The Smog (12 page)

“We have a dozen experimental research laboratories where we are seeking this additive. One of the small research stations was at Sane. Another, at Mountview in Wyoming. Yet another is in Russia in a small town in the Urals—one of the major Russian petrol refining regions where Russia began in all good faith to use
helia.
The degree of concentration in the atmosphere in most parts of the world is increasing at an alarming rate—we know that it is due to the
helia,
we
don't know and have no way of telling at what stage the concentration becomes lethal. Geoffrey Drummond came as close as anyone to finding the additive. Under my instructions he quickened the pace of the research. He believed—we all had reason to believe—that we were near success. On the day of the disaster
he
tried a final experiment—and instead of cancelling out the
helia
it concentrated it to a degree far greater than we had ever known.”

Storr paused; he seemed hardly able to draw breath enough to utter the words, but Costain was so held by the story that he could not speak even to urge the other on.

“Everyone in the village of Sane had been used as an unwitting guinea pig. You lived, worked, breathed in an atmosphere which we believed would immunise you-inoculate, vaccinate, whatever you will—against the effects of the
helia.
”

“You know the absoluteness of the failure,” Storr added bitterly. “But what you do not yet understand is that
you
are the only person alive and well who has become acclimatised to that atmosphere. The Mountview disaster was due to accidental release of
helia,
so was the Russian disaster, but Sane was not accidental in the same sense. Sane was an experiment which went wrong. There is reason to believe that here, in our laboratory in this mountainside, we have discovered what went wrong. The experiments were taking place simultaneously … every step was carried out at the same time and in the same conditions. They must be tried again. The only subject on whom we can carry out the breathing or respiratory tests, the blood tests, all the physical and mental tests, is you.”

Storr paused, and with slowly increasing horror, Costain began to understand the significance of his words.

“I want you to tell Palfrey these things,” Storr went on.

“And I want you to submit yourself to the tests, which may take a week, may even, particularly if they are successful, take longer.”

“Will you, David?”

On this man's lips the question was like a prayer.

Costain moved towards the protecting rail of the patio, looked out, and stared at the scene of breathtaking grandeur. The steam was rising more gently, a few clouds drifted, a few beasts moved.

He turned.

He saw Marion, Griselda, Philip and Harrison in the room beyond and realised that they had been listening.

He had eyes only for Marion as he said: “Of course, I will. It goes without saying. When can we start?”

 

 

Palfrey walked along Piccadilly on a pleasant summer day.

It was the first time he had been out since he had returned from Winchester; the first time he had breathed air which was not air-conditioned since stepping into the Z5 Headquarters. He had an almost peremptory call, in his pocket, from Clitheroe. “
I
would like to see you at once.
”
First the Russians, now the English were behaving as if Z5 belonged to them. This was a new problem, one which he would have to cope with soon.

A pattern of unbelievably white clouds scudded across the deep blue of the sky. A gentle breeze blew across Green Park, sending the petrol and diesel fumes across Piccadilly into the side streets of Mayfair.

London was as lovely as she could be.

The women looked fresh and decorative in summer dresses, with that curiously eager, happy look which Englishwomen have when the day is warm enough for them to wear bright silks and cottons without feeling chill. An attractive woman, very like Joyce, walked towards him. She glanced at him with a gay, innocent invitation as they passed. At another time, on another day, whatever passed for fate might have made them stop and speak. What was there about this woman's eyes which attracted him when Joyce's didn't? The question teased him.

He saw another woman, tall and graceful, wearing a lemon coloured dress with slightly ruffled sleeves and a wide-brimmed hat. She looked in the distance as his wife Drusilla had often looked in their days of deep contentment, so long ago. They passed. He tried to prevent his eyes from nickering towards her but could not. There was some English quality about her, clear-skinned, clear-eyed, with a kind of disdain about her lips; perhaps, aloofness.

They passed.

The one was not like Joyce nor the other like Drusilla; it was his loneliness that had made him think they were.

He saw yet another woman as he turned into the Park, tall and clean-limbed, athletic-looking, sharp featured, and for a moment he thought she was Griselda Kemble. He actually missed a step. She walked past, and he did not think she had even noticed him.

He smiled a little ruefully to himself, his thoughts passing from Griselda to Storr.

