The Smog (10 page)

 

Palfrey put back the telephone and turned aside as the two doctors eased Grace Drummond's body into a more natural posture.
Natural?
It was almost as if she were dead. Palfrey went along to the elevator and to his own room. Joyce was at a filing cabinet.

She looked at his ravaged face, and then away again.

“Shall I leave you for a while?” she asked.

“No, please stay. Did you hear Stefan?”

“Yes.”

“Conditions,” Palfrey said heavily.

“At least they withdrew.”

“Once they knew that Yellowstone—” Palfrey broke off. “Get me some tea, will you, and a snack.”

“Yes. Sap—”

“Yes?”

“Please get some sleep.”

“I'll get some sleep,” he said bitterly. “Sometimes I almost hate—” he broke off, meeting her look of distress and pleading. He knew how much she loved him, and at moments of realisation he was touched with humility. “I know,” he went on. “One woman—and perhaps millions of people. A village or a town wiped out and you feel nothing, and one woman—”

“She may recover,” Joyce said. “They'll do all they can.”

“Yes. Has Storr's plane taken off yet?”

“It was taxiing to the runway a few minutes ago.”

Joyce did what she so rarely did, these days, and took Palfrey's hands and drew him towards her, and for a moment they looked like lovers. Then he kissed her forehead, and she moved away.

Soon, she was back with tea and bacon and eggs, bread and butter – and on the tray was a card. It was headed: Prof. Stephen Storr

 

B.S.T., P.M.

5.41 Left Winchester.

6.09 Turn-off at Cadnam Roundabout.

6.13 Car turned off near Rufus Stone, New Forest.

 

There were other details, and then:

 

11.03 Boarded
BO.
707. Shannon Airport.

11.09 Started take-off run.

11.12 Airborne.

11.15 Aircraft over Atlantic, normal northern route.

11.20 Aircraft maintaining normal altitude (32,000 feet), speed and direction.

 

There would be more reports, every five minutes or so, the normal flight contact first with Ireland, then with Gander, then with New York. Unless there were trouble during the flight Palfrey would not be informed of its progress until it was about to land at Kennedy Airport – in approximately seven hours' time. That would be about six o'clock British Standard Time, two o'clock Eastern Standard Time in the U.S.A.

He put the card aside, and discovered another beneath it. This ran:

 

Mountview (City of), Wyoming, U.S.A.

 

Mountain Time U.S.A.

2.00 p.m. (B.S.T. 11.00 p.m.)

 

The latest figures following the release of carbon monoxide and smog show 1957 dead, 101 seriously affected. The whole city has been evacuated and military gas decontamination squads have taken over. Source of the gas now established as the local natural gas plant which supplies most of the city with normal domestic and industrial gas. Source of natural gas: a field in Montana, forty-five miles north of Mountview.

Military and civil authorities are checking.

 

2.40 p.m. M.T. Death roll now 1,996.

 

Now known that the distribution plant was fed with the carbon monoxide and smog through one of its main supply lines. It is a petroleum oil-driven plant. Contamination now ceased. All gas supplies to the city of Mountview and to all cities on the same pipe line discontinued for the time being.

 

Palfrey put this card aside, and, almost absent-mindedly, ate and drank. He had nearly finished when he pushed his chair back and went across to the telephone and dialled the hospital.

“Dr. Crabtree?” he asked when a man answered.

“I can get him,” the man said.

“Is that Dr. Marak?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is Mrs. Drummond?”

“She is surviving, sir.”

“Is there any indication of brain damage?”

“Not at this stage, sir. Do you wish to be informed at every development?”

Palfrey said: “I'll check from time to time. Where is Dr. Crabtree?”

“I persuaded him to take some rest, sir. I—” Marak hesitated.

“Go on,” said Palfrey.

“I should report, sir, that Dr. Crabtree is in deteriorating health.”

“You mean, you think he needs a long rest?”

“A very long one, sir. And he will not apply for leave.”

“I'll make some arrangements,” Palfrey promised.

“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Palfrey put up the receiver and went back to his tray. He finished another cup of tea and then went to the door leading to Joyce's office. She was at her desk, working; she was always working.

“Sauce for the goose,” Palfrey said.

She looked up. Her dark hair was loose and very thick about her neck. For a moment he was startled by her attractiveness.

“
What
did you say?”

“I said you need some sleep, too.”

“I'm going to bed soon,” she assured him, “after I've seen you take a sleeping pill.” When he hesitated, she went on almost sharply: “Sap, you haven't really slept for three nights.”

“I'll be good,” he promised.

