The War of Immensities (31 page)

“Unlike
official reports?”

“Official
reports are only usually inaccurate. Unofficial ones always are.
But the real difference, Harley, is that the degree of inaccuracy
of official reports can always be assessed by political analysis,
whereas this is not possible with unofficial information.”

“Still, I have
towards two hundred people in there.”

“I understand
that is so.”

“Interned, I
suppose.”

“Quarantined.
The contagion being presently unknown.”

“And is the
Secretary likely to accept my assurances that there is no
contagion?”

“Hardly.”

“Is he aware
that—what shall we call it—relapses are likely when they get to the
pilgrim stage?”

“They have seen
it for themselves. A mass escape was attempted.”

“Did any of
them actually escape?”

“No.”

“Officially no
or unofficially no.”

“Actual no. We
are not complete barbarians, Harley. These people are receiving the
best medical care available.”

“I see.”

“And they are
not unaware of Project Earthshaker. They have heard all of the
unofficial reports concerning it.”

“The trouble
with our unofficial reports are that they are always accurate.”

“Yes, we know
that, Harley. And your official reports never are.”

“Will it be
effective, do you think, to plead with the Secretary for the
release of these people into my custody?”

“I should think
not. They are Russian subjects, with no permits to leave the
country. It would be most irregular for such permits to be issued
to persons in an unstable medical condition.”

“Meaning?”

“They don’t
trust you, Harley. They suspect that the sleepers have suffered an
ecological accident which you know about and they don’t. They
suspect that you might be trying to find some way to blame Russian
scientists for your own ecological disaster.”

“I though the
KGB was all wrapped up.”

“It is, but
it’s mentality remains.”

“So, I
shouldn’t plead for their release.”

“It would be
fruitless, and, I should think, unwise.”

“Then I need a
better plan.”

“A Rambo-style,
single handed rescue, perhaps?”

“Is that what
you suggest?”

“No, Harley. It
was a joke. I’m sorry. I’m not very good at them.”

“Yes you
are.”

“In any case, I
think the plan that you have in mind is the correct one,
Harley.”

“Which is?”

“You don’t want
the Secretary to release those people at all. You want him to
assure you that they will stay exactly where they are.”

Chrissie
watched in amazement as the two women confronted each other with
broad smiles and admiring looks. Lorna, in a smart blue mini-suit
and green beret perched on her flowing red hair, and the American
woman, in a similar suit, long black hair, about ten years older
but not showing it.

“Sit down, Mrs.
Tribe,” Lorna said. She might have been asking the journalist to
sit on a hand grenade.

Stella Tribe
perched on the edge of the chair and produced from her crocodile
skin handbag a small tape recorder which she switched on and set
between them on the desk before she smiled warmly and asked. “Do
you mind?”

In reply, Lorna
Simmons picked up the tape recorder, switched it off and handed it
back to her. “What I have to tell you you’ll be able to write by
hand.”

Without the
slightest flicker of protest, Stella Tribe took out her notebook,
pen, poised to write, saying. “I really do appreciate this
interview, Miss Simmons. You just don’t know how much trouble I’ve
had trying to get to speak to one of you people.”

“Oh yes I do,”
Lorna smiled. She wasn’t fooled by Stella’s show of innocence.

“So, tell me,
Miss Simmons, when did you...”

“No
questions.”

“I need some
background...”

“You have all
the background you need.”

“A statement
then?”

“Exactly. I am
Lorna Simmons and hereafter I am spokesperson for Project
Earthshaker. You want to know something, you talk to me. The
project is classified Top Secret by both the US and Australian
Governments so you are warned that any attempt to interview other
members of the project will be a breach of the official secrets act
and I can assure such a breach will be prosecuted to the full
extent of the law.”

Chrissie was
delighted. She had listened to Lorna rehearsing that as she paced
the office all afternoon and, as far as she could tell, Lorna had
got it word perfect.

“I understand,”
Stella Tribe said seriously.

