land, which being cold and dense would form tremendous stable anticyclones. The cold air would stay on the land and the warm air on the sea.”
“Look here, Kingsley,” laughed Marlowe, “I’m not going to have my optimism damped by your pessimism. Have you thought of this point? There may be quite an appreciable radiation temperature inside the Cloud itself. The Cloud may have an appreciable heat of its own, and this might compensate us for the loss of sunlight, always supposing — as I keep saying — that we do find ourselves inside the Cloud!”
“But I thought the temperature inside the interstellar clouds was always very low indeed?”
“That’s the usual sort of cloud, but this one is so much denser and smaller that its temperature may be anything at all, so far as we know. Of course it can’t be extremely high, otherwise the Cloud would be shining bright, but it can be high enough to give us all the heat we want.”
“Optimist, did you say? Then what’s to stop the Cloud being so hot that it boils us up? I didn’t realize there was so much uncertainty about the temperature. Frankly, I like this possibility even less. It’ll be completely disastrous if the Cloud is too hot.”
“Then we shall have to go into caves and refrigerate our air supply!”
“But that isn’t so good. Plant seeds can stand cold but they can’t stand excessive heat. It wouldn’t be much good for Man to survive if the whole flora was destroyed.”
“Seeds could be stored in the caves, along with men, animals, and refrigerators. My God, it puts old Noah to shame, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, maybe some future Saint-Saens will write the music for it.”
“Well, Kingsley, even if this chat hasn’t been exactly consoling, at least it’s brought out one highly important point. We must find the temperature of that Cloud and without delay too. It’s obviously another job for the radio boys.”
“Twenty-one centimetre?’ asked Kingsley.
“Right! You have a team at Cambridge that could do it, haven’t you?”
“They’ve started in on the twenty-one centimetre game quite recently, and I think they could give us an answer to this point pretty quickly. I’ll get on to ’em as soon as I get back.”
“Yes, and let me know how it comes out as soon as you can. You know, Kingsley, while I don’t necessarily go along with all you say about politics, I don’t quite like the idea of everything going outside our control. But I can’t do anything myself. Herrick has asked for the whole business to be put on the secret list, and he’s my boss, and I can’t go above him. But you’re a free agent, especially after what you told him yesterday. So you can look into this business. I should get ahead with it as fast as you can.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
The drive was a long one, and it was evening by the time they dropped down through the Cajon Pass to San Bernardino. They stopped for an excellent dinner at a restaurant of Marlowe’s choice on the western side of the township of Arcadia.
“I’m not normally keen on parties,” Marlowe said, “but I think a party away from scientists would do us both good tonight. One of my friends, a business tycoon over San Marino way, invited me to drive over.”
“But I can’t go along and gatecrash.”
“Nonsense, of course you can come — a guest from England! You’ll be the lion of the party. Probably half a dozen film moguls from Hollywood will want to sign you up on the spot.”
“All the more reason for not going,” said Kingsley. But he went all the same.
The house of Mr Silas U. Crookshank, successful real estate operator, was large, spacious, well decorated. Marlowe was right about Kingsley’s reception. A super-large tumbler of hard liquor, which Kingsley took to be Bourbon whisky, was thrust into his hand.
“That’s great,” said Mr Crookshank. “Now we’re complete.”
Why they were complete Kingsley never discovered.
After polite talk to the vice-president of an aircraft company, to the director of a large fruit-growing company, and other worthy men, Kingsley at last fell into conversation with a pretty, dark girl. They were interrupted by a handsome fair woman who laid a hand on each of their arms.
“Come along, you two,” she said in a low, husky, much cultivated voice. “We’re going along to Jim Halliday’s place.”
When he saw that the dark girl was going to accept Husky Voice’s plan, Kingsley decided he might as well go along too. No point in bothering Marlowe, he thought. He could get back to his hotel somehow.
Jim’s place was a good deal smaller than the residence of Mr S. U. Crookshank, but nevertheless they managed to clear a floor space on which two or three couples began dancing to the somewhat raucous strains of a gramophone. More drinks were handed round. Kingsley was glad of his, for he was no shining light of the dancing world. The dark girl was engaged by two men, to whom Kingsley, in spite of the whisky, took a hearty dislike. He decided to muse on the state of the world until he could prise the girl loose from the two bounders. But it was not to be. Husky Voice came across to him. “Let’s dance, honey,” she said.
Kingsley did his best to adjust himself to the creeping rhythm, but apparently he did not succeed in gaining his partner’s approval.
“Why don’t you relax, sweetheart?’ the voice breathed.
No remark could have been better calculated to baffle Kingsley, for he saw no prospect of relaxing in the overcrowded space. Was he expected to go limp, leaving Husky Voice to support his dead weight?
He decided to counter with nonsense of an equal order.
“I never feel too cold, do you?”
“Say, that’s darned cute,” said the woman in a sort of amplified whisper.
In a state of acute desperation Kingsley edged her off the floor, and grabbing his glass took a deep swig. Spluttering violently, he raced for the entrance hall, where he remembered seeing a telephone. A voice behind him said:
“Hello, looking for something?”
It was the dark girl.
“I’m ringing for a taxi. In the words of the old song, “I’m tired and I want to go to bed.” ”
“Is that quite the right thing to say to a respectable young woman? Seriously though, I’m going myself. I’ve got a car, so I’ll give you a lift. Forget about the taxi.”
The girl drove smartly into the outskirts of Pasadena.
“It’s dangerous to drive too slowly,” she explained. “At this time of night the cops are on the look-out for drunks and for people going home from parties. And they don’t just pick up cars that are driven too fast. Slow driving makes ’em suspicious too.” She switched on the dashboard light to check the speed. Then she noticed the fuel gauge.
“Hell, I’m almost out of gas. We’d better stop at the next station.”
It was only when she came to pay the attendant at the station that she discovered that her handbag was not in the car. Kingsley settled for the petrol.
“I can’t think where I can have left it,” she said. “I thought it was in the back of the car.”
“Was there much in it?”
“Not a great deal. But the trouble is I don’t see how I’m going to get into my apartment. The door key was in it.”
“That’s distinctly awkward. Unfortunately I’m not a great hand at picking locks. Is it possible to climb in somehow?”
“Well, I think it might be, if I had some help. There’s a highish window that I always leave open. I couldn’t reach it alone, but I might if you gave me a lift. Would you mind? It’s not very far from here.”
“Not in the least,” said Kingsley. “I rather fancy myself as a burglar.”
The girl was right about the window being high. It could only be reached by one person standing on another’s shoulder. The manoeuvre wouldn’t be altogether easy.
“I’d better do the climbing,” said the girl. “I’m lighter than you.”
“So instead of the dashing cracksman, I’m to be cast in the role of a carpet?”
“That’s right,” said the girl as she pulled off her shoes. “Now get down, so I can climb on your shoulders: Not so far down, or you’ll never get up again.”
Once the girl nearly slipped, but she recovered balance by knotting her hand in Kingsley’s hair.
