Thrice upon a Time (39 page)

"For reasons that I've never made it my business to pry into, the World Health Organization has been expecting something like this for some considerable time," he began. For a moment Murdoch was confused; then he realized to his astonishment that Courtney had dismissed any need for further explanation and had already reversed his decision without wasting further time by saying so. "The first I knew about it was when the Ministry got in touch somewhere around the beginning of this month," Courtney continued, dropping his earlier formal tone. "They told me that Waring had reported what they thought might be the first signs, and they wanted to send Fennimore up here to look into it. There may have been a few odd outbreaks appearing in other places as well around that time; I don't know. Anyway I agreed, naturally. Fennimore has been involved for some time—ever since last year, I gather—with some kind of joint U.S.-U.K. research effort aimed at developing a vaccine to combat the epidemic when it came. The organization that Fennimore represents appears to have known for a while that it would begin in the western U.S.A., but I don't think they were sure exactly what form the disease would take. That was why they were interested in getting information on the first cases as early as possible. I've never considered it my business to press for details beyond those that Fennimore and Waring chose to volunteer, which were very few. However, if it helps you in any way, I do know that Eurospace, NASA, and the Soviet Aerospace people have all been actively involved. Don't ask me why." Courtney shrugged and showed his palms to indicate that he was through.

Cartland had looked up and was sitting forward in his chair with suddenly increased interest. "What have the space agencies got to do with it?" he asked. "Can you give us any more details about that? That adds a whole new perspective to the thing."

Courtney sighed and shook his head apologetically. "I don't pretend to be an expert on such things," he said. "I think there might be a connection with satellites though… or, at least, one particular kind of satellite."

"Can you be specific?" Cartland asked.

"Well, I might be misleading you," Courtney warned. "But I've seen the word
Centurion
used several times. From the contexts, it seemed to be a satellite of some description, although I could be mistaken."

"Centurion?"
Cartland screwed his face into a frown and slumped back into his chair, where he thought hard for a few seconds, at the same time tugging at one side of his moustache.

"Doesn't that mean anything to you, Ted?" Murdoch asked.

Cartland thought for a moment longer, then shook his head in an admission of defeat. "No… no, I can't say it does. Extraordinary."

Courtney looked from Cartland to Murdoch and then to Elizabeth. "I'm sorry, but that really is the best I can do." He pushed himself away from the desk and straightened up in his chair to indicate that the meeting was over. "It goes without saying that if I didn't trust your motives and your integrity, I would never have said the things you've just heard," he said to all three. "I don't feel there is any need to spell out the rest. I'm sorry it couldn't have been more. If I can help you further in any other way, let me know."

"Thank you, Ralph," Elizabeth said as they got up to leave. "Obviously we'll treat everything you've said with discretion." She turned toward the door, and Murdoch moved to follow.

Cartland was still sitting fingering his moustache and shaking his head thoughtfully
"Centurion ... "
he muttered, half to himself. "You know, it's a funny thing. I'm sure I've heard that word somewhere before, and not very long ago either. Where on Earth was it?"

Fifteen minutes later they were back in Elizabeth's office in the Mathematics and Physics Department. Elizabeth ordered coffees and sat down at her desk, while Murdoch settled himself in a chair below a large blackboard covered with symbols and equations. Cartland remained standing by the window, staring out over the central area of the complex. He had been noticeably quiet all the way back from Courtney's office.

"Well, Murdoch," Elizabeth said. "It looks as if you saved the day for us. I'll have to take a course in direct American speech sometime. It certainly seems to produce results. I wonder where we go from here."

"The only way I can see is to try and track Fennimore down in the States," Murdoch answered. "Maybe we could try approaching Waring now; he must know where Fennimore is. After all, we have more or less got Courtney's backing now. It's not the same as when I tried calling Waring first thing this morning."

"Mmm… " Elizabeth sounded dubious. "I'm not convinced it'll be that easy. If I know Waring, he's just as likely to go protesting back to Courtney for having spoken out of turn. It might be better to try contacting Fennimore directly through the State authorities in California; Fennimore must have gone to California. Who would the people be to try first there? Do you know?"

