else. This is where they live, this is where they’ll have to live, and, even though it’s sooner rather than later, this is where they’ve going to have to die.
‘And while they’re waiting to die, I think they should be allowed to live with as much peace of mind, relative though that may be, as is possible. You’re a Christian in the dungeons in Rome and you know it’s only a matter of time before you’re driven into the arena where the lions are waiting. It doesn’t help a great deal if you are reminded of the prospect every minute. Hope, however irrational, springs eternal.
‘Well, that’s my attitude and that’s my answer. I have lied in my teeth and I intend to go on doing so. Any suggestions that we were wrong will be vehemently denied. I am not, gentlemen, committed to a lie: I am committed to a belief. I have, I think, made my position very clear. Do you accept it?’
Barrow and Crichton looked briefly at each other, then turned to Benson and nodded in unison.
‘Thank you, gentlemen. As for this maniac Morro, I can be of no help there. He’s all yours, I’m afraid.’ He paused. ‘Threatening to explode an atomic bomb, or suchlike. I must say that, as a concerned citizen, I’d dearly love to know what he’s up to. Do you believe him?’
Crichton said: ‘We have no idea.’
‘No inkling what he’s up to?’
‘None.’
‘Suspense, war of nerves, tension. Creating fear, hoping to panic you into precipitate and misguided action?’
‘Very likely,’ Barrow said. ‘Only, we haven’t got anything to act against yet.’
‘Well, just as long as he doesn’t let it off under my seat or in any other inhabited area. If you learn the time and place of this proposed — ah — demonstration, may I request a grandstand seat?’
‘Your request has already been granted,’ Barrow said. ‘We were going to ask you anyway. Would there be anything else, gentlemen?’
‘Yes,’ Ryder said. ‘Would it be possible to borrow some reading material on earthquakes, especially recent ones?’
Everyone looked at him in perplexity. Everyone, that is, except Benson. ‘My pleasure, Sergeant. Just give this card to the librarian.’
Dunne said: ‘A question, Professor. This Earthquake Preventitive Slip Programme of yours. Shouldn’t that delay or minimize the great ‘quake that everyone seems to think is coming?’
‘Had it been started five years ago, perhaps. But we’re only just beginning. Three, maybe four years before we get results. I know in my bones that the monster will strike first. It’s out there, crouched on the doorstep, waiting.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
At half past ten that morning Morro re-entered his study. Dubois was no longer at the observation window but was sitting at Morro’s desk, two revolving tape-recorders in front of him. He switched them off and looked up.
Morro said: ‘Deliberations over?’
‘Twenty minutes ago. They’re deliberating something else now.’
‘How to stop us, no doubt.’
‘What else? I gave up listening some time ago: they couldn’t stop a retarded five-year-old. Besides, they can’t even speak coherently, far less think rationally.’
Morro crossed to the observation window and switched on the speaker above his head. All four scientists were sitting — more accurately sprawling — round the table, bottles in front of them to save them the labour of having to rise and walk to the drinks trolley. Burnett was speaking, his face suffused with alcohol or anger or both and every other word was slurred.
‘Damn it to hell. All the way to hell. Back again, too. There’s the four of us. Look at us. Best brains in the country, that’s what we are supposed to be. Best
Bramwell said: ‘Oh, shut up. That makes the fourth time we’ve heard this speech.’ He poured himself some vodka, leaned back and closed his eyes. Healey had his elbows on the table and his hands covering his eyes. Schmidt was gazing into infinity, riding high on a cloud of gin. Morro switched off the speaker and turned away.
‘I don’t know either Burnett and Schmidt but I should imagine they are about par for their own particular courses. I’m surprised at Healey and Bramwell, though. They’re relatively sober but you can tell they’re not their usual selves. In the seven weeks they’ve been here — well, they’ve been very moderate.’
‘In their seven weeks here they haven’t had such a shock to their nervous system. They’ve probably never had a shock like this.’
‘They know? A superfluous question, perhaps.’
‘They suspected right away. They knew for certain in fifteen minutes. The rest of the time they’ve been trying to find a fault, any fault, in the designs. They can’t. And all four of them know
‘You’re editing, I take it. How much longer?’
‘Say twenty minutes.’
‘If I give a hand?’
‘Ten.’
‘Then in fifteen minutes we’ll give them another shock, and one that should have the effect of sobering them up considerably if not completely.’
And in fifteen minutes the four men were escorted into the study. Morro showed them personally to their deep armchairs, a glass on a table beside each armchair. There were two other berobed acolytes in the room. Morro wasn’t sure precisely what kind of reaction the physicists might display. The acolytes could have their Ingram sub-machine guns out from under their robes before any of the scientists could get half-way out of their chairs.
Morro said: ‘Well, now. Glenfiddich for Professor Burnett, gin for Dr Schmidt, vodka for Dr Bramwell, bourbon for Dr Healey.’ Morro was a great believer in the undermining of confidence. When they had entered Burnett and Schmidt had had expressions of scowling anger, Bramwell of thoughtfulness, Healey of something approaching apprehension. Now they all wore looks of suspicion compounded by surprise.
Burnett was predictably truculent. ‘How the hell did you know what we were drinking?’
‘We’re observant. We try to please. We’re also thoughtful. We thought your favourite restorative might help you over what may come as a shock to you. To business. What did you make of those blueprints?’
‘How would you like to go to hell?’ Burnett said.
‘We may all meet there some day. I repeat the question.’
‘And I repeat the answer.’
‘You will tell me, you know.’
‘And how do you propose to set about making us talk? Torture?’ Burnett’s truculence had given way to contempt. ‘We can’t tell you anything we don’t know about.’
‘Torture. Oh, dear me, no. I might — in fact, I shall be needing you later on. But torture? Hmm. Hadn’t occurred to me. You, Abraham?’
‘No, Mr Morro.’ Dubois considered. ‘It is a thought.’ He came to Morro and whispered something in his ear.
Morro looked shocked. ‘Abraham, you know me, you know I don’t wage war on innocents.’
‘You damned hypocrite!’ Burnett’s voice was a hoarse shout. ‘Of course that’s why you brought the women here.’
‘My dear fellow —’
Bramwell said in a weary voice: ‘It’s a bomb of some sorts. That’s obvious. It might well be a blueprint for a nuclear bomb, a thought that immediately occurred to us because of your propensity for stealing nuclear fuel. Whether it’s viable, whether it will work, we have just no idea. There are hundreds of nuclear scientists in this
