by cargo planes carrying handfuls of passengers on sparse schedules, and the cost per head had risen accordingly.

Rejoining the other passengers, Hasson leaned that the older man’s name was Dawlish and that he was on the way to Montreal to visit an ailing cousin, possibly in the hope of inheriting some money. Hasson conversed with him for ten minutes, reassured by the sense of calmness that was spreading radially through his system as the Serenix capsules began to do their work. His knowledge that the feeling was artificially induced made it nonetheless precious, and by the time the launch arrived to take the passengers on Flight Bo162 out to the plane he was experiencing a muted euphoria.

He sat near the front during the ride across choppy water to reach the flying boat, feeling a pleasurable excitement at the thought of spending three months abroad. The boat looked prehistoric, with grills over the turbine intakes and armour plating on the airfoil leading edges, but now Hasson had some confidence in the looming machine’s ability to take him anywhere in the world. He climbed on board — inhaling the distinctive aroma of engine oil, brine-soaked rope and hot food — and got a window seat near the rear of the passenger compartment. Dawlish sat down opposite him with his back to the movable partition which allowed the cargo space to be expanded or contracted as required.

“Good machines these,” Dawlish said, looking knowledgeable. “Based on the Thirties Empire boat design. Very interesting story to them.”

As Hasson half-expected, Dawlish launched into a discourse an the romance of the flying boat, a rambling account which took in its disappearance from world aviation in the Fifties because of the difficulty of pressurising the hull for the high-altitude operation demanded by jet engines, its reappearance in the 21st Century when, of necessity, all aircraft had to fly low and slow.

At another time he might have been bored or irritated, but on this occasion Dawlish was performing a useful function and Hasson concentrated gratefully on the flow of words while the boat’s four engines were being started and it was taxied round into the wind. In spite of the capsules he felt a pang of unease as the take-off run seemed to go on for ever, culminating in a thunderous hammering of wave-tops on the underside of the keel, but all at once the noise ceased and the boat was in rock-steady flight. Hasson looked at the solidity of the deck beneath his feet and felt safe.

“… monopropellant turbines would work just as well at altitude,” Dawlish was saying, “but if you fly low anybody you run into is likely to be reasonably soft and the shielding will stand the impact. Just imagine hitting a frozen body at nearly a thousand kilometres an hour! The Titanic wouldn’t be …” Dawlish broke off and touched Hasson’s knee. “I’m sorry, lad — I shouldn’t be talking about that sort of thing.”

“I’m all right,” Hasson said sleepily, making the belated discovery that for a man in his exhausted state four Serenix capsules had been too much. “You go right ahead. Get it out of your system.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” Hasson sincerely wished to be diplomatic, but it had become difficult to perceive shades of meaning in his own words. “You seem to know a lot about flying.”

Apparently annoyed at Hasson’s tone, Dawlish glanced around him from below sagging eyelids. “Of course, this isn’t real flying. Cloud-running, that’s the thing! You don’t know what real flying is until you’ve strapped on a harness and gone up five hundred, six hundred metres with nothing under your feet but thin air. I only wish I could tell you what it’s like.”

“That would be …” Hasson abandoned the attempt to speak as the conscious world tilted ponderously away from him.

He was three thousand metres above Birmingham, as high as it was possible to go without special heavy-duty suit heaters, at the centre of a sphere of milky radiance created by his flares… a short distance away from him the body of his dead partner, Lloyd Inglis, floated upright on height-maintenance power, performing a strange aerial shuffle … and, just beyond the range of the flares, Lloyd’s murderer was waiting in ambush…

There was no human sound as the attack began — only the growing rush of air as the two men’s CG harnesses cancelled each other’s fields, allowing then to drop like stones.,.

It took a minute for them to fall three thousand metres — a hideous, soul-withering minute in which the howl of the terminal velocity wind, was the blast from the chimneys of hell. During that minute the low-level commuter lanes, glowing like a galaxy with the personal lights of tens of thousands of fliers, expanded hungrily beneath him, opening like a carnivorous flower. During that minute, pain and shock robbed him of the powers of thought, and his mind was further obliterated by the obscene grinding of the psychotic killer’s body against his own…

And then — when it was so late, when it was so desperately late — came the successful disengagement, the breaking free, followed by the futile upward drag of his harness … and the impact … the ghastly impact with the round… the shattering of bone, and the explosive bursting of spinal discs.

Hasson opened his eyes and blinked uncomprehendingly at a world of sky-bright windows, curved ceiling panels, luggage racks, and the subdued pulsing of aero engines. I’m in an aircraft he thought. What am I doing in an aircraft. He sat upright, groggy as a boxer recovering from a knockout blow, and saw that Dawlish had fallen asleep in the seat opposite him, a micro- reader still clasped in one blue-knuckled hand. The realisation he had been unconscious for some time was accompanied by a rush of memories and he rediscovered the fact that he was on his way to Canada, faced with the challenge of a new identity and a new way of life.

The prospect was daunting, but not as daunting as the idea of meeting the challenge in his present condition of drug-fuddled incapacity, held up by a psychotropic crutch. He waited for a few minutes, breathing deeply, then got to his feet and walked to the toilet at the forward end of the passenger compartment. The soundproofing within the toilet was not as good as in the rest of the aircraft, and for a moment he was disconcerted by the pounding of atmospheric fists on the skin of the hull, but he braced himself against the partition and took the medicine dispenser from his pocket. He wrenched the top off it and, without giving himself time for second thoughts, poured a steam of green-and- gold capsules into the toilet bowl.

By the time he got back to his seat he was woozy again, ready to fall asleep, but he had the spare satisfaction that always came from refusing to compromise. He was not the Robert Hasson he used to be, or had imagined himself to be. He felt incomplete, wounded, flawed — but his future was his own personal property, and there was to be no side-stepping of any problems it would bring.