was no sign of life from his brain, surgeons told his parents. Then, in the middle of a thunderstorm, it happened. A flash of lightning and a loud thunderclap made nurses in the children’s ward at Ashford hospital, Middlesex, jump … and Lawrence, still in a coma, screamed.
London Evening News
, 3 December, 1969
THE OBSERVERS
Colonel Pyat had first met Colonel Cornelius in Guatemala City, in the early days of the 1900–75 War, before the monorails, the electric carriages, the giant airships, the domed cities and the utopian republics had been smashed, never to be restored. They met at some time during what is now called the Phoney War period of 1901–13. They were both representing the military establishments of two great and mutually suspicious European governments. They had been sent to observe the trials of the Guatemalans’ latest Land Ironclad (the invention of the Chilean wizard, O’Bean). Their two governments had been interested in purchasing a number of the machines should the trials prove successful. As it happened, both Pyat and Cornelius had decided that the ’clad was still too primitive to be of much practical use, though the French, German and Turkish governments, who also had observers at the trials, had each ordered a small quantity.
Their duty done, the two men relaxed together in the bar of the Conquistador Hotel, where they were both staying. Next day they would catch the aerial clipper
Light of Dresden
to Hamburg. Once there, they would go their separate ways, Cornelius to the West and Pyat to the East.
Through the tall, slightly frosted Charles Rennie Mackintosh windows they could see Guatemala City’s bright marble streets and elegant mosaic towers with shop-fronts by Mucha, Moulins and Marnez. Sometimes an ornate electric brougham would hum past, or there would be the anachronistic jingle of harness as a landau, drawn by high-stepping Arab stallions, rattled by; sometimes a steam car would come and go, the hiss from its engines barely audible, the sun catching its brasswork and making its stainless-steel body shine like silver. The steam car was now in use all over the world. Like the mechanical farming equipment which had turned South and Central America into such a paradise, it was the creation of O’Bean.
Colonel Pyat, leaning back in his black plush chair, signalled for the waiter to bring fresh drinks. Jerry admired his grace. The Russian had been wearing his white uniform for the best part of the afternoon and there was not a smudge of dust to be seen on it. Even his belts, his holster and his boots were of white kid, the only colour being the gold insignia on his collar and a touch of gold on his epaulettes. Jerry’s dark green uniform was fussy in comparison, with a smear of oil evident on the right cuff. Some of the gold braid frogging on his sleeves, shoulders and chest was badly snagged, too. His belts, holster and boots were black. They were not quite as brightly polished as they might have been. Like Pyat’s, his was a cavalry uniform, that of some Indian regiment by the cut of the long-skirted coat, but worn without a sash. (Pyat, who had seen some service on the frontier—largely courier work of an unofficial nature—could not place the uniform at all. He wondered if Cornelius might be a civilian given military rank for the sake of this assignment. Certainly Cornelius did not look much like an English cavalryman. The way he had undone his coat at the first opportunity suggested that Cornelius found military dress uncomfortable.)
The drinks were brought by a haughty waiter who refused to respond to Pyat’s friendly and condescending smile and left the proffered tip on the Husson silver salver he placed on the table. “Democracy gone mad!” said Pyat with a movement of his eyebrows and leaned forward to see what they had. There were Tiffany glasses. A bottle of Malvern water. A Glen Grant malt whisky and a Polish Starka vodka. Jerry looked at them all resting on the
London Evening News
, 3 December, 1969
THE OBSERVERS
Colonel Pyat had first met Colonel Cornelius in Guatemala City, in the early days of the 1900–75 War, before the monorails, the electric carriages, the giant airships, the domed cities and the utopian republics had been smashed, never to be restored. They met at some time during what is now called the Phoney War period of 1901–13. They were both representing the military establishments of two great and mutually suspicious European governments. They had been sent to observe the trials of the Guatemalans’ latest Land Ironclad (the invention of the Chilean wizard, O’Bean). Their two governments had been interested in purchasing a number of the machines should the trials prove successful. As it happened, both Pyat and Cornelius had decided that the ’clad was still too primitive to be of much practical use, though the French, German and Turkish governments, who also had observers at the trials, had each ordered a small quantity.
Their duty done, the two men relaxed together in the bar of the Conquistador Hotel, where they were both staying. Next day they would catch the aerial clipper
Light of Dresden
to Hamburg. Once there, they would go their separate ways, Cornelius to the West and Pyat to the East.
Through the tall, slightly frosted Charles Rennie Mackintosh windows they could see Guatemala City’s bright marble streets and elegant mosaic towers with shop-fronts by Mucha, Moulins and Marnez. Sometimes an ornate electric brougham would hum past, or there would be the anachronistic jingle of harness as a landau, drawn by high-stepping Arab stallions, rattled by; sometimes a steam car would come and go, the hiss from its engines barely audible, the sun catching its brasswork and making its stainless-steel body shine like silver. The steam car was now in use all over the world. Like the mechanical farming equipment which had turned South and Central America into such a paradise, it was the creation of O’Bean.
Colonel Pyat, leaning back in his black plush chair, signalled for the waiter to bring fresh drinks. Jerry admired his grace. The Russian had been wearing his white uniform for the best part of the afternoon and there was not a smudge of dust to be seen on it. Even his belts, his holster and his boots were of white kid, the only colour being the gold insignia on his collar and a touch of gold on his epaulettes. Jerry’s dark green uniform was fussy in comparison, with a smear of oil evident on the right cuff. Some of the gold braid frogging on his sleeves, shoulders and chest was badly snagged, too. His belts, holster and boots were black. They were not quite as brightly polished as they might have been. Like Pyat’s, his was a cavalry uniform, that of some Indian regiment by the cut of the long-skirted coat, but worn without a sash. (Pyat, who had seen some service on the frontier—largely courier work of an unofficial nature—could not place the uniform at all. He wondered if Cornelius might be a civilian given military rank for the sake of this assignment. Certainly Cornelius did not look much like an English cavalryman. The way he had undone his coat at the first opportunity suggested that Cornelius found military dress uncomfortable.)
The drinks were brought by a haughty waiter who refused to respond to Pyat’s friendly and condescending smile and left the proffered tip on the Husson silver salver he placed on the table. “Democracy gone mad!” said Pyat with a movement of his eyebrows and leaned forward to see what they had. There were Tiffany glasses. A bottle of Malvern water. A Glen Grant malt whisky and a Polish Starka vodka. Jerry looked at them all resting on the
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