She stood over him, twenty minutes later, as he sat on the side of his bed in a small room furnished with a few items of contemporary furniture in dark wood, sleeping pill in one hand, glass of milk in the other. She was in a dressing-gown with a high neck, and her hair fell to her shoulders. He was aware of her, not as his brisk and efficient secretary, but as an attractive woman.

“Sap,” she said in a husky voice, “you try yourself too much.”

“I know,” he said. “I'm not human. If I were, I couldn't resist you.” He put his hands out to her. “Joyce, my dear, don't hate me.”

“Oh, you fool,” she said. “You fool!”

“I'm all of that,” he said wryly, “and more, much more.”

Two minutes later he was in bed, and she was closing the door on him. There was a very faint light from a window which seemed to be open to the night air. The simulation was so good that there even seemed to be a soft breeze blowing across his forehead, and across his vision of Joyce, and of Grace Drummond. Tantalisingly they were both just out of his reach, and do what he would, they eluded him.

Soon he slept.

In a nearby room, not unlike his, Joyce lay drowsily awake. On the dressing-table there was a photograph of Palfrey, one he had signed for her when she had first come to work for him, nearly fifteen years ago.

She fell asleep, before long.

The night staff at Z5 were awake, keeping track of events round the world.

In Moscow, Stefan Andromovitch slept while his branch office of Z5 was in constant touch with London.

In the aircraft, now nearing the point of no return in mid-Atlantic, Costain slept, and in the seat next to him Marion Kemble dozed. In front of them, Griselda and Professor Storr slept; across the gangway, young Philip was next to Arthur Harrison. Philip slept soundly, but Harrison was awake.

 

At seven o'clock, Palfrey was awakened by one of the domestic staff, with tea. On his tray were several reports and the one he seized with great alacrity was the one marked:
Professor Stephen Storr.
There was a kind of running commentary starting an hour before.

 

Aircraft preparing to land … Pilot given his landing beam … Aircraft losing height … Aircraft circling Long Island, Kennedy Airport in sight … Aircraft about to land … Perfect landing .. . Aircraft taxiing to Gate 17 … Passengers disembarking … Prof. Storr and party at immigration desk … Party at Customs … Professor Storr met by a woman who had been at the airport for two hours … Obviously the couple are on affectionate terms.

 

Palfrey poured out tea and read with almost frantic haste, turned the card and found it blank. He was about to call the Operations Room when another man appeared at his door, the bright-faced youth he had seen the previous night and who had told him about young Hill.

“Good morning, sir. Am I too early?”

“Come in.” Palfrey waited only for the door to close. “What is it?”

“Professor Storr and his party, sir.”

Palfrey could hardly keep the tea-cup steady in his hand.

“Yes.”

“The whole party has taken off from Kennedy in a privately-owned Conquistador aircraft, a twin-engined jet with pilot and engineer aboard.”

“
All
six passengers?” echoed Palfrey.

“Yes, sir, and Costain appears to be very friendly with one of the women—Marion Kemble.”

“Are they being followed?”

“Of course, sir. And they are heading due west.”

“Due west,” Palfrey echoed, and he felt a strange easing of his panic, near satisfaction as he thought: Towards Yellowstone. “Good,” he said aloud. “What else has come in during the night?”

“Seventy-nine governments have already accepted the recommendations about a close investigation into the higher concentration of smog, sir—the only major power which has not yet accepted is Japan.”

“
China
has accepted.”

“She was among the first, sir.”

“Good. What else?”

“The whole of the area in the region of Sane Village is cleared, sir. The centre of the explosion was the cellar at Sane Manor. The one survivor is improving, and has made a report. The valley has been declared a danger area and is being guarded by further detachments from Fulton. Is there any other report you would like before I go off duty?”

Palfrey said at once: “Mountview.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, sir. The death roll is now nearly 2,050. It has been declared a danger and a disaster area, also. The supplies of natural gas have been restored to other cities in Wyoming and Montana. No other outbreaks have been reported. The whole area is being reconnoitred.”

“Good,” said Palfrey. “That's all I need. Unless—”

The eager eyes were so tired now.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you heard how Mrs. Drummond is?”

“Who, sir? Oh—the woman who was in the hospital last night. No sir, I have only the outside report. I can find out, sir.”

“You get off,” Palfrey said. “And thanks. And make sure you sleep.”

“No need at all to fear I won't, sir!”

“Good,” said Palfrey, and thought: “Oh to be young and carefree!”

He got up as soon as the door closed on the other, and then called the hospital. He recognised Marak at once; didn't the man ever rest? He hesitated before he spoke, almost afraid of what he would hear. Then: “This is Dr. Palfrey,” he stated simply.

