Atlantic Fury by Hammond; Innes Page B

unhealthy pallor of his face. The shirt he wore was frayed and none too clean, the grey flannels shapeless and without crease, his shoes worn at the heels. And yet, concentrated now on his briefing, there was something about him that made my fingers itch to draw. The man, the setting, the pilot leaning beside him – it all came together, and I knew this would have made a better jacket for his book than the one I’d done.
    The background of his book was a strange one. He had written it in prison, pouring into it all his enthusiasm for the unseen world of air currents and temperatures, of cold and warm fronts and the global movements of great masses of the earth’s atmosphere. It had been an outlet for his frustration, filled with the excitement he felt for each new weather pattern, the sense of discovery as the first pencilled circle – a fall in pressure of a single millibar perhaps reported by a ship out in the Atlantic – indicated the birth of a new storm centre. His quick, vivid turn of phrase had breathed life into the everyday meteorological reports and the fact that he was an amateur radio operator, a ‘ham’ in his spare time, had added to the fascination of the book, for his contacts were the weather ships, the wireless operators of distant steamers, other meteorologists, and as a result the scope of his observations was much wider than that of the ordinary airport weather man taking all his information from teleprinted bulletins.
    How such a man came to be stationed in a Godforsaken little outpost like Northton needs some explanation. Though I didn’t know it at the time, there was already a good deal of gossip about him. He had been up there over six months, which was plenty of time for the facts to seep through, even to that out-of-the-way place. The gossip I don’t intend to repeat, but since the facts are common knowledge I will simply say this: there was apparently something in his metabolism that made him sexually an exhibitionist and attractive to women. He had become mixed up in a complex affair involving two Society women. One of them was married and a rather sordid divorce case had followed, as a result of which he had faced a criminal charge, had been found guilty and sentenced to nine months’ imprisonment. He had been a meteorologist at London Airport at the time. On his release from prison the Air Ministry had posted him to Northton, where I suppose it was presumed he could do little or no harm. But a man’s glands don’t stop functioning because he’s posted to a cold climate. Nor, thank God, do his wits – a whole ship’s company were to owe their lives to the accuracy of his predictions, amounting almost to a sixth sense where weather was concerned.
    The pilot was leaving now. ‘Okay, Cliff, that settles it. No dice.’ He picked up his helmet and his gloves. ‘Pity they don’t admit it’s blowing like hell out there. No down-draughts. Shelter Bay calm as a mill-pond – that’s the report I had from Laerg earlier this morning.’
    â€˜It’s always the same when the boys are waiting for their mail.’
    â€˜That’s true. But this time I’m under pressure from both ends. The mail could just as well go by LCT, but then this fellow Braddock …’ A rain squall lashed the windows. ‘Just listen to that. He should try his hand at landing a helicopter – that’d teach him to be so bloody enthusiastic. What’s he want to do, commit suicide? When it’s gusting forty it whams down off Tarsaval …’ He stared angrily at the blurred panes. ‘Thank God they’re closing the place down. That idea of relying on a helicopter service through the winter months – who dreamed that one up?’
    â€˜Colonel Standing.’
    â€˜Well, it was bloody crazy. They’d have discovered the LCTs were more reliable.’
    â€˜The landing craft never operated in