Wyatt's Hurricane

I

Causton was up early next morning, and after a token breakfast he checked a couple of addresses in his notebook, then went into the town. When he arrived back at the Imperiale to pick up Julie he was very thoughtful and inclined to be absent-minded, so there was little conversation as they drove to Cap Sarrat in the car he had hired. They were halted briefly at the gates of the Base, but a telephone call from the guardroom soon released them, and a marine led them to Wyatt’s office.

Julie looked curiously at the charts on the walls and at the battered desk and the scuffed chairs. ‘You don’t go in for frills.’

‘This is a working office,’ said Wyatt. ‘Please sit down.’

Causton examined a wall chart with some misgivings. ‘I’m always baffled by boffins,’ he complained. ‘They usually make the simplest things sound hellishly complicated. Have mercy on us poor laymen.’

Wyatt laughed, but spoke seriously. ‘It’s the other way round, you know. Our job is to try to define simply what are really very complex phenomena.’

‘Try to stick to words of one syllable,’ pleaded Causton. ‘I hear you went to look at a hurricane at first hand the other day. It was more than a thousand miles from here — how did you know it was there?’

‘That’s simple to explain. In the old days we didn’t know a hurricane had formed until it was reported by a ship or from an island — but these days we’re catching them earlier.’ Wyatt spread some photographs on the desk. ‘We get photographs from satellites — either from the latest of the Tiros series or from the newer Nimbus polar orbit satellites.’

Julie looked at the photographs uncomprehendingly and Wyatt interpreted. ‘This tells us all we need to know. It gives us the time the photograph was taken — here, in this corner. This scale down the edge gives the size of what we’re looking at — this particular hurricane is about three hundred miles across. And these marks indicate latitude and longitude — so we know exactly where it is. It’s simple, really.’

Causton flicked the photograph. ‘Is this the hurricane you’re concerned with now?’

‘That’s right,’ said Wyatt. ‘That’s Mabel. I’ve just finished working out her present position and her course. She’s a little less than six hundred miles south-east of here, moving north-west on a course that agrees with theory at a little more than ten miles an hour.’

‘I thought hurricanes were faster than that,’ said Julie in surprise.

‘Oh, that’s not the wind-speed; that’s the speed at which the hurricane as a whole is moving over the earth’s surface. The wind-speeds inside this hurricane are particularly high — in excess of 170 miles an hour.’

Causton had been thinking deeply. ‘I don’t think I like the sound of this. You say this hurricane is south-east of here, and it’s moving north-west. That sounds as though it’s heading directly for us.’

‘It is,’ said Wyatt. ‘But fortunately hurricanes don’t move in straight lines; they move in curves.’ He paused, then took a large flat book from a near-by table. ‘We plot the paths of all hurricanes, of course, and try to make sense of them. Sometimes we succeed. Let me see — 1955 gives an interesting variety.’

He opened the book, turned the leaves, then stopped at a chart of the Western Atlantic. ‘Here’s 1955. Flora and Edith are textbook examples — they come in from the southeast then curve to the north-east in a parabola. This path is dictated by several things. In the early stages the hurricane is really trying to go due north but is forced west because of the earth’s rotation. In the latter stages it is forced back east again because it comes under the influence of the North Atlantic wind system.’

Causton looked closely at the chart. ‘What about this one?’

Wyatt grinned. ‘I thought you’d spot Alice. She went south and ended up in North Brazil — we still don’t know why. Then there’s Janet and Hilda — they didn’t curve back according to theory and went clear across the Yucatan and into North Mexico and Texas. They killed a lot of people.’

Causton grunted. ‘It seems to me there’s something wrong with your theory. What about this wiggly one?’

‘Ione? I was talking about her only yesterday. It’s true she wriggled like a snake, but if you smooth her course you’ll see that she fits the theoretical pattern. But we still don’t know exactly what makes a hurricane change course sharply like that. I have an idea it may be because it’s influenced in some way by a high-altitude jet stream, but that’s difficult to tie in because a hurricane is very shallow — it doesn’t extend more than a few thousand feet up. That’s why contact with land destroys it — it will batter itself to death against a ridge, but it does a lot of damage in the process.’

Julie looked at the lines crawling across the chart. ‘They’re like big animals, aren’t they? You’d swear that Ione wanted to destroy Cape Hatteras, then turned away because she didn’t like the land.’

‘I wish they were intelligent,’ said Wyatt. ‘Then we might have a bit of luck in predicting what they’re going to do next.’

Causton had his notebook out. ‘Next thing — what causes hurricanes?’

Wyatt leaned back in his chair. ‘You need a warm sea and still air, and you will find those conditions in the doldrums in the late summer. The warm air rises, heavy and humid, full of water vapour. Its place is taken by air rushing in from the sides, and, because of the earth’s rotation, this moving air is given a twist so that the whole system begins to revolve.’

He sketched it on a scrap pad. ‘The warm air that is rising meets cooler air and releases its water vapour in the form of rain. Now, it has taken a lot of energy for the air to have lifted that water vapour in the first place, and this energy is now released as heat. This increases the rate of ascent of the air — the whole thing becomes a kind of vicious circle. More water is released and thus more heat, and the whole thing goes faster and faster and becomes much bigger. As much as a million tons of air may be rising each second.’

He drew arrows on the scrap pad, spiralling inwards. ‘Because the wind system is revolving, centrifugal force tends to throw the air outwards, and so the pressure in the centre becomes very low, thus forming the eye of the hurricane. But the pressure on the outside is very high and something must give somewhere. So the wind moves faster and faster in an attempt to fill that low pressure area, but the faster it moves the more the centrifugal force throws it outwards. And so we have these very fast circular winds and a fully fledged hurricane is born.’

He drew another arrow, this one moving in a straight line. ‘Once established, the hurricane begins to move forward, like a spinning top that moves along the ground. This brings it in contact with more warm sea and air and the process becomes self-sustaining. A hurricane is a vast heat engine, the biggest and most powerful dynamic system on earth.’ He nodded to the chart on the wall. ‘Mabel, there, has more power in her than a thousand hydrogen bombs.’

‘You sound as though you’ve fallen in love with hurricanes,’ said Julie softly.

‘Nonsense!’ Wyatt said sharply. ‘I hate them. All West Indians hate them.’

‘Have you had a hurricane here — in San Fernandez?’ asked Causton.

‘Not in my time.’ said Wyatt. ‘The last one to hit San Fernandez was in 1910. It flattened St Pierre and killed 6,000 people.’

‘One hurricane in nearly sixty years,’ mused Causton. ‘Tell me — I ask out of personal interest — what is the likelihood of your friend Mabel coming this way?’

Wyatt smiled. ‘It could happen, but it’s not very likely.’

‘Um,’ said Causton. He looked at the wall chart. ‘Still, I’d say that Serrurier is a much more destructive force than any of your hurricanes. At the last count he’s caused the death of more than 20,000 people on this island. A hurricane might be pleasanter if it could get rid of him.’

‘Possibly,’ said Wyatt. ‘But that’s out of my province. I’m strictly non-political.’ He began to talk again about his work until he saw their interest was flagging and they were becoming bored with his technicalities, and then he suggested they adjourn for lunch. ‘Hansen said he’d meet us.’

They lunched in the Officers’ Mess, where Hansen, who was to join them, was late and apologetic. ‘Sorry, folks, but I’ve been busy.’ He sat down and said to Wyatt, ‘Someone’s got a case of jitters — all unserviceable aircraft to be made ready for flight on the double. They fixed up my Connie pretty fast; I did the ground tests this morning and I’ll be taking her up this afternoon to test that new engine.’ He groaned in mock pain. ‘And I was looking forward to a week’s rest.’