"Not really," Murdoch confessed. "And if the news reports are anything to go by, I wouldn't mind betting that it'll be pretty near impossible to get through to anybody there right now. They're probably being swamped with calls from all over."

"Maybe we ought to talk to Charles," Elizabeth suggested.

"Maybe," Murdoch agreed. He didn't sound very happy at the idea; there was still not much in the way of hard facts to talk to Charles about. Elizabeth sensed his reluctance and lapsed into silence.

A muted whine of aircraft engines floated in from outside the building, and after a few seconds an EFC VTOL rose slowly from behind the Domestic Block and began climbing away to the south. Cartland watched it absently through the window. Then his body stiffened suddenly. He spun round and snapped his fingers.

"The pilot!" he exclaimed. Murdoch and Elizabeth frowned at him quizzically. "
That
was it—the RAF pilot! He said something about
Centurion."
Cartland began pacing excitedly back and forth in front of the window, still making snapping motions with his thumb and forefinger. "Air Support Command, Northolt… Eighty-third Squadron, that was it… What the hell was his name?
Irish!
Irish name, Irish name… oh damn!"

"What is it, Ted?" Elizabeth asked in a mystified voice.

Cartland didn't seem to hear. "May I use your phone, Liz?" he asked, stopping abruptly in his tracks. "I think I may have a lead."

"Of course." Elizabeth gestured toward the vi-set by her desk. Cartland swiveled it around to face him, activated it, and called up a screen of directory data. Murdoch got up from his chair and moved round to stand beside Cartland and watch. Cartland found the call-code for the Royal Air Force base at Northolt, on the western outskirts of London, tapped it into the touchboard, and was through in a matter of seconds. After a short ritual exchange with the operator, he was looking at the features of the Station Adjutant of Number 83 Squadron.

"Good afternoon," he said briskly. "My name is Edward Cartland, formerly Group Captain. I wonder if you can help me. I need to contact one of your personnel as a matter of extreme urgency. I don't remember the name, I'm afraid, but he is a flying officer, and his name is distinctly Irish. He comes from somewhere in Gravesend."

The adjutant eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then shifted his gaze off-screen to consult some invisible oracle. "Irish, eh? Nah then, let's see what it says 'ere." His lips moved soundlessly as he read from something. "We've got a Ryan and an O'Keefe," he said, without moving his head to look back at Cartland.

"No… neither of those," Cartland told him. Then his face lit up suddenly. "It was an O' something though. O'Rourke, O'Brien… something like that."

"O'Malley?"

"O'Malley!
That was it! How can I get in touch with him?"

"Aircrew," the adjutant pronounced solemnly. "I'll put yer through to the Ops Room." The screen blanked out for a moment, and then came alive again to present the face of a good-looking, red-haired WAAF, smartly attired in an air-force-blue shirt and dark tie.

Cartland repeated his request, this time in a far more agreeable and less formal tone of voice. From behind Cartland and just outside the viewing angle of the camera, Murdoch watched intrigued, with no real idea of what was going on. Elizabeth was leaning forward with an elbow propped on the desk, and looking equally mystified. The WAAF turned sideways to interrogate a terminal just visible at the edge of the screen, and then swung back to present a full-face view.

"Flying Officer O'Malley is away on a forty-eight-hour leave," she crooned in a sultry, slightly husky, voice. "You should be able to reach him at his home. I'll give you the number." As she spoke, a Gravesend code appeared in a box at the bottom of the screen. Cartland touched a pad to lock the number into the vi-set's local memory.

"Thanks a lot, lovely," he acknowledged. "You've been a big help."

"Tell him that Monica sends her regards. He'll know who you mean." The WAAF winked saucily and vanished.

Cartland blinked in surprise at the blank screen, then turned his head to look at Murdoch. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "Did you see that? How extraordinary! It's enough to make a chap want to join up again."

He was already hammering in a rapid-fire command sequence to place a call to the number that he had stored. The screen lit up again and revealed a stout, middle-aged woman wearing a stained pinafore over a flower-patterned dress. Her expression changed to what could have been belligerence as she recognized Cartland's distinctly military appearance and bearing.