“Good morning, sir,” Marak said with a much lighter note in his voice. “I have good news of Mrs. Drummond. She has responded to the shock therapy extremely well, her pulse and respiration are nearly normal. She should recover completely.”

“Wonderful!” said Palfrey fervently. “Wonderful.”

He was in his bath a few minutes later wondering where the Conquistador aircraft was, and how well David Costain knew Marion Kemble. He needed reports on Costain soon – and he could hardly wait for news of the aircraft's landing.

 

 

 

David Costain felt the touch of Marion's hand on his, and became absolutely and compellingly aware of her. He had felt drawn to her from the first few moments of meeting; then, he was so absorbed in what Palfrey had been saying, and of the disaster, he had lost the acuteness of that attraction. But after they had last seen Palfrey he had been alone with her for a few moments in his room at the Winchester Hotel.

And he had become overpoweringly alive to her presence, her nearness.

She had come in with a message from Storr; and he had not answered, had simply stared at her.

“David,” she had said, softly, “did you hear me?”

Not trusting his voice, he nodded.

“Then would you like to come?”

“In one way—very much.”

“And in other ways, no.”

“Marion—” he had begun, and then stopped, tongue-tied.

“David—what is it?”

A shaft of sunlight struck across her hair, burnishing it to a rich colour. The colour of her eyes he could see was a deep blue. It was the first time he had been able to study her closely, and she faced and returned this scrutiny with disconcerting directness. He was so aware of the delicate arching of her brows and nose, the short upper lip with the clearly marked groove, the full lips, the square chin. She had a full neck, too, not slender like Griselda's. There was sturdiness and strength in her, and he was acutely conscious of the swell of her bosom beneath the pale brown jumper which stretched – but not tightly – over her chest.

He did not know how long they stood like that, but the spell was broken by Philip, calling out in a petulant voice: “Are we going to eat, or aren't we?”

Marion had stirred.

“I must go and tell Stephen what you decide to do,” she said. “Do you want to come with us to Bournemouth? Will you work with us?”

At the back of his mind there had been a hazy recollection of Palfrey's instructions: and how exactly this was what Palfrey would have wanted.

“Marion,” he had muttered, “I could so easily—make a fool of myself.”

“I don't understand, David.”

“Over you,” he had explained.

She could have responded with lightness and evasion. Instead, she answered him seriously.

“You've lived alone for so long.”

“Too long. But—”

“So have I,” she had told him smiling faintly. “Come with us, David.”

A dozen thoughts had crowded his mind, about the fact that he had given an undertaking to Palfrey, that he would not really be honest with her or with Storr. Of the morning, only yesterday, when he had seen her at the window. Of the rumours – that both she and Griselda were Storr's mistresses. There was such confusion in his mind.

“
Are we going down to dinner or not?
”
Philip had cried out, angrily.

And David Costain had said: “Yes, I'll come with you, if—” he could hardly believe, thinking back, that he had actually put his thoughts, his feelings, into words “—if you understand that you set my blood on fire.”

And for a moment, an answering fire seemed to flare in her eyes.

Now, unbelievably, they were sitting together in an aircraft flying somewhere over North America. There was no moon, and the stars were very bright, for only one or two pale lights were on in the cabin. Now, Storr was somewhere behind with a friend whom he had introduced at New York airport as Mrs. Constance Mann, a tall and very attractive woman. Except for the droning of the jet engines and an occasional snore from Harrison, there was no sound.

And Marion was so close to him, sleeping.

Two or three recollections flitted through his mind: of Storr at the hotel, saying that he had decided to fly to America and not settle in Bournemouth – would he, Costain, care to come?

“But why me, Professor?”

“I think you will be an asset.”

“I don't understand,” Costain had protested.

“Must you understand everything? We shall fly tonight, all arrangements have been made. Will you come?”

He had nothing, absolutely nothing, to leave behind; no man could be more free. Helplessly, he had asked again the one question for which he could see no answer.

“But why me, Professor?”

“If you must have a reason, I have a sense of a common bond. We were both closely associated with the Sane disaster.”

There must be another reason, of course, a strong and compelling one, but Storr was certainly not going to divulge it. Costain had to accept unquestioningly – and if
he
needed a reason, there was Marion.

“I still don't understand, but I would like to come.”

“I am very glad,” Storr had said. “You won't regret it, I promise you.”

By his side, there had seemed to be almost a reflection, not of himself but of Palfrey. This was what Palfrey would have wanted, he could almost see the faint smile of approval on his face.

 

At Kennedy Airport the party had been separated; the men sent to one of the conveyor belt platforms, Griselda and Marion to another. Costain could recall looking across at them, Marion sturdy and firmly set, Griselda taller, more slender and, in an aquiline way, quite beautiful.

