20

“I do not think that they will give us a great deal of trouble,” Davos was saying to Faversham, “and if they do not submit readily to our will and to each other, then—” he shrugged his slim shoulders and gave his little deprecatory smile. “Then we shall have to subdue them, as we have the animals. It doesn’t greatly matter whether they accept the inevitable now, or whether we have to wait for a few weeks, does it?”

Faversham, erect as a lamp-post, gave his quick, too toothy smile.

“Of course not,” he said. “Not at all.”

“And when all is said and done, they are an intelligent couple,” Davos went on, “when they see how inevitable it is, I’m sure they will give no trouble.”

He glanced away from Faversham as a tap came at the door. He called: “Come in,” and when Eve appeared, he smiled.

“Ah, my dear! I’m glad you’ve come. I wanted to see you and Mr. Woburn together. I’ll send for him, and—”

“I’ve told him,” Eve said stonily.

“You have! Well done, my dear. I am sure he realises—”

Eve said, in the same icy tone: “Nothing will make either of us do what you want, if you continue with the flooding. If it doesn’t stop—”

She broke off.

“My dear,” her father said, “you cannot make terms with me. You must make that clear to him. Doesn’t he realise what a magnificent opportunity he has? Don’t you? To have the first-born of the new world, the ruler, the King. My dear, go and tell him to come and see me.”

Eve said: “It was just a dream, Bob. Nothing will move him.”

The guards were there; the stars gave light enough to see them.

There was no way out, but Woburn had to try.

He put out the light in his room, waited a while, and then opened a window. He had a vivid mental picture of Adam, being torn by the panther. He didn’t flinch, but climbed out. He made no noise, and the guards seemed to notice nothing.

He would be heard when he dropped down, unless he could reach one of the buttresses.

He edged to one side.

He reached a buttress, and climbed down.

He dared hardly breathe as he reached the ground and, walking on the grass, passed the guards outside his window. He was through. God help him, he was on his way.

The best place to climb the wall was by the portcullis. It was still in position, and he could use it to climb to the arched gate. He began, with the same dread of making a noise.

He reached the top, and managed to haul himself over the top of the gate. Beyond were the moors, the craggy land, the water; and in sight, the lights of small craft, waiting. Once in that water—

He stood up, to turn round and climb down, and as he did so a great ringing sound broke the night’s quiet. Lights flashed, one into his face. He tried to scramble down, but there were guards outside the gate, too; he hadn’t a chance.

He reached the ground and began to run, but the nearest man brought him down.

 

Some hours earlier, at the London headquarters of Z.5, where Palfrey spent much of his time when he was in England, there was a large gathering of silent men. Service chiefs, Cabinet Ministers and civil defence chiefs had been here for some time. In all, thirty men and three women sat round a large table in a great room in the heart of London, listening to Palfrey.

He was standing up, with a hand at his head, toying with his hair.

“I wish I had better news,” he said in the quiet, diffident manner which had puzzled Woburn. “In fact, it is bad. Very bad indeed. If we attack Ronoch Castle we might be even worse off. Davos obviously has the power to make such reprisals that, on the advice of the Prime Minister, no assault is to be made yet.”

Palfrey took his hands away from his forehead; the few strands of hair stuck out.

A man asked: “Do you think we should attack, Palfrey?”

“By and large, I wouldn’t believe a word that Davos said.” He moved his hand, sharply, as a wasp buzzed fiercely past him. “I’d wait until dawn, I think. I’ve still a man at Ronoch, perhaps two. And we may yet find something to help. We’ve every research laboratory working on the octi that we’ve caught, but we haven’t anything like enough – once they’ve burst, they’re useless. We’ve made some discoveries. They contain a large store of hydrogen, in a jelly-like substance, and a catalyst we can’t identify. When the octi burst, the hydrogen shoots out, explodes with the oxygen in the air, and creates this mass of water, which comes out at great speed. As far as we can judge, there’s no limit to the flood risk, which is controlled wholly by the number of octi. These can be created almost as swiftly as frost, overnight; they can cover the earth.”

He paused again, but no one spoke, so he went on: “Every conceivable effort’s being made to find out more.”

Silence . . .

The wasp smacked against a large window which overlooked a quiet square, and that was the only sound in the room except the breathing of these men and women.

Then a man said abruptly: “You don’t think we have much hope of stopping the floods if they really start, do you?”

“No more than I’ve told you,” answered Palfrey; he did not feel as icily cold as he sounded. “The only possible thing to do is to broadcast warnings to all low-lying areas, coastal and inland, to all river areas, and all towns. Emergency measures should be put in hand at once, and action taken. Sandbags, sea and river wall reinforcements – exactly as we would do for a great flood. And, of course, a full description of the octi has now been circulated to all public authorities and police stations, to all military establishments – in fact everywhere. We must expect hundreds of false reports about them having been seen, but must check each report.” He patted the hair down on his forehead, very deliberately, and added: “There isn’t another single thing we can do.”

Ten minutes later the meeting broke up.

Twenty minutes later Palfrey walked down the fine staircase of the house, and reached the hall, hesitated, and then went down another flight of steps into a basement of reinforced walls, as impregnable as one could be. In a large room, here, sat a thin, pale-faced man, wearing a green eyeshade as he pored over a paper on his desk.

He glanced up, vaguely; then sat back.

“Oh, hallo, Sap.”

“Hallo. What’s on?”

“Another false alarm,” said the man who sat at the desk. He was Jim Kennedy, secretary of the Z.5 organisation and he seldom left this house. He looked very tired; Palfrey could not remember a time when he hadn’t; his voice sounded tired, too. “No word from Adam Reed since last week – nothing at all. Of course if he’s locked in that damned castle—” he broke off. “I can’t help wondering if he sold out. We had a distorted message on the Ronoch wavelength, but we can’t make it out, except one word – malic. Mean anything?”

Palfrey said sharply: “Malic? Malic acid.” He looked straight into Kennedy’s eyes. “Tell all the laboratories that, Jim. And then try to find out if anyone else picked up more of that message. Trace every amateur radio station, and check. Everything.”

“Right,” Kennedy said, and added quietly: “If you don’t get some rest, you’ll crack.”

Palfrey smiled.

He stifled a yawn, and said mildly: “I’m going to take forty winks now. Don’t seem to have slept for weeks. Wake me if any more of that message comes through.”

Kennedy nodded.

An hour afterwards Palfrey was lying at full length on a camp bed in a small room next to Kennedy’s office. He felt his shoulder being shaken and woke up to see Kennedy standing by his side, looking as near excited as the secretary could.

Palfrey swung his feet to the floor.

“News?”

“Of a kind,” Kennedy said, “and the hell of it is we don’t know whether the message was intercepted, and stopped, or whether the broadcast faded out. I—” he gulped.

“Sorry. Your chap Woburn managed to broadcast from the Castle. Reception was bad. All we have for certain is that octi are already everywhere, we should ignore Davos’s warning and attack the Castle. He said malic acid makes them grow. There’s a gap we haven’t been able to fill in, but we’re still trying. Meanwhile—”

Palfrey, now wide awake, said sharply:

“Yes?”

“The P.M. wants you to go to the flood area near Cromer,” Kennedy told him.