"Yes?" she demanded.

"Ah, good afternoon, madam. Do you have somebody called O'Malley there—a Flying Officer O'Malley of the RAF?"

"And who would be wanting him?" the woman asked, in a broad Irish brogue.

"My name is Cartland."

The woman sniffed suspiciously and turned her head to call back to somewhere over her shoulder.
"Bill ... "
A short pause followed, then, "You've a gentleman to talk to you on the line here." Another voice, indistinct and unintelligible, called something in reply from the background. "A Mr. Cartwheel or something, I think he said," the woman answered.

"I don't know any Cartwheels," the other voice said, becoming louder and clearer.

"Well, it's yourself he's asking for. You'd better come in here and talk to him."

" 'Arf a minute."

"He's coming to talk to you now, Mr. Cartwheel," the woman said out of the screen.

"Thank you," Cartland acknowledged. A few seconds later the woman moved out of view and was replaced by the face that Cartland had last seen two months previously in the library at Storbannon. O'Malley's shoulders were bare, and he was wiping shaving lather from his face with a towel. It took him a moment to recognize who was calling.

"Strewth! I remember you… from that big 'ouse up in Scotland. Fancy seein' you again! What can I do for you, sir?"

"Good to see you," Cartland replied. "I'm sorry to come busting in on your forty-eight and all that, but I think you may be able to help me with a little problem I'm having."

"If I can, sir. What's up?"

Cartland's tone became more serious. "Look, I hate to drag this up again, but it could be important. Do you remember when we were talking a couple of months ago? You mentioned a pal of yours who got killed… came from Southampton."

"Yes, I remember." O'Malley looked suddenly apprehensive. "What about him?"

"When you mentioned him, you said that it happened on something called
Centurion.
I'm trying to find out what
Centurion
was. It's an extremely urgent matter."

O'Malley's face dropped. "I should never have said that, sir," he protested. "I can't talk about that. They'll 'ave me shot." He squared his shoulders visibly and recited, "I'm sorry, but that is security-restricted information. I am not permitted to say anything." Then he relaxed and peered suspiciously out at Cartland. "Besides, 'ow do I know you're not from friggin' Air Force Security, tryin' to catch me out?"

"I can assure you that I'm nothing of the sort," Cartland began, then realized the futility of it and sighed resignedly. "Oh damn!" He had half-expected as much. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the vi-set while O'Malley watched woodenly. Then Cartland looked up at him again. "Look, I appreciate your situation, and I don't want to put you on the spot, old boy. But can you tell me who this chap was and which unit he was with? That much can't be classified information. After all, I could be simply an old friend trying to trace him, couldn't I? You don't even have to know that anything's happened to him at all."

O'Malley considered the proposition, then nodded. His voice dropped instinctively to a lower note. "His name was Pilot Officer Barry Lewis from Communications. He was with Six Twenty-sixth Squadron, Orbital Command. Copped it about eight or nine months ago. I can't say more than that."

While O'Malley was speaking, Cartland had entered a code into the vi-set to record the audio channel. He nodded his head in satisfaction. "Thanks a lot, old boy," he said. "Enjoy your leave. Oh… there was one other thing: Monica sends her love from Northolt. Just thought you'd like to know."

O'Malley's face fell in sudden alarm and dismay. "Quieten it down, for Christ's sake, sir," he hissed. "I've got me bird in the next room 'ere."

"Oh, good heavens! Err… sorry about that," Cartland mumbled. Then he raised his voice to a louder level. "Well… thanks again. Keep working on those nav exams. We'll see you in orbit by next year, eh?"

"I hope so, sir." O'Malley grinned. "Good luck with your problem."

Cartland cleared down and replayed the audio that he had recorded, at the same time keying the important details onto a scratchpad area of the screen. Then he recalled the directory and located the section for Buckinghamshire.

"Ted, would you mind telling us what on Earth you're doing?" Elizabeth asked.

"I've seen that guy before," Murdoch said. "He was the pilot who flew the plane when Cuthrie and the others came up to see Grandpa's machine for the first time. How did you know that he knew about
Centurion
?"