“Good. I want
you to organise a press conference for me, tomorrow afternoon,
anytime, anywhere and make sure all your competitors are there. I
will answer any questions that I am able to.”

“Will Professor
Thyssen be there?”

“No. Just
me.”

“I wasn’t aware
you had any training in sciences, Miss Simmons.”

“I don’t. But I
have been carefully instructed in what I can and can’t say.”

“Well, Miss
Simmons, I’ll do what I can. But I doubt that you’ll get a full
press turn-out if you’re all that’s on offer.”

“I know. So I’m
going to give you a scoop, Mrs. Tribe, which will make sure they’re
all be there.”

“Oh
really?”

“Take this
down.”

The pen hovered
over the paper.

“Shortly before
sunset, on the 20th of July, a massive earthquake will occur in
Western Europe, at about 7.4 on the moment-magnitude scale.
Probably in the Mediterranean region. We expect it to trigger a
number of volcanic eruptions in the vicinity.”

“I assume
Professor Thyssen has made this prediction?”

“He has.”

“He’s been
wrong in the past.”

“From which
errors he has learned. This one will be right.”

“7.4. That’s
awfully serious, isn’t it?”

“Depends on how
close the epicentre is to populated areas. In 1993, a 6.2 at Latik
in India killed nearly 10,000 people, but a year later in Bolivia,
an 8.3 killed only ten.”

“Is that part
of the statement?”

“That’s all of
it.”

“You really
don’t give me much to work with.”

“You can go
now, Mrs. Tribe. Thank you for your attention.”

“I have just a
few...”

“Are you
leaving or do I have to get security to throw you out.”

Lorna, clearly,
was warming to the task. She was still all smiles as she herded
Stella Tribe out the door. Then she turned to Chrissie, and all
trace of the smiles were gone.

“How’d I
go?”

“You were
great, Lorna.”

“And tomorrow,
I’ll have to be even greater.”

“If the
prediction is right.”

“Yes,” Lorna
said sadly. “It’s very good of Harley to make me the one who looks
silly if he proves to be wrong. But that’s the job.”

She was packing
her things, ready to make a dash for it. Chrissie realised that she
had a question. “If he can predict this event, he can predict all
the future ones.”

“I guess so.
The dates are on a fixed diminishing scale, or so he said.”

“Do you have
the dates?”

“No. But you
can probably work them out for yourself. Gotta go. Bye.”

Chrissie was
left alone in the office. Brian was out organising their coming
expedition, Wagner off guarding something somewhere. Yes, she had
calculated the dates, but she would rather have had Harley’s
official figures.

On the other
hand, it might have been better if she had more time, since she had
certainly achieved little along the line of what she regarded to be
her primary purpose—that of converting her fellow pilgrims in
preparation of the Apocalypse. She was fully ready herself. She
wore simple dresses that did not follow the line of her form,
always white. She no longer wore make-up, nor did she interfere
with the natural growth and colour of her hair and nails. She was
studying The Book of Revelation assiduously, and looking for clues
in the real world. But, apart from the spiritual guidance of Father
Gilbert, she was all alone.

Andromeda
Starlight wasn’t about to believe in any God but herself—Gaia—whose
personification she had completely embraced. “Christianity is out
of date, Chrissie. You must get with the new religion.”

It was
discouraging that the one person who had been converted had given
herself to a different faith.

Brian Carrick
was more thoughtful. “I seem to recall that the Messiah is supposed
to turn up, before we can have the Apocalypse.”

“And the
Anti-Christ,” Chrissie murmured.

“Let’s assume
that’s Harley,” Brian chuckled. “And is there anything in your
bible that says the Messiah can’t take the form of a
French-Vietnamese female?”

“That is
blasphemy, Brian.”

“I was trying
to be nice.”

“And heresy,
and sacrilege, and… and…”

“No reason why
it can’t be so at all.”

Lorna was an
even more hopeless case.

“I wonder what
turns God on? I hope he’s a bit of a spunk.” she mused.

Kevin Wagner
believed only in himself. “The Bible got it wrong, Chris. It’s man
who made God in his own image.”