Causton was interested. ‘Is it anything serious?’

Hansen shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say so — Brooksie isn’t the nervous type.’

‘Brooksie?’

‘Commodore Brooks — Base Commander.’

Wyatt turned to Julie and said in a low voice, ‘What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

‘Nothing much — why?’

‘I’m tired of office work.’ he said. ‘What about our going over to St Michel? You used to like that little beach we found, and it’s a good day for swimming.’

‘That sounds a good idea,’ she agreed. ‘I’d like that.’

‘We’ll leave after lunch.’

‘How’s Mabel?’ asked Hansen across the table.

‘Nothing to report.’ said Wyatt. ‘She’s behaving herself. She just missed Grenada as predicted. She’s speeded up a bit, though; Schelling wasn’t too happy about that.’

‘Not with the prediction he made.’ Hansen nodded. ‘Still, he’ll have covered himself — you can trust him for that.’

Causton dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. ‘To change the subject — have any of you heard of a man called Favel?’

‘Julio Favel?’ said Hansen blankly. ‘Sure — he’s dead.’

‘Is he now!’

‘Serrurier’s men caught up with him in the hills last year. There was a running battle — Favel wasn’t going to be taken alive — and he was killed. It was in the local papers at the time.’ He quirked an eyebrow at Causton. ‘What’s the interest?’

‘The rumour is going about that Favel is still alive,’ said Causton. ‘I heard it this morning.’

Hansen looked at Wyatt, and Wyatt said, ‘That explains Serrurier’s nightmare last night.’ Causton lifted his eye-brows, and Wyatt said, ‘There was a lot of troop movement in the town last night.’

‘So I saw,’ said Causton. ‘Who was Favel?’

‘Come off it,’ said Wyatt. ‘You’re a newspaperman — you know as well as I do.’

Causton grinned. ‘I like to get other people’s views,’ he said without a trace of apology. ‘The objective view, you know; as a scientist you should appreciate that.’

Julie said in bewilderment, ‘Who was this Favel?’

Causton said, ‘A thorn in the side of Serrurier. Serrurier, being the head of government, calls him a bandit; Favel preferred to call himself a patriot. I think the balance is probably on Favel’s side. He was hiding in the hills doing quite a bit of damage to Serrurier before he was reported killed. Since then there has been nothing — until now.’

“I don’t believe he’s alive,’ said Hansen. ‘We’d have heard about it before now.’

“He might have been intelligent enough to capitalize on the report of his death — to lie low and accumulate strength unworried by Serrurier.’

‘Or he might have been ill,’ said Wyatt.

‘True,’ said Causton. ‘That might be it.’ He turned to Hansen. ‘What do you think?’

‘All I know is what I read in the newspapers,’ said Hansen. ‘And my French isn’t too good — not the kind of French these people write.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, Mr Causton; we’re under military discipline here at Cap Sarrat, and the orders are not to interfere in local affairs — not even to appear interested. If we don’t keep our noses clean we’re in trouble. If we survive Serrurier’s strong-arm boys, then Commodore Brooks takes our hides off. There have been a few cases, you know, mostly among the enlisted men, and they’ve got shipped back to the States with a big black demerit to spend a year or two in the stockade. I was going to tell you this last night when that guy Dawson busted in.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Causton. ‘I apologize. I didn’t realize the difficulties you people must have here.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Hansen. ‘You weren’t to know. But I might as well tell you that one thing that is specifically discouraged is talking too freely to visiting newsmen.’

‘Nobody likes us,’ said Causton plaintively.

‘Sure,’ said Hansen. ‘Everyone has something to hide — but our reasons are different. We’re trying to avoid stirring up any trouble. You know as well as I do — where you find a newsman you find trouble.’

‘I rather think it’s the other way round,’ said Causton gently. ‘Where you find trouble you find a newsman — the trouble comes first.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Speaking of Dawson, I find that he’s staying at the Imperiale. When Miss Marlowe and I left this morning he was nursing a hangover and breakfasting lightly off one raw egg and the juice of a whisky bottle.’

Wyatt said, ‘You’re not really on holiday, are you, Causton?’

Causton sighed. ‘My boss thinks I am. Coming here was a bit of private enterprise on my part. I heard rumours and rumours of rumours. For instance, arms traffic to this part of the world has been running high lately. The stuff hasn’t been going to Cuba or South America as far as I can find out, but it’s being absorbed somewhere. I put it to my boss, but he didn’t agree with my reasoning, or, as he put it, my non-reasoning. However, I have great faith in myself so I took a busman’s holiday and here I am.’

‘And have you found what you’re looking for?’

‘You know, I really fear I have.’

II

Wyatt drove slowly through the suburbs of St Pierre, hampered by the throngs in the streets. The usual half-naked small boys diced with death before the wheels of his car, shrieking with laughter as he blew his horn; the bullock carts and sagging trucks created their usual traffic jams, and the chatter of the crowds was deafening — the situation was normal and Wyatt relaxed as he got out of the town and was able to increase speed.

The road to St Michel wound up from St Pierre through the lush Negrito Valley, bordered with banana, pineapple and sugar plantations and overlooked by the frowning heights of the Massif des Saints. ‘It seems that last night’s disturbance was a false alarm,’ said Wyatt. ‘In spite of what Causton said this morning.’

‘I don’t know if I really like Causton, after all,’ said Julie pensively. ‘Newspaper reporters remind me of vultures, somehow.’

‘I have a fellow feeling for him,’ said Wyatt. ‘He makes a living out of disaster — so do I.’

She was shocked. ‘It’s not the same at all. At least you are trying to minimize disaster.’

‘So is he, according to his lights. I’ve read some of his stuff and it’s very good; full of compassion at the damn’ silliness of the human race. I think he was truly sorry to find out he was right about the situation here — if he is right, of course. I hope to God he isn’t.’

She made an impatient movement with her shoulders. ‘Let’s forget about him, shall we? Let’s forget about him and Serrurier and — what’s-his-name — Favel.’

He slowed to avoid a wandering bullock cart loaded with rocks and jerked his head back at the armed soldier by the road. ‘It’s not so easy to forget Serrurier with that sort of thing going on.’

Julie looked back. ‘What is it?’

‘The corvée — forced labour on the roads. All the peasants must do it. It’s a hangover from pre-revolutionary France which Serrurier makes pay most handsomely. It has never stopped on San Fernandez.’ He nodded to the side of the road. ‘It’s the same with these plantations; they were once owned by foreign companies — American and French mostly. Serrurier nationalized the lot by expropriation when he came to power. He runs them as his own private preserve with convict labour — and it doesn’t take much to become a convict on this island, so he’s never short of workers. They’re becoming run down now.’

She said in a low voice, ‘How can you bear to live here — in the middle of all this unhappiness?’

‘My work is here, Julie. What I do here helps to save lives all over the Caribbean and in America, and this is the best place to do it. I can’t do anything about Serrurier; if I tried I’d be killed, gaoled or deported and that would do no one any good. So, like Hansen and everyone else, I stick close to the Base and concentrate on my own job.’

He paused to negotiate a bad bend. ‘Not that I like it, of course.’

‘So you wouldn’t consider moving out — say, to a research job in the States?’

‘I’m doing my best work here,’ said Wyatt. ‘Besides, I’m a West Indian — this is my home, poor as it is.’

He drove for several miles and at last pulled off the road on to the verge. ‘Remember this?’

‘I couldn’t forget it,’ she said, and left the car to look at the panorama spread before her. In the distance was the sea, a gleaming plate of beaten silver. Immediately below were the winding loops of the dusty road they had just ascended and between the road and the sea was the magnificent Negrito Valley leading down to Santego Bay with Cap Sarrat on the far side and St Pierre, a miniature city, nestling in the curve of the bay.