He knew exactly where they were. A dozen messages had come in as their aircraft had flown across the northern states of the United States of America. They had actually been pin-pointed on a map, in a valley not far from Yellowstone National Park and the Grand Tetons, country of grandeur and beauty which he had seen twice and could remember with vividness. It was named Pale Valley. There were aerial photographs of several chalets, of a landing strip near a lake, and all the reports from the authorities in America said that the valley was almost inaccessible except by foot or on horseback – and, these days – by air. There was one brief military report.

 

There is only one accessible landing strip and any aircraft using it would be vulnerable from any antiaircraft weapon placed in any position within range.

 

 

There was another:

 

Landing by helicopter would be extremely dangerous since Pale Valley itself, and the mountains surrounding it, is a geyser and hot springs area. Except to those who know the terrain well and can pick their way on hard ground between geyser areas and mud-hole areas, there could be no safety of approach. The earth's crust is extremely thin and brittle in most places in such areas – as in the geyser areas in Yellowstone National Park, which it greatly resembles. A helicopter could land and sink in boiling mud without a trace.

Obviously, this is also true of parachute troops.

Any raid on the Valley will occasion an extremely high proportion of casualties, then, and there are at this juncture no known ways of raiding the valley successfully. Reconnaissance is being maintained unceasingly. Arapahoe indians and trappers and a few white prospectors know some of the trails and contact is being made with them.

No speedy means of entry or take over is likely at any time.

Stephen Storr, who owns the Valley and the whole area, retains some kind of occupancy during the winter and is believed to be prospecting for uranium or other metals. Storr is reputedly the wealthiest …

 

Palfrey did not need any further reminders about Storr; he had to only go over everything he knew in his mind in an almost despairing attempt to see a way in which he could get into the Valley. The fact that he had sent Costain was the ray of light, the one cause for hope – and he could not even be sure that Costain was trustworthy. But he had done the only thing possible, he had no shadow of doubt about its wisdom.

He reached the tall, gilded iron gate, which opened onto the driveway in front of Buckingham Palace. In the beds in front of the Palace gates geraniums glowed in vivid scarlet against the soft, beguiling green. Crowds of sightseers, their cameras loaded and ready, were gathering thickly, for the changing of the guard would soon begin. Traffic, controlled by policemen who already looked too hot, moved very slowly.

Palfrey turned into the Mall, and could not resist looking back, to see the squat solidity of the Palace with the Royal Standard and the Union Jack fluttering as if with remembered proudness. Something about the thought stung him, and he turned and walked more briskly away. He could remember the pride and the glory of Churchill's Britain during and just after the Second World War, and he contrasted it bitterly with the present attitude of standing aside and watching helplessly so much that was going wrong with the nation which had sired him.

He was as English now as he had been in those proud days.

He was as sure now of the need for peace and justice and the true freedoms for all mankind, as he had been then.

He had been that mocked-at thing: an idealist.

He
was
an idealist.

But the nations still waged war or threatened wars, or used their military or their economic strength to blackmail weaker nations.

There were three men or women or children starving for each who was well fed. There was hate and greed, avarice and prejudice, Jew and Gentile, Arab and Israeli; East German and West, American Negro and American white man, Englishman and Rhodesian – all enemies, many hating one another and often having cause to hate. This was the world he had spent his life trying to help …

No: in helping!

If Drusilla were alive –

How was it that today he remembered her so vividly, she who was ten years dead? How was it that he could ‘hear' and ‘see' her, and feel her sustaining love, her wisdom and her faith in man. It was almost as if she were speaking, now, an inner voice.

“But Sap, look how much better off the world is … Think how people hate war … Think how even the great nations
try
to work together … Think how black and white, yellow and red, Arab and Jew,
do
sit round the same table and talk … Remember how much
is
settled by discussion, today … And Sap, think how many disasters you and Z5 have averted.”

Her voice seemed to fade.

He went into St. James's Park, where the deck chairs were already out and the children playing. The rare ducks from distant lands were warming their lovely coloured feathers in the sun, and all was beauty and contentment and, among the people, peace.

Drusilla was right, the lot of the many was much better, and unless some dreadful disaster struck –

Some trick of wind brought a whiff of car exhaust to his nostrils, and quite suddenly, awfully, he walked in fear. And the fear was harsh and heavy upon him as he neared the Horseguards and Downing Street and Whitehall. There the Home Secretary would soon be waiting for him.