Joe Solomon was
a Communist and knew all about the pernicious effects of the
‘opiate of the masses’.

“If bloody
Jehovah is behind this business, we’re all fucked. He lies about
everything and can’t be trusted. Read your Old Testament, you’ll
see. A megalomaniacal mass-murderer. Give him a chance to destroy a
whole planet and he’ll jump at it. And no one will be saved if he
has anything to do with it.”

Jami Shastri
she had only got to speak to briefly.

“Put it out on
the net, kiddo. All the other god-bothering whackos will think you
a wonder.”

And as for
Harley Thyssen.

“It is as valid
a theory as any of the others, at this stage, Chrissie. I’m afraid
I can find no argument against it.”

Yes, it was
going to be a tough job all right, but who ever said it would be
easy. Nightly Chrissie worried about them, poor heathens all
hell-bound, and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do to
help them.

But she had
gained something. She followed Jami’s advice and put herself on the
internet using the computer Harley had provided in the office,
introducing herself and her message to the world. After a month,
she was getting a hundred hits a day and stacks of email. There
were some abusive responses but mostly everyone was asking her what
they should do next.

“Pray,” she
told them, following Father Gilbert’s advice. “And tell everyone
you can about this. We have so little time and so very many souls
to save.”

She didn’t see
any wisdom in mentioning that she had not managed to save a single
soul herself at this stage, and so doing probably even doomed her
own.

So they went to
Bali, with Earthshaker Tours, as Brian Carrick joked. In the end
they all went by scheduled flights, the USAF 707 being unavailable
because it had been held back to bring the control group and
medical team and equipment later. By then it had become conspicuous
that they were being kept separated from the survival team from
Antarctica.

“Scared we
might pollute them with Thyssenism,” Lorna said.

They spent the
week-end relaxing at Kuta Beach and environs. Andromeda Starlight
was already there and in full song at the Paradise Room, but
Felicity and her family preferred to head inland to Ubud. Wagner
was off looking for rock faces to scale, Brian and Joe Solomon
settled into a beachside bar and saw little reason to stray, Lorna
was left to frolic on the beaches with no less than three admiring
males at any given time while Chrissie sat meditating in the shade.
There was no sign of Thyssen himself.

Each day, Brian
organised tours in which they could participate if they wished, but
on the 13th, which was the Tuesday, a compulsory tour had been
organised.

“Why
compulsory?” Solomon demanded.

“Because that’s
they way Thyssen organised it, and he’s paying for all this.”

They all went,
in the end. They flew to Jakarta where a boat waited to take them
on the Krakatoa tour. Though there remained little of the island
left to see, that was the point and the enormity of it was not lost
on them. Next day they roamed Jakarta and then returned to Bali,
overflying two active volcanoes—Semeru and Mt Bromo—along the way.
It was plainly intended to give them some idea of the sort of
forces they were dealing with. They were told tales of the year
without a summer in Northern Europe, caused by the explosion of
Tambora in 1815.

Until the
second weekend they were left to their own devices with the warning
that they should be ready to get down to business on Monday. That
morning they were gathered in a transit lounge at Denpassar,
waiting for the link.

“Why here?”
Lorna asked.

“As near as I
can figure,” Felicity explained. “The control group is on a boat,
parked in the ocean about two hundred kilometers south-east of
here. Which means the halfway point between them and the Mongolian
pilgrims is Hong Kong. Harley is waiting for us there. He’s so
confident that he’s booked us all into the Hong Kong Sheridan.”

They sat about
the lounge, watching Chrissie for she was always the first to
detect anything.

A few minutes
before noon, Chrissie smiled and told them she could feel it.
Moments later, a telephone report informed them that two members of
the control group had linked. Within an hour, all except Joe
Solomon and Lorna were linked in.

“Can’t we go
now,” they protested.

“We have to be
sure, or all this is for nothing,” Felicity persisted. She was
nearing her wits end. Plainly a week on holiday with her family had
not relaxed her. Lorna linked shortly before two and they all
glared at Joe.