Wyatt did not look at the view — he found Julie a more satisfying sight as she stood on the edge of the precipitous drop with the trade wind blowing her skirt and moulding the dress to her body. She pointed across the valley to where the sun reflected from falling water. ‘What’s that?’

‘La Cascade de l’Argent — it’s on the P’tit Negrito.’ He walked across and joined her. ‘The P’tit Negrito joins the Gran’ Negrito down in the valley. You can’t see the confluence from here.’

She took a deep breath. ‘It’s one of the most wonderful sights I’ve ever seen. I wondered if you’d show it to me again.’

‘Always willing to oblige,’ he said. ‘Is this why you came back to San Fernandez?’

She laughed uncertainly. ‘One of the reasons.’

He nodded. ‘It’s a good reason. I hope the others are as good.’

Her voice was muffled because she had dropped her head. ‘I hope so, too.’

‘Aren’t you sure?’

She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. ‘No, Dave, I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.’

He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him. ‘A pity,’ he said, and kissed her. She came, unresisting, into his arms and her lips parted under his. He felt her arms go about him closer, until at last she broke away.

‘I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘I’m still not sure — but I’m not sure about being not sure.’

He said, ‘How would you like to live here — on San Fernandez?’ Julie looked at him warily. ‘Is that a proposition?’

‘I suppose you could call it a proposal,’ Wyatt said, rubbing the side of his jaw. ‘I couldn’t go on living at the Base, not with you giving up the exotic life of an air hostess, so we’d have to find a house. How would you like to live somewhere up here?’

‘Oh, Dave, I’d like that very much,’ she cried, and they were both incoherent for a considerable time.

After a while Wyatt said, ‘I don’t understand why you were so standoffish; you clung on to Causton like a blood brother last night.’

‘Damn you, Dave Wyatt,’ Julie retorted. ‘I was scared. I was chasing a man and women aren’t supposed to do that. I got cold feet at the last minute and was frightened of making a fool of myself.’

‘So you did come here to see me?’

She ruffled his hair. ‘You don’t see much in people, do you, Dave? You’re so wrapped up in your hurricanes and formulas. Of course I came to see you.’ She picked up his hand and examined the fingers one by one. ‘I’ve been out with lots of guys and sometimes I’ve wondered if this time it was the one — women do think that way, you know. And every time you got in the way of my thinking, so I knew I had to come back to straighten it out. I had to have you in my heart altogether or I had to get you out of my system completely — if I could. And you kept writing those deadpan letters of yours which made me want to scream.’

He grinned. ‘I was never very good at writing passion. But I see I’ve been properly caught by a designing woman, so let’s celebrate.’ He walked over to the car. ‘I filled a Thermos with your favourite tipple — Planter’s Punch. I departed from the strict formula in the interests of sobriety and the time of day — this has less rum and more lime. It’s quite refreshing.’

They sat overlooking the Negrito and sampled the punch. Julie said, ‘I don’t know much about you, Dave. You said last night that you were born in St. Kitts — where’s that?’

Wyatt waved. ‘An island over to the south-east. It’s really St Christopher, but it’s been called St. Kitts for the last four hundred years. Christophe, the Black Emperor of Haiti, took his name from St. Kitts — he was a runaway slave. It’s quite a place.’

‘Has your family always lived there?’

‘We weren’t aborigines, you know, but there have been Wyatts on St. Kitts since the early sixteen hundreds. They were planters, fishermen — sometimes pirates, so I’m told — a motley crowd.’ He sipped the punch. ‘I’m the last Wyatt of St. Kitts.’

‘That’s a shame. What happened?’

‘A hurricane in the middle of the last century nearly did for the island. Three-quarters of the Wyatts were killed; in fact, three-quarters of the population were wiped out. Then came the period of depression in the Caribbean — competition from Brazilian coffee, East African sugar and so on, and the few Wyatts that were left moved out. My parents hung on until just after I was born, then they moved down to Grenada where I grew up.’

‘Where’s Grenada?’

‘South along the chain of islands, north of Trinidad. Just north of Grenada are the Grenadines, a string of little islands which are as close to a tropical paradise as you’ll find in the Caribbean. I’ll take you down there some day. We lived on one of those until I was ten. Then I went to England.’

‘Your parents sent you to school there, then?’

He shook his head. ‘No, they were killed. There was another hurricane. I went to live with an aunt in England; she brought me up and saw to my schooling.’

Julie said gently, ‘Is that why you hate hurricanes?’

‘I suppose it is. We’ve got to get down to controlling the damn’ things some time, and I thought I’d do my bit. We can’t do much yet beyond organizing early warning systems and so on, but the time will come when we’ll be able to stop a hurricane in its tracks, powerful though it is. There’s quite a bit of work being done on that.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now you know all about David Wyatt.’

‘Not all, but there’s plenty of time for the rest,’ she said contentedly.

‘What about your life story?’

‘That will have to wait, too,’ she said, pushing away his questing hand and jumping up. ‘What about that swim you promised?’

They got into the car and Julie stared up at the viridian-green hills of the Massif des Saints. Wyatt said, ‘That’s bad country — infertile, pathless, disease-ridden. It’s where Favel held out until he was killed. An army could get lost up there — in fact, several have.’

‘Oh! When was this?’

‘The first time was when Bonaparte tried to crush the Slave Revolt. The main effort was in Haiti, of course, but as a side-issue Le Clerc sent a regiment to San Fernandez to stifle the slave rebellion here. The regiment landed without difficulty and marched inland with no great opposition. Then it marched up there — and never came out.’

‘What happened to it?’

Wyatt shrugged. ‘Ambushes — snipers — fever — exhaustion. White men couldn’t live up there, but the blacks could. But it swallowed another army — a black one this time — not very long ago. Serrurier tried to bring Favel to open battle by sending in three battalions of the army. They never came out, either; they were on Favel’s home ground.’

Julie looked up at the sun-soaked hills and shivered. ‘The more I hear of the history of San Fernandez, the more it terrifies me.’

Wyatt said, ‘We West Indians laugh when you Americans and the Europeans think the Antilles are a tropical paradise. Why do you suppose New York is flooded with Puerto Ricans and London with Jamaicans? They are the true centres of paradise today. The Caribbean is rotten with poverty and strife and not only San Fernandez, although it’s just about as bad here as it can get.’ He broke off and laughed embarrassedly. ‘I was forgetting you said you would come here to live — I’m not giving the place much of a build-up, am I?’ He was silent for a few minutes, then said thoughtfully, ‘What you said about doing research in the States makes sense, after all.’

‘No, Dave,’ said Julie quietly. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t begin our lives together by breaking up your job — it wouldn’t be any good for either of us. We’ll make our home here in San Fernandez and we’ll be very happy.’ She smiled. ‘And how long do I have to wait before I have my swim?’

Wyatt started the car and drove off again. The country changed as they went higher to go over the shoulder of the mountains, plantations giving way to thick tangled green scrub broken only by an occasional clearing occupied by a ramshackle hut. Once a long snake slithered through the dust in front of the slowly moving car and Julie gave a sharp cry of disgust.

‘This is a faint shadow of what it’s like up in the mountains,’ observed Wyatt. ‘But there are no roads up there.’

Suddenly he pulled the car to a halt and stared at a hut by the side of the road. Julie also looked at it but could see nothing unusual — it was merely another of the windowless shacks made of rammed earth and with a roughly thatched roof. Near the hut a man was pounding a stake into the hard ground.

Wyatt said, ‘Excuse me, Julie — I’d like to talk to that man.’

