Aske seemed to be trying not to smile. 'But it didn't matter either way by then, Miss Loftus. There wasn't going to be an invasion by then, anyway. It was all for nothing from the start
—that's what I mean. Don't you see the irony of it?'
Irony? thought Elizabeth. It was the uselessness of all that courage and endurance and ingenuity which cut so deep. The dummy3
irony was merely an insult added to that injury.
'But cheer up, Miss Loftus.' Aske managed to make the smile almost kindly. 'Professor Wilder may still be quite wrong, you know. There could be other explanations—dozens of them . . . We don't know who Dr Pike was yet, for a start—
or how he and his amazing box got aboard the Vengeful. . .
And Timms could have been an American agent—a sort of prototype CIA man—and we don't know how he joined the Vengeful either. . . All we know is that we've a lot more work to do. But now at least we know where to start looking.'
Professor Wilder reached down to close the lid of the box, replacing the Guardian on it as though to cover up the dark tale he had conjured from it. 'And I can probably help you there. I have contacts on both sides of the Atlantic.'
They were both trying to jolly her out of her depression, but she couldn't be lifted so easily. There was something malevolent about that box—and about the long-lost Vengeful herself, too. The Vengeful was to blame for everything, it seemed to her suddenly.
'She was an unlucky ship.' The words discharged her feelings. 'She killed them all—all but two.'
'My dear . . . they were all unlucky ships, the Vengefuls,' said Wilder softly.
'What?' She looked at him in surprise.
'Didn't your father ever tell you? They had the reputation for being killers. Great fighters too, to be fair—' Storm and dummy3
tempest/fear and foes/ They'll be with her where/ the Vengeful goes' —that's what they used to say about her.
Didn't he tell you?'
She shook her head.
'That was one reason why they re-named the thirteenth Vengeful, my dear. Add unlucky thirteen to a bad-luck name, and that's a sure recipe for disaster.' He pointed to the box.
'And the navy's got too much riding on her for anything to be allowed to go wrong this time.'
'What d'you mean—this time?' She didn't understand.
'It's in the paper today.' He stooped and picked up the Guardian— it had been the newspaper, not the box, at which he had pointed. '' Wonder ship on missile tests' —' he passed the paper to her '—you can read it for yourself.'
Elizabeth took the paper automatically. There was a large, slightly blurred picture of one of those ugly modern warships, all top-heavy with modern gadgetry, which were so different from the greyhounds of Father's time.
She read the caption: ' HMS Shannon, the Navy's new anti-submarine command vessel, leaving the pier at the Kyle of Lochalsh base for trials with the air-dropped Stingray anti- submarine missile and the new generation heavyweight torpedo' .
And the story was in bold type below the Wondership heading: ' High ranking American and NATO naval officers shipped aboard the latest addition to the Royal Navy's anti-dummy3
submarine capability, the command vessel HMS Shannon, yesterday.
'They left the new pier at the Kyle of Lochalsh for a demonstration of anti-submarine warfare in Europe's only offshore range, the British Underwater Test and Evaluation Centre, in 10 square miles of the inner Sound of Raasay, off the west Ross-shire coast of Scotland.
' The 'Shannon' will show off weapons systems which the Government hopes to sell to NATO on the top-secret range, which boasts a multi-million pound installation of sea-bed hydrophones and cable links to a mainland computer ...'
'What wonder ship?' asked Aske.
'The Shannon,' said Elizabeth.
' In attendance will be a small fleet of auxiliary ships and one of the navy's nuclear-powered attack submarines, HMS
'Swiftsure', which it is thought will be playing the part of a Soviet intruder ...'
'What's that got to do with us, for heaven's sake?' said Aske a little tetchily.
'See for yourself.' Elizabeth handed him the Guardian.
' Wonder ship on missile tests?' Aske wrinkled his nose at the headline, and then studied the text briefly. 'Very interesting, I'm sure . . . But, more to the point, Professor—
can you give us the names of those contacts of yours? I think we'll be needing them.'