He heard a tiny whistle of sound – as if out of the air.

But it was not out of the air, it was from his wrist watch, his call signal from the office.

He touched the winder of the watch, and raised his arm.

“Palfrey.”

“There is an urgent message for you, Dr. Palfrey … Please hold for Miss Morgan.”

“I am holding.”

There was in fact hardly a pause, before Joyce said almost breathlessly: “Sap—there's a message from David Costain, in Pale Valley.”

His heart almost stopped beating, not only because of the message but because of the excitement in her voice; and only an epoch-making message would allow Joyce to reveal excitement.

“What is it?” he asked tensely.

“It's too long to read. There is a messenger on the way with a teletype copy. It will be at the Whitehall end of Downing Street in five minutes.”

“I'll be there. Is it good or—”

“Sap,” she said, “if it's true, the only hope we have of saving the world from the pollution is in David Costain
or
Grace Drummond.”

“But there
is
a hope?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Just a hope.”

He thought: Thank God. He said: “Warn Clitheroe that I might be late. Send a copy of this to Stefan.”

“One is on the way to him,” Joyce said.

“Ah,” said Palfrey, “I should have known. I'll call you when I've read the message. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

He pushed the winder back, staring towards the massed buildings of Downing Street and beyond, now hardly aware of the summery dresses and the casual air of most of the people. Two trucks came along too fast, and the stench of fumes dragged him out of his reverie. The engine of one of a long line of parked cars started, belching out blue fumes, and stinking with the smog it created. He watched the car move off.

He saw a small sports car draw up and recognised a fair-haired youth at the wheel, an agent named Collins; a youth with the coolest courage Palfrey had ever known. He pulled up alongside Palfrey, looking like an eager boy.

“Here we are, sir. How are you?”

“Hopeful,” said Palfrey, taking the proffered envelope.

With steady hands Palfrey slit it open.

“What's on your mind?” he asked.

“There may not be very much time left, as things are shaping at the moment. Life, I mean.” In spite of the almost magnetic pull of the letter, Palfrey found himself looking into Collins' glowing eyes. “I'd like a final fling.”

“Such as?”

“Very volcanic that part of the world, I gather. Not the easiest place to land. If you need anyone to have a shot at putting down a light plane or a chopper, or chuting down, may I have first refusal?”

Palfrey found himself between tears and laughter.

“What would make you refuse?” he asked.

“The knowledge that you might want to go in first,” Collins answered. “Might be as well to have someone pave the way, sir.”

“Ah,” said Palfrey. “We'll see. And thank you. I can't think of anyone I'd rather be with.” He moved towards the park, where there were wooden seats. “Wait in case I want to send a message back, will you? Or need a lift?”

“Of course.”

Palfrey sat down, the soft breeze gentling his silky hair. Children were playing near; a man and woman were sitting at the far side of the seat, the man's arm round the woman's waist. Aircraft flew high above them, the distant drone accompanying the fluttering of ducks and nearby pigeons as they pecked at crumbs thrown encouragingly by half a dozen idlers.

He opened the message, and read every word.

It was exactly what Storr had said to Costain with one short paragraph added:

 

No one else can possibly hope to find the gas we need, and if you – or any nation or any authority – seek out and destroy the laboratories where Storr is working, there will be no hope at all. Will you do nothing – and persuade all the authorities to do nothing – until the experiment here is finished and we know what hope is left.

 

Palfrey looked almost blindly at young Collins, who was sitting at the wheel pretending to read a newspaper.

Cold courage – Collins – Costain.

He stood up slowly, and Collins watching out of the corner of his eye, put the newspaper down.

“Good or bad, sir?”

“I don't know. Tell Joyce to ask the Prime Minister if I can have ten minutes at the morning Cabinet meeting. Tell Joyce I am going to ask the British Government to suspend all research and investigation, and ask her to telephone Stefan Andromovitch to put a similar request to the Soviet Government. Oh, and have two of our fastest aircraft ready to fly to Pale Valley, non-stop. You can pilot one—we'll need pilot, co-pilot and, say, two passengers in each plane. Professor Erasmus Smith with me, someone else in another. Be ready to take off at twelve noon.”

“
Whoopee!
”
cried Collins, and started the engine with a roar.

As Palfrey watched him go, he smelt the stench of the exhaust. It seemed stronger than any he had known before.