He got out of the car and walked over to the hut to look at the roof. It was covered by a network of cords made from the local sisal. From the net hung longer cords, three of which were attached to stakes driven into the ground. He went round the hut twice, then looked thoughtfully at the man who had not ceased his slow pounding with the big hammer. Formulating his phrases carefully in the barbarous French these people used, he said, ‘Man, what are you doing?’

The man looked up, his black face shiny with sweat. He was old, but how old Wyatt could not tell — it was difficult with these people. He looked to be about seventy years of age, but was probably about fifty. ‘Blanc, I make my house safe.’

Wyatt produced a pack of cigarettes and flicked one out. ‘It is hard work making your house safe,’ he said carefully.

The man balanced the hammer on its head and took the cigarette which Wyatt offered. He bent his head to the match and, sucking the smoke into his lungs, said, ‘Very hard work, blanc, but it must be done.’ He examined the cigarette. ‘American — very good.’

Wyatt lit his own cigarette and turned to survey the hut. ‘The roof must not come off,’ he agreed. ‘A house with no roof is like a man with no woman — incomplete. Do you have a woman?’

The man nodded and puffed on his cigarette.

‘I do not see her,’ Wyatt persisted.

The man blew a cloud of smoke into the air, then looked at Wyatt with blood-flecked brown eyes. ‘She has gone visiting, blanc.’

‘With all the children?’ said Wyatt quietly.

‘Yes, blanc.’

‘And you fasten the roof of your house.’ Wyatt tapped his foot. ‘You must fear greatly.’

The man’s eyes slid away and he shuffled his feet. ‘It is a time to be afraid. No man can fight what is to come.’

‘The big wind?’ asked Wyatt softly.

The man looked up in surprise. ‘Of course, blanc, what else?’ He struck his hands together smartly and let them fly up into the air. ‘When the big wind comes — li tomber boum.’

Wyatt nodded. ‘Of course. You do right to make sure of the roof of your house.’ He paused. ‘How do you know that the wind comes?’

The man’s bare feet scuffled in the hot dust and he looked away. ‘I know,’ he mumbled. ‘I know.’

Wyatt knew better than to persist in that line of questioning — he had tried before. He said, ‘When does the wind come?’

The man looked at the cloudless blue sky, then stopped and picked up a handful of dust which he dribbled from his fingers. ‘Two days,’ he said. ‘Maybe three days. Not longer.’

Wyatt was startled by the accuracy of this prediction. If Mabel were to strike San Fernandez at all then those were the time limits, and yet how could this ignorant old man know? He said matter-of-factly, ‘You have sent your woman and children away.’

‘There is a cave in the hills,’ the man said. ‘When I finish this, I go too.’

Wyatt looked at the hut. ‘When you go, leave the door open,’ he said. ‘The wind does not like closed doors.’

‘Of course,’ agreed the man. ‘A closed door is inhospitable.’ He looked at Wyatt with a glint of humour in his eyes. ‘There may be another wind, blanc, perhaps worse than the hurricane. Favel is coming down from the mountains.’

‘But Favel is dead.’

The man shrugged. ‘Favel is coming down from the mountains,’ he repeated, and swung the hammer again at the top of the stake.

Wyatt walked back to the car and got into the driving seat.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Julie.

‘He says there’s a big wind coming so he’s tying down the roof of his house. When the big wind comes — li tomber boum.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘A very free translation is that everything is going to come down with a hell of a smash.’ Wyatt looked across at the hut and at the man toiling patiently in the hot sun. ‘He knows enough to leave his door open, too — but I doubt if I could tell you why.’ He turned to Julie. ‘I’m sorry, Julie, but I’d like to get back to the Base. There’s something I must check.’

‘Of course,’ said Julie. ‘You must do what you must.’

He turned the car round in the clearing and they went down the road. Julie said, ‘Harry Hansen told me you were worried about Mabel. Has this anything to do with it?’

He said, ‘It’s against all reason, of course. It’s against everything I’ve been taught, but I think we’re going to get slammed. I think Mabel is going to hit San Fernandez.’ He laughed wryly. ‘Now I’ve got to convince Schelling.’

‘Don’t you think he’ll believe you?’

‘What evidence can I give him? A sinking feeling in my guts? An ignorant old man tying on his roof? Schelling wants hard facts — pressure gradients, adiabatic rates — figures he can measure and check in the textbooks. I doubt if I’ll be able to do it. But I’ve got to. St Pierre is in no better condition to resist a hurricane than it was in 1910. You’ve seen the shanty town that’s sprung up outside — how long do you suppose those shacks would resist a big wind? And the population has gone up — it’s now 60,000. A hurricane hitting now would be a disaster too frightening to contemplate.’

Unconsciously he had increased pressure on the accelerator and he slithered round a corner with tyres squealing in protest. Julie said, ‘You won’t make things better by getting yourself killed going down this hill.’

He slowed down. ‘Sorry, Julie; I suppose I’m a bit worked up.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s the fact that I’m helpless that worries me.’

She said thoughtfully, ‘Couldn’t you fake your figures or something so that Commodore Brooks would have to take notice? If the hurricane didn’t come you’d be ruined professionally — but I think you’d be willing to take that chance.’

‘If I thought it would work I’d do it,’ said Wyatt grimly. ‘But Schelling would see through it; he may be stupid but he’s not a damn’ fool and he knows his job from that angle. It can’t be done that way.’

‘Then what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’

III

He dropped Julie at the Imperiale and headed back to the Base at top speed. He saw many soldiers in the streets of St Pierre but the fact did not impinge on his consciousness because he was busy thinking out a way to handle Schelling. When he arrived at the main gate of the Base he had still not thought of a way.

He was stopped at the gateway by a marine in full battle kit who gestured with a submachine-gun. ‘Out, buddy!’

‘What the devil’s going on?’

The marine’s lips tightened. ‘I said, “out”.’

Wyatt opened the door and got out of the car, noticing that the marine backed away from him. He looked up and saw that the towers by the gateway were fully manned and that the ugly snouts of machine-guns covered his car.

The marine said, ‘Who are you, buster?’

‘I’m in the Meteorological Section,’ said Wyatt. ‘What damned nonsense is all this?’

‘Prove it,’ said the marine flatly. He lifted the gun sharply as Wyatt made to put his hand to his breast pocket. ‘Whatever you’re pulling out, do it real slow.’

Slowly Wyatt pulled out his wallet and offered it. ‘You’ll find identification inside.’

The marine made no attempt to come closer. ‘Throw it down.’

Wyatt tossed the wallet to the ground, and the marine said, ‘Now back off.’ Wyatt slowly backed away and the marine stepped forward and picked up the wallet, keeping a wary eye on him. He flicked it open and examined the contents, then waved to the men in the tower. He held out the wallet and said, ‘You seem to be in the clear, Mr Wyatt.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Wyatt angrily.

The marine cradled the submachine-gun in his arms and stepped closer. ‘The brass have decided to hold security exercises, Mr Wyatt. I gotta go through the motions — the Lieutenant is watching me.’

Wyatt snorted and got into his car. The marine leaned against the door and said, ‘I wouldn’t go too fast through the gate, Mr Wyatt; those guns up there are loaded for real.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Someone’s gonna get killed on this exercise for sure.’

‘It won’t be me,’ Wyatt promised.

The marine grinned and for the first time an expression of enthusiasm showed. ‘Maybe the Lieutenant will get shot in the butt.’ He drew back and waved Wyatt on.

As Wyatt drove through the Base to his office he saw that it was an armed camp. All the gun emplacements were manned and all the men in full battle kit. Trucks roared through the streets and, near the Met. Office, a rank of armoured cars were standing by with engines ticking over. For a moment he thought of what the old man had said — Favel is coming down from the mountains. He shook his head irritably.

