superior. “See how the tip is tilted to the right, inclining inwards towards the nail? Compare it with your own. Yes, right-hand index, I’d say. His trigger finger. So he’ll not be shooting at anyone for a while—unless he can grow a new one!”
“He didn’t shoot,” Turnbull had reminded him. Anderson had been told the details, but the finger looked so human it was easier to connect it to an orthodox weapon.
“This is what he used,” said Gill, producing the dented silver cylinder.
“Alien?”
“Yes,” said Gill. “I … caused it to work. For a few seconds, anyway.” He indicated the cleanly sliced tabletop.
The Minister had looked—looked under the table, too—and frowned. “Have you tidied up since last night?”
“No.”
“No sawdust,” Anderson had pointed out. “No … debris? And yet there’s a slice an eighth of an inch thick missing from the table. This—well, whatever it is—disintegrates, totally. Can you dismantle it?”
“I haven’t tried.” Gill had shrugged. “If it will X-ray, that might give us a clue. I didn’t want to do it any more damage.”
“Good!” Anderson had nodded. And he’d pocketed the thing. “I’ll get it right back to you.”
“You should have some top people look at the finger, too,” said Gill. He placed the jar and contents in a plastic bag, handed it over.
Anderson placed the bag between his feet, nodded his agreement. Then, hurrying now, he’d said to Gill, “Listen, Spencer, things are happening. Our monitors have been picking up an all-round increase in activity. And you?”
“For seven or eight days now,” Gill had answered. “I told you about it.”
“Hmm. Well, give yourself a pat on the back. You twigged it before the instruments. Right now it’s hitting a new peak of activity. Any ideas?”
Gill shook his head. “I can’t say,” he said. “Not for certain. But—”
“But?”
“I’ve had this feeling it was gearing itself up.”
For a little while there had been silence; then Anderson had grunted, nodded, and that had seemed to be that.
Through all of this Turnbull had been all ears but hadn’t made a lot of what was said. But as Anderson had stood up, ready to leave, he’d blurted, “Can you break that down into tiny little words for me?”
Anderson had looked at Gill. “He’s your man. It’s up to you.”
Getting their coats on and as they went out in the frosty morning to Anderson’s car, Gill had explained, “We have monitors, up there on Ben Lawers behind the perimeter fence. Dug in. Unobtrusive. If you look hard, you can make out their aerials.”
“Monitors?”
“Ultrasonic, infrared, radio, other radiations—anything we know how to measure. The harder a machine works, the more energy it consumes—and the more it radiates. Heat or whatever. As you rev a car, so its engine runs faster, gets hotter.”
Turnbull had nodded. “Or as a mass of fissionable material moves towards critical, so the radiation levels go up.”
“Right,” said Gill. “ Exactly right.”
“And we’re going up there—now?”
“The Castle isn’t a bomb,” said Gill.
The Minister got into the driving seat, said, “I want to have another look at it. It fascinates me. But it’s not just idle curiosity. I want you to have a look at it, Gill. See if there’s anything at all—anything new—you can tell us. Then I’m off back down to London. They’re very concerned about things down there. Evacuation models I have to check over, you know?”
“He said it wasn’t a bomb,” Turnbull pointed out.
In his ear, Gill quietly said, “In case we need to use ours.”
“By the way,” said Anderson too loudly as Gill and Turnbull got into the back of his Mercedes, “this gentlemen is Jean-Pierre Varre.” His voice returned to its normal tone, became dry as tinder as he added, “Er, from France. He’s here to see you, Spencer. But I don’t have to remind you—or you, Jack—that the Castle is a sensitive
“He didn’t shoot,” Turnbull had reminded him. Anderson had been told the details, but the finger looked so human it was easier to connect it to an orthodox weapon.
“This is what he used,” said Gill, producing the dented silver cylinder.
“Alien?”
“Yes,” said Gill. “I … caused it to work. For a few seconds, anyway.” He indicated the cleanly sliced tabletop.
The Minister had looked—looked under the table, too—and frowned. “Have you tidied up since last night?”
“No.”
“No sawdust,” Anderson had pointed out. “No … debris? And yet there’s a slice an eighth of an inch thick missing from the table. This—well, whatever it is—disintegrates, totally. Can you dismantle it?”
“I haven’t tried.” Gill had shrugged. “If it will X-ray, that might give us a clue. I didn’t want to do it any more damage.”
“Good!” Anderson had nodded. And he’d pocketed the thing. “I’ll get it right back to you.”
“You should have some top people look at the finger, too,” said Gill. He placed the jar and contents in a plastic bag, handed it over.
Anderson placed the bag between his feet, nodded his agreement. Then, hurrying now, he’d said to Gill, “Listen, Spencer, things are happening. Our monitors have been picking up an all-round increase in activity. And you?”
“For seven or eight days now,” Gill had answered. “I told you about it.”
“Hmm. Well, give yourself a pat on the back. You twigged it before the instruments. Right now it’s hitting a new peak of activity. Any ideas?”
Gill shook his head. “I can’t say,” he said. “Not for certain. But—”
“But?”
“I’ve had this feeling it was gearing itself up.”
For a little while there had been silence; then Anderson had grunted, nodded, and that had seemed to be that.
Through all of this Turnbull had been all ears but hadn’t made a lot of what was said. But as Anderson had stood up, ready to leave, he’d blurted, “Can you break that down into tiny little words for me?”
Anderson had looked at Gill. “He’s your man. It’s up to you.”
Getting their coats on and as they went out in the frosty morning to Anderson’s car, Gill had explained, “We have monitors, up there on Ben Lawers behind the perimeter fence. Dug in. Unobtrusive. If you look hard, you can make out their aerials.”
“Monitors?”
“Ultrasonic, infrared, radio, other radiations—anything we know how to measure. The harder a machine works, the more energy it consumes—and the more it radiates. Heat or whatever. As you rev a car, so its engine runs faster, gets hotter.”
Turnbull had nodded. “Or as a mass of fissionable material moves towards critical, so the radiation levels go up.”
“Right,” said Gill. “ Exactly right.”
“And we’re going up there—now?”
“The Castle isn’t a bomb,” said Gill.
The Minister got into the driving seat, said, “I want to have another look at it. It fascinates me. But it’s not just idle curiosity. I want you to have a look at it, Gill. See if there’s anything at all—anything new—you can tell us. Then I’m off back down to London. They’re very concerned about things down there. Evacuation models I have to check over, you know?”
“He said it wasn’t a bomb,” Turnbull pointed out.
In his ear, Gill quietly said, “In case we need to use ours.”
“By the way,” said Anderson too loudly as Gill and Turnbull got into the back of his Mercedes, “this gentlemen is Jean-Pierre Varre.” His voice returned to its normal tone, became dry as tinder as he added, “Er, from France. He’s here to see you, Spencer. But I don’t have to remind you—or you, Jack—that the Castle is a sensitive
Similar Books