The first thing he did in his office was to pick up the telephone and ring the clearing office. ‘What’s the latest on Mabel?’

‘Who? Oh — Mabel! We’ve got the latest shots from Tiros; they came in half an hour ago.’

‘Shoot them across to me.’

‘Sorry, we can’t,’ said the tinny voice. ‘All the messengers are tied up in this exercise.’

‘I’ll come across myself,’ said Wyatt, and slammed down the phone, fuming at the delay. He drove to the clearing office, picked up the photographs and drove back, then settled down at his desk to examine them.

After nearly an hour he had come to no firm conclusion. Mabel was moving along a little faster — eleven miles an hour — and was on her predicted course. She would approach San Fernandez no nearer than to give the island a flick of her tail — a few hours of strong breezes and heavy rain. That was what theory said.

He pondered what to do next. He had no great faith in the theory that Schelling swore by. He had seen too many hurricanes swerve on unpredictable courses, too many islands swept bare when theory said the hurricane should pass them by. And he was West Indian — just as much West Indian as the old black man up near St Michel who was guarding his house against the big wind. They had a common feeling about this hurricane; a distrust which evidenced itself in deep uneasiness. Wyatt’s people had been in the Islands a mere four hundred years, but the black man had Carib Indian in his ancestry who had worshipped at the shrine of Hunraken, the Storm God. He had enough faith in his feelings to take positive steps, and Wyatt felt he could do no less, despite the fact that he could not prove this thing in the way he had been trained.

He felt despondent as he went to see Schelling.

Schelling was apparently busy, but then, he always was apparently busy. He raised his head as Wyatt entered his office, and said, ‘I thought you had a free afternoon.’

‘I came back to check on Mabel,’ said Wyatt. ‘She’s speeded up.’

‘Oh!’ said Schelling. He put down his pen and pushed the form-pad away. ‘What’s her speed now?’

‘She’s covered a hundred miles in the last nine hours — about eleven miles an hour. She started at eight — remember?’ Wyatt thought this was the way to get at Schelling — to communicate some unease to him, to make him remember that his prediction sent to the Weather Bureau was now at variance with the facts. He said deliberately, ‘At her present speed she’ll hit the Atlantic Coast in about six days; but I think she’ll speed up even more. Her present speed is still under the average.’

Schelling looked down at the desk-top thoughtfully. ‘And how’s her course?’

This was the tricky one. ‘As predicted,’ said Wyatt carefully. ‘She could change, of course — many have.’

‘We’d better cover ourselves,’ said Schelling. ‘I’ll send a signal to the Weather Bureau; they’ll sit on it for a couple of days and then announce the Hurricane Watch in the South-Eastern States. Of course, a lot will depend on what she does in the next two days, but they’ll know we’re on the ball down here.’

Wyatt sat down uninvited. He said, ‘What about the Islands?’

‘They’ll get the warning,’ said Schelling. ‘Just as usual. Where exactly is Mabel now?’

‘She slipped in between Grenada and Tobago,’ said Wyatt. ‘She gave them a bad time according to the reports I’ve just been reading, but nothing too serious. She’s just north of Los Testigos right now.’ He paused. ‘If she keeps on her present course she’ll go across Yucatan and into Mexico and Texas just like Janet and Hilda did in 1955.’

‘She won’t do that,’ said Schelling irritably. ‘She’ll curve to the north.’

‘Janet and Hilda didn’t,’ pointed out Wyatt. ‘And supposing she does curve to the north as she’s supposed to do. She only has to swing a little more than theory predicts and we’ll have her right on our doorstep.’

Schelling looked up. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that Mabel might hit San Fernandez?’

‘That’s right,’ said Wyatt. ‘Have you issued a local warning?’

Schelling’s eyes flickered. ‘No, I haven’t. I don’t think it necessary.’

‘You don’t think it necessary? I would have thought the example of 1910 would have made it very necessary.’

Schelling snorted. ‘You know what the government of this comic opera island is like. We tell them — they do precisely nothing. They’ve never found it necessary to establish a hurricane warning system — that would be money right out of Serrurier’s own pocket. Can you see him doing it? If I warn them, what difference would it make?’

‘You’d get it on record,’ said Wyatt, playing on Schelling’s weakness.

‘There is that,’ said Schelling thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. ‘It’s always been difficult to know whom to report to. We have told Descaix, the Minister for Island Affairs, in the past, but Serrurier has now taken that job on himself — and telling Serrurier anything is never easy, you know that.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘He fired Descaix yesterday — you know what that means. Descaix is either dead or in Rambeau Castle wishing he were dead.’

Wyatt frowned. So Descaix, the chief of the Security Force, was gone — swept away in one of Serrurier’s sudden passions of house-cleaning. But Descaix had been his right arm; something very serious must have happened for him to have fallen from power. Favel is coming dawn from the mountains. Wyatt shook the thought from him — what had this to do with the violence of hurricanes?

‘You’d better tell Serrurier, then,’ he said.

Schelling smiled thinly. ‘I doubt if Serrurier is in any mood to listen to anything he doesn’t want to hear right now.’ He tapped on the desk. ‘But I’ll tell someone in the Palace — just for the record.’

‘You’ve told Commodore Brooks, of course,’ said Wyatt idly.

‘Er... he knows about Mabel... yes.’

‘He knows all about Mabel?’ asked Wyatt sharply. ‘The type of hurricane she is?’

‘I’ve given him the usual routine reports,’ said Schelling stiffly. He leaned forward. ‘Look here, Wyatt, you seem to have an obsession about this particular hurricane. Now, if you have anything to say about it — and I want facts — lay it on the line right now. If you haven’t any concrete evidence, then for God’s sake shut up and get on with your job.’

‘You’ve given Brooks “routine” reports,’ repeated Wyatt softly. ‘Schelling, I want to see the Commodore.’

‘Commodore Brooks — like Serrurier — has no time at the present to listen to weather forecasts.’

Wyatt stood up. ‘I’m going to see Commodore Brooks,’ he said obstinately.

Schelling was shocked. ‘You mean you’d go over my head?’

‘I’m going to see Brooks,’ repeated Wyatt grimly. ‘With you or without you.’

He waited for the affronted outburst and for a moment he thought Schelling was going to explode, but he merely said abruptly, ‘Very well, I’ll arrange an appointment with the Commodore. You’d better wait in your office until you’re called — it may take some time.’ He smiled grimly. ‘You’re not going to make yourself popular, you know.’

‘I haven’t entered a popularity contest,’ said Wyatt evenly. He turned and walked out of Schelling’s office, puzzled as to why Schelling should have given in so easily. Then he chuckled bleakly. The reports that Schelling had given Brooks must have been very skimpy, and Schelling couldn’t afford to let him see Brooks without getting in his version first. He was probably with Brooks now, spinning him the yarn.

The call did not come for over an hour and a half and he spent the time compiling some interesting statistics for Commodore Brooks — a weak staff to lean on but all he had, apart from the powerful feeling in his gut that disaster was impending. Brooks would not be interested in his emotions and intuitions.

Brooks’s office was the calm centre of a storm. Wyatt had to wait for a few minutes in one of the outer offices and saw the organized chaos that afflicts even the most efficient organization in a crisis, and he wondered if this was just another exercise. But Brooks’s office, when he finally got there, was calm and peaceful; Brooks’s desk was clean, a vast expanse of polished teak unmarred by a single paper, and the Commodore sat behind it, trim and neat, regarding Wyatt with a stony, but neutral, stare. Schelling stood to one side, his hands behind his back as though he had just been ordered to the stand-easy position.

Brooks said in a level voice, ‘I have just heard that there is a technical disputation going on among the Meteorological Staff. Perhaps you will give me your views, Mr Wyatt.’

‘We’ve got a hurricane, sir,’ said Wyatt. ‘A really bad one. I think there’s a strong possibility she may hit San Fernandez. Commander Schelling, I think, disagrees.’

‘I have just heard Commander Schelling’s views,’ said Brooks, confirming the suspicions Wyatt had been entertaining. ‘What I would like to hear are your findings. I would point out, however, that pending the facts you are about to give me, I consider the possibility of a hurricane hitting this island to be very remote. The last one, I believe, was in 1910.’

It was evident that he had been given a quick briefing by Schelling.

Wyatt said, ‘That’s right, sir. The death-roll on that occasion was 6,000.’

Brooks’s eyebrows rose. ‘As many as that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Continue, Mr Wyatt.’

Wyatt gave a quick résumé of events since Mabel had been discovered and probed. He said, ‘All the evidence shows that Mabel is a particularly bad piece of weather; the pressure gradient is exceptional and the winds generated are remarkably strong. Lieutenant-Commander Hansen said it was the worst weather he had ever flown in.’

Brooks inclined his head. ‘Granted that it is a bad hurricane, what evidence have you got that it is going to hit this island? I believe you said that there is a “strong possibility”; I would want more than that, Mr Wyatt — I would want something more in the nature of a probability.’

‘I’ve produced some figures,’ said Wyatt, laying a sheaf of papers on the immaculate desk. ‘I believe that Commander Schelling is relying on standard theory when he states that Mabel will not come here. He is, quite properly, taking into account the forces that we know act on tropical revolving storms. My contention is that we don’t know enough to take chances.’

He spread the papers on the desk. ‘I have taken an abstract of information from my records of all the hurricanes of which I have had personal knowledge during the four years I have been here — that would be about three-quarters of those occurring in the Caribbean in that time. I have checked the number of times a hurricane has departed from the path which strict theory dictates and I find that forty-five per cent of the hurricanes have done so, in major and minor ways. To be quite honest about it I prepared another sheet presenting the same information, but confining the study to hurricanes conforming to the characteristics of Mabel. That is, of the same age, emanating from the same area, and so on. I find there is a thirty per cent chance of Mabel diverging from the theoretical path enough to hit San Fernandez.’

He slid the papers across the desk but Brooks pushed them back. ‘I believe you, Mr Wyatt,’ he said quietly. ‘Commander, what do you say to this?’

Schelling said, ‘I think statistics presented in this way can be misused — misinterpreted. I am quite prepared to believe Mr Wyatt’s figures, but not his reasoning. He says there is a thirty per cent chance of Mabel diverging from her path, and I accept it, but that is not to say that if she diverges she will hit San Fernandez. After all, she could go the other way.’

‘Mr Wyatt?’

Wyatt nodded. ‘That’s right, of course; but I don’t like it.’

Brooks put his hands together. ‘What it boils down to is this: the risk of Mabel hitting us is somewhere between vanishing point and thirty per cent., but even assuming that the worst happens, it’s still only a thirty per cent risk. Would that be putting it fairly, Mr Wyatt?’

Wyatt swallowed. ‘Yes, sir. But I would like to point out one or two things that I think are pertinent. There was a hurricane that hit Galveston in 1900 and another that hit here in 1910; the high death-roll in each case was due to the same phenomena — floods.’

‘From the high rainfall?’

‘No, sir; from the construction of a hurricane and from geographical peculiarities.’

He stopped for a moment and Brooks, said, ‘Go on, Mr Wyatt. I’m sure the Commander will correct you if you happen to err in your facts.’

Wyatt said, ‘The air pressure in the centre of a hurricane drops a lot; this release of pressure on the surface of the sea induces the water to lift in a hump, perhaps ten feet in a normal hurricane. Mabel is not a normal hurricane; her internal air pressure is very low and I would expect the sea level at her centre to rise to twenty feet above normal — perhaps as much as twenty-five feet.’

He turned and pointed through the window. ‘If Mabel hits us she’ll be coming from due south right into the bay. It’s a shallow bay and we know what happens when a tidal wave hits shallow water — it builds up. You can expect flood waters to a height of over fifty feet in Santego Bay. The highest point on Cap Sarrat is, I believe, forty-five feet. You’d get a solid wall of water right over this Base. They had to rebuild the Base in 1910 — luckily there wasn’t much to rebuild because the Base hadn’t really got going then.’

He looked at Brooks, who said softly, ‘Go on, Mr Wyatt. I can see you haven’t finished yet.’

‘I haven’t, sir. There’s St Pierre. In 1910 half the population was wiped out — if that happened now you could count on thirty thousand deaths. Most of the town is no higher than Cap Sarrat, and they’re no more prepared for a hurricane and floods than they were in 1910.’

Brooks twitched his eyes towards Schelling. ‘Well, Commander, can you find fault with anything Mr Wyatt has said?’

Schelling said unwillingly, ‘He’s quite correct — theoretically. But all this depends on the accuracy of the readings brought back from Mabel by Mr Wyatt and Lieutenant-Commander Hansen.’

Brooks nodded. ‘Yes, I think we ought to have another look at Mabel. Commander, will you see to it? I want a plane sent off right away with the best pilot you’ve got.’

Wyatt said immediately, ‘Not Hansen — he’s had enough of Mabel.’

‘I agree,’ said Schelling just as quickly. ‘I want a different flight crew and a different technical staff.’

Wyatt stiffened. ‘That remark is a reflection on my professional integrity,’ he said coldly.

Brooks slammed the palm of his hand on the desk with the noise of a pistol shot. ‘It is nothing of the kind,’ he rasped. ‘There’s a difference of opinion between the doctors and I want a third opinion. Is that quite clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Wyatt.

‘Commander, what are you waiting around for? Get that flight organized.’ Brooks watched Schelling leave, and as Wyatt visibly hesitated he said, ‘Stay here, Mr Wyatt, I want to talk to you.’ He tented his fingers and regarded Wyatt closely. ‘What would you have me do, Mr Wyatt? What would you do in my position?’

‘I’d get my ships out to sea,’ said Wyatt promptly, ‘loaded with all the Base personnel. I’d fly all aircraft to Puerto Rico. I’d do my damnedest to convince President Serrurier of the gravity of the situation. You should also evacuate all American nationals, and as many foreign nationals as you can.’

‘You make it sound easy,’ observed Brooks.

‘You have two days.’

Brooks sighed. ‘It would be easy if that’s all there were to it. But a military emergency has arisen. I believe a civil war is going to break out between insurgents from the mountains and the government. That’s why this Base is now in an official state of emergency and all American personnel confined to Base. In fact, I have just signed a directive asking all American nationals to come to Cap Sarrat for safety.’

‘Favel is coming down from the mountains,’ said Wyatt involuntarily.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s what I heard. Favel is coming down from the mountains.’

Brooks nodded. ‘That may well be. He may not be dead. President Serrurier has accused the American Government of supplying the rebels with arms. He’s a pretty hard man to talk to right now, and I doubt if he’d listen to me chitchatting about the weather.’

‘Did the American Government supply the rebels with arms?’ asked Wyatt deliberately.

Brooks bristled and jerked. ‘Definitely not! It has been our declared policy, explicitly and implicitly, not to interfere with local affairs on San Fernandez. I have strict instructions from my superiors on that matter.’ He looked down at the backs of his hands and growled, ‘When they sent in the Marines in that affair of the Dominican Republic it set back our South American diplomatic efforts ten years — we don’t want that to happen again.’

He suddenly seemed to be aware that he was being indiscreet and tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘With regard to the evacuation of this Base: I have decided to stay. The chance of a hurricane striking this island is, on your own evidence, only thirty per cent at the worst. That sort of a risk I can live with, and I feel I cannot abandon this Base when there is a threat of war on this island.’ He smiled gently. ‘I don’t usually expound this way to my subordinates — still less to foreign nationals — but I wish to do the right thing for all concerned, and I also wish to use you. I wish you to deliver a letter to Mr Rawsthorne, the British Consul in St Pierre, in which I am advising him of the position I am taking and inviting any British nationals on San Fernandez to take advantage of the security of this Base. It will be ready in fifteen minutes.’

‘I’ll take the letter,’ said Wyatt.

Brooks nodded. ‘About this hurricane — Serrurier may listen to the British. Perhaps you can do something through Rawsthorne.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Wyatt.

‘Another thing,’ said Brooks. ‘In any large organization methods become rigid and channels narrow. There arises a tendency on the part of individuals to hesitate in pressing unpleasant issues. Awkward corners spoil the set of the common coat we wear. I am indebted to you for bringing this matter to my attention.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Brooks’s voice was tinged with irony. ‘Commander Schelling is a reliable officer — I know precisely what to expect of him. I trust you will not feel any difficulty in working with him in the future.’

‘I don’t think I will.’

‘Thank you, Mr Wyatt; that will be all. I’ll have the letter for Mr Rawsthorne delivered to your office.’

As Wyatt went back to his own office he felt deep admiration for Brooks. The man was on the horns of a dilemma and had elected to take a calculated risk. To abandon the Base and leave it to the anti-American Serrurier would certainly incur the wrath of his superiors — once Serrurier was in it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get him out. On the other hand, the hurricane was a very real danger and Boards of Inquiry have never been noted for mercy towards naval officers who have pleaded natural disasters as a mitigation. The Base could be lost either way, and Brooks had to make a cold-blooded and necessary decision.

Unhappily, Wyatt felt that Brooks had made the wrong decision.

IV

Under an hour later he was driving through the streets of St Pierre heading towards the dock area where Rawsthorne had his home and his office. The streets were unusually quiet in the fading light and the market, usually a brawl of activity, was closed. There were no soldiers about, but many police moved about in compact squads of four. Not that they had much to do, because the entire town seemed to have gone into hiding behind locked doors and bolted shutters.

Rawsthorne’s place was also locked up solid and was only distinguishable from the others by the limp Union Jack which someone had hung from an upper window. Wyatt hammered on the door and it was a long time before a tentative voice said, ‘Who’s that?’

‘My name’s Wyatt — I’m English. Let me in.’

Bolts slid aside and the door opened a crack, then swung wider. ‘Come in, come in, man! This is no time to be on the streets.’

Wyatt had met Rawsthorne once when he visited the Base. He was a short, stout man who could have been type-cast as Pickwick, and was one of the two English merchants on San Fernandez. His official duties as British Consul gave him the minimum of trouble since there was only a scattering of British on the island, and his principal consular efforts were directed to bailing the occasional drunken seaman out of gaol and half-hearted attempts to distribute the literature on Cotswold villages and Morris dancing which was sent to him by the British Council in an effort to promote the British Way of Life.

He now put his head on one side and peered at Wyatt in the gloom of the narrow entrance. ‘Don’t I know you?’

‘We met at Cap Sarrat,’ said Wyatt. ‘I work there.’

‘Of course; you’re the weatherman on loan from the Meteorological Office — I remember.’

‘I’ve got a letter from Commodore Brooks.’ Wyatt produced the envelope.

‘Come into my office,’ said Rawsthorne, and led him into a musty, Dickensian room dark with nineteenth-century furniture. A portrait of the Queen gazed across at the Duke of Edinburgh hung on the opposite wall. Rawsthorne slit open the envelope and said, ‘I wonder why Commodore Brooks didn’t telephone as he usually does.’

Wyatt smiled crookedly. ‘He trusts the security of the Base but not that of the outside telephone lines.’

‘Very wise,’ said Rawsthorne, and peered at the letter. After a while he said, ‘That’s most handsome of the Commodore to offer us the hospitality of the Base — not that there are many of us.’ He tapped the letter. ‘He tells me that you have qualms about a hurricane. My dear sir, we haven’t had a hurricane here since 1910.’

‘So everyone insists on telling me,’ said Wyatt bitterly. ‘Mr Rawsthorne, have you ever broken your arm?’

Rawsthorne was taken aback. He spluttered a little, then said, ‘As a matter of fact, I have — when I was a boy.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Nearly fifty years — but I don’t see...’

Wyatt said, ‘Does the fact that it is nearly fifty years since you broke your arm mean that you couldn’t break it again tomorrow?’

Rawsthorne was silent for a moment. ‘You have made your point, young man. I take it you are serious about this hurricane?’

‘I am,’ said Wyatt with all the conviction he could muster.

‘Commodore Brooks is a very honest man,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘He tells me here that, if you are right, the Base will not be the safest place on San Fernandez. He advises me to take that into account in any decision I might make.’ He looked at Wyatt keenly. ‘I think you had better tell me all about your hurricane.’

So Wyatt went through it again, with Rawsthorne showing a niggling appreciation of detail and asking some unexpectedly penetrating questions. When Wyatt ran dry he said, ‘So what we have is this — there is a thirty per cent chance at worst of this hurricane — so grotesquely named Mabel — coming here. That is on your figures. Then there is your over-powering conviction that it will come, and I do not think we should neglect that. No, indeed! I have a very great regard for intuition. So what do we do now, Mr Wyatt?’

‘Commodore Brooks suggested that we might see Serrurier. He thought he might accept it from a British source when he wouldn’t take it from an American.’

Rawsthorne nodded. ‘That might very well be the case.’ But he shook his head. ‘It will be difficult seeing him, you know. He is not the easiest man to see at the best of times, and in the present circumstances...’

‘We can try,’ said Wyatt stubbornly.

‘Indeed we can,’ Rawsthorne said briskly. ‘And we must.’ He looked at Wyatt with brightly intelligent eyes. ‘You are a very convincing young man, Mr Wyatt. Let us go immediately. What decisions I make regarding the safety of British nationals must inevitably depend on what Serrurier will do.’

The Presidential Palace was ringed with troops. Fully two battalions were camped in the grounds and the darkness was a-twinkle with their camp-fires. Twice the car was stopped and each time Rawsthorne talked their way through. At last they came to the final hurdle — the guard-room at the main entrance.

‘I wish to see M. Hippolyte, the Chief of Protocol,’ Rawsthorne announced to the young officer who barred their way.

‘But does M. Hippolyte want to see you?’ asked the officer insolently, teeth flashing in his black face.

‘I am the British Consul,’ said Rawsthorne firmly. ‘And if I do not see M. Hippolyte immediately he will be very displeased.’ He paused, then added as though in afterthought, ‘So will President Serrurier.’

The grin disappeared from the officer’s face at the mention of Serrurier and he hesitated uncertainly. ‘Wait here,’ he said harshly and went inside the palace.

Wyatt eyed the heavily armed troops who surrounded them, and said to Rawsthorne, ‘Why Hippolyte?’

‘He’s our best bet of getting to see Serrurier. He’s big enough to have Serrurier’s ear and small enough for me to frighten — just as I frightened that insolent young pup.’

The ‘insolent young pup’ came back. ‘All right; you can see M. Hippolyte.’ He made a curt gesture to the soldiers. ‘Search them.’

Wyatt found himself pawed by ungentle black hands. He submitted to the indignity and was then roughly pushed forward through the doorway with Rawsthorne clattering at his heels. ‘I’ll make Hippolyte suffer for this,’ said Rawsthorne through his teeth. ‘I’ll give him protocol.’ He glanced up at Wyatt. ‘He speaks English so I can really get my insults home.’

‘Forget it,’ said Wyatt tightly. ‘Our object is to see Serrurier.’

Hippolyte’s office was large with a lofty ceiling and elaborate mouldings. Hippolyte himself rose to greet them from behind a beautiful eighteenth-century desk and came forward with outstretched hands. ‘Ah, Mr Rawsthorne; what brings you here at a time like this — and at such a late hour?’ His voice was pure Oxford.

Rawsthorne swallowed the insults he was itching to deliver and said stiffly, ‘I wish to see President Serrurier.’

Hippolyte’s face fell. ‘I am afraid that is impossible. You must know, Mr Rawsthorne, that you come at a most in-opportune time.’

Rawsthorne drew himself up to the most of his insignificant height and Wyatt could almost see him clothing himself in the full awe of British majesty. ‘I am here to deliver an official message from Her Britannic Majesty’s Government,’ he said pompously. ‘The message is to be delivered to President Serrurier in person. I rather think he will be somewhat annoyed if he does not get it.’

Hippolyte’s expression became less pleasant. ‘President Serrurier is... in conference. He cannot be disturbed.’

‘Am I to report back to my Government that President Serrurier does not wish to receive their message?’

Hippolyte sweated slightly. ‘I would not go so far as to say that, Mr Rawsthorne.’

‘Neither would I,’ said Rawsthorne with a pleasant smile. ‘But I would say that the President should be allowed to make up his own mind on this issue. I shouldn’t think he would like other people acting in his name — not at all. Why don’t you ask him if he’s willing to see me?’

‘Perhaps that would be best,’ agreed Hippolyte unwillingly. ‘Could you tell me at least the... er... subject-matter of your communication?’

‘I could not,’ said Rawsthorne severely. ‘It’s a Matter of State.’

‘All right,’ said Hippolyte. ‘I will ask the President. If you would wait here...’ His voice tailed off and he backed out of the room.

Wyatt glanced at Rawsthorne. ‘Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?’

Rawsthorne mopped his brow. ‘If this gets back to Whitehall I’ll be out of a job — but it’s the only way to handle Hippolyte. The man’s in a muck sweat — you saw that. He’s afraid to break in on Serrurier and he’s even more afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t. That’s the trouble with the tyranny of one-man rule; the dictator surrounds himself with bags of jelly like Hippolyte.’

‘Do you think he’ll see us?’

‘I should think so,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘I think I’ve roused his curiosity.’

Hippolyte came back fifteen minutes later. ‘The President will see you. Please come this way.’

They followed him along an ornate corridor for what seemed a full half mile before he stopped outside a door. ‘The President is naturally... disturbed about the present critical situation,’ he said. ‘Please do not take it amiss if he is a little... er... short-tempered, let us say.’

Rawsthorne guessed that Hippolyte had recently felt the edge of Serrurier’s temper and decided to twist the knife. ‘He’ll be even more short-tempered when I tell him how we were treated on our arrival here,’ he said shortly. ‘Never have I heard of the official representative of a foreign power being searched like a common criminal.’

Hippolyte’s sweat-shiny face paled to a dirty grey and he began to say something, but Rawsthorne ignored him, pushed open the door and walked into the room with Wyatt close behind. It was a huge room, sparsely furnished, but in the same over-ornate style as the rest of the palace. A trestle-table had been set up at the far end round which a number of uniformed men were grouped. An argument seemed to be in progress, for a small man with his back to them pounded on the table and shouted, ‘You will find them, General; find them and smash them.’

Rawsthorne said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘That’s Serrurier — with the Army Staff — Deruelles, Lescuyer, Rocambeau.’

One of the soldiers muttered something to Serrurier and he swung round. ‘Ah, Rawsthorne, you wanted to tell me something?’

‘Come on,’ said Rawsthorne, and strode up the length of the room.

Serrurier leaned on the edge of the table which was covered with maps. He was a small, almost insignificant man with hunched shoulders and hollow chest. He had brown chimpanzee eyes which seemed to plead for understanding, as though he could not comprehend why anyone should hate or even dislike him. But his voice was harsh with the timbre of a man who understood power and how to command it.

He rubbed his chin and said, ‘You come at a strange time. Who is the ti blanc?’

‘A British scientist, Your Excellency.’

Serrurier shrugged and visibly wiped Wyatt from the list of people he would care to know. ‘And what does the British Government want with me — or from me?’

‘I have been instructed to bring you something,’ said Rawsthorne.

Serrurier grunted. ‘What?’

‘Valuable information, Your Excellency. Mr Wyatt is a weather expert — he brings news of an approaching hurricane — a dangerous one.’

Serrurier’s jaw dropped. ‘You come here at this time to talk about the weather?’ he asked incredulously. ‘At a time when war is imminent you wish to waste my time with weather forecasting?’ He picked up a map from the table and crumpled it in a black fist, shaking it under Raws-thorne’s nose. ‘I thought you were bringing news of Favel. Favel! Favel — do you understand? He is all that I am interested in.’

‘Your Excellency—’ began Rawsthorne.

Serrurier said in a grating voice, ‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez — everyone knows that.’

‘You had one in 1910,’ said Wyatt.

‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,’ repeated Serrurier, staring at Wyatt. He suddenly lost his temper. ‘Hippolyte! Hippolyte, where the devil are you? Show these fools out.’

‘But Your Excellency—’ began Rawsthorne again.

‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,’ screamed Serrurier. ‘Are you deaf, Rawsthorne? Hippolyte, get them out of my sight.’ He leaned against the table, breathing heavily. ‘And, Hippolyte, I’ll deal with you later,’ he added menacingly.

Wyatt found Hippolyte plucking pleadingly at his coat, and glanced at Rawsthorne. ‘Come on,’ said Rawsthorne bleakly. ‘We’ve delivered our message as well as we’re able.’

He walked with steady dignity down the long room, and after a moment’s hesitation Wyatt followed, hearing Serrurier’s hysterical scream as he left. ‘Do you understand, Mr British Scientist? We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez!’

Outside, Hippolyte became vindictive. He considered Rawsthorne had made a fool of him and he feared the retribution of Serrurier. He called a squad of soldiers and Wyatt and Rawsthorne found themselves brutally hustled from the palace to be literally thrown out of the front door.

Rawsthorne examined a tear in his coat. ‘I thought it might be like that,’ he said. ‘But we had to try.’

‘He’s mad,’ said Wyatt blankly. ‘He’s stark staring, raving mad.’

‘Of course,’ said Rawsthorne calmly. ‘Didn’t you know? Lord Acton once said that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Serrurier is thoroughly corrupted in the worst possible way — that’s why everyone is so afraid of him. I was beginning to wonder if we’d get out of there.’

Wyatt shook his head as though to clear cobwebs out of his brain. ‘He said, “We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,” as though he has forbidden them by presidential decree.’ There was a baffled look on his face.

‘Let’s get away from here,’ said Rawsthorne with an eye on the surrounding soldiers. ‘Where’s the car?’

‘Over there,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ll take you back to your place — then I must call at the Imperiale.’

There was a low rumble in the distance coming from the mountains. Rawsthorne cocked his head on one side. ‘Thunder,’ he said. ‘Is your hurricane upon us already?’

Wyatt looked up at the moon floating in the cloudless sky. ‘That’s not thunder,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Serrurier has found Favel — or vice versa.’ He looked at Rawsthorne. ‘That’s gunfire.’