A coloured Customs Officer was on the other side of the belt on which his one case stood.

“Is this all the baggage you have, sir?”

“Everything, yes. I came away in a hurry.”

“So it seems, sir.” The man had smiled, obviously amused, then bent forward and rummaged through the case. “Don't show any surprise,” he had said, and Costain had in fact stiffened. “I work for Dr. Palfrey.”

“Good God!” Costain had felt as if he were knifed.

“Yes, sir. I am going to put two telephone numbers inside your case—learn them off by heart, and call either if you want to talk to Palfrey or send a message.”

It was as unbelievable as the rest, yet strangely reassuring.

“I will.”

“Have you any knowledge of your destination?” The slip of paper was safely slipped inside a folded shirt.

“The mountain states,” Costain had said.

“Hasn't Storr been more specific?”

“Not yet.”

“It is vital to know your destination as early as possible.”

“I will send word as soon as I know.”

“Good. That's all, sir.”

“Thank you,” Costain had said. “Tell Palfrey I am as puzzled as he must be.”

“Sure will, sir. In that packet is an American Express Credit Card—sign it so that you will be able to get money so that you can be independent of Storr if you have to escape.”

“Very well.”

“Be careful, sir.”

“As careful as I can,” Costain had promised. “Just as careful as I can.”

 

At the end of the platform, Arthur Harrison and Philip had been waiting, Philip in an invalid chair, glowering.

“They kept you a hell of a time. Trying to smuggle pot in or something?”

“They certainly intended to make sure,” Costain answered good humouredly. “Too little luggage seems to alert their attention even more than too much.”

Philip dismissed the subject with a grunt as Marion approached. She held a newspaper in her hand, and by her manner and the way she walked it was easy to see that she was badly shaken. Only a few feet away, she lowered the paper, and without a word, held it so that all three could read. It was the
New York Times
with an enormous headline:

 

WYOMING CITY WIPED OUT BY SMOG.

 

By Costain's side was the newspaper, with the whole hideous story, backed up by the added horror of graphic photography. Even now, Costain could hardly believe that what had happened at Sane had been repeated here in one of the mountain states to which they were flying. He could recall the shock on the faces of young Philip and Harrison, knew that in their way they were as shaken as Marion had been.

But they had said little.

Storr had hardly spoken, and Griselda had made no comment at all. Costain had fought with himself. He had to talk, at least to ask some questions; if he simply accepted this as a coincidence they would have known him a rogue or a fool. So he had asked Storr to talk to him in private, away from the others.

“Of course, David, but we haven't long.” Storr had drawn him aside.

“Professor, are we heading for Wyoming?”

“Yes, we are.”

“You know what happened to the city of Mountview?”

“Yes,” Storr had answered, “that is why we are flying there.”

“You mean you knew it was happening before we left England?”

“I was told that it might happen.”

“So—you are involved with this—mass murder,” Costain had said in a voice so tense he hardly recognised it as his own.

“In a way, yes,” Storr had admitted, tonelessly.

“Will you now tell me
why
you asked me to come with you?”

Storr looked at him levelly. “You are an agriculturalist with an engineering background. You are also the one man available with such a background who had the personal experience of being present directly after the Sane disaster. I believe you might be helpful if there were another outbreak, and I had secret information which told me where it might come.”

“Did you warn the authorities?”

Storr had hesitated, and then said with quiet emphasis: “The authorities seldom take any notice of such warnings, David. You should know that.” He glanced away and Costain was aware of a movement out of the corner of his eye. Constance Mann, moving towards them. “David,” Storr had confirmed, “you are under no compulsion to come with us, but I hope you will.” Then the woman had come close and he had turned and smiled at her. “Constance, my dear, I don't think you have met David Costain, a friend of Marion's.”

No one could have failed to be impressed by the striking good looks of this woman, or her affection for Stephen Storr.

 

Costain had had only a few minutes in which to decide what to do.

Even at this minute, he could not be absolutely sure why he continued with them, whether because of Marion, or whether because of Palfrey and the belief that the further he went with Storr's entourage the more he would learn.

Now, it was dark and, the engine noises apart, quiet in the cabin. Comforted by the knowledge that Marion was lying closely and warmly beside him, he dozed off, quickly awaking to the touch of someone shaking him lightly by the shoulder.

“Good morning, sir,” a girl was saying. “Good morning, sir.”

He felt Marion stir.

“Oh.
David
”
she exclaimed.

“Good morning, madam. We shall be landing in twenty minutes. Would you like some coffee now?”

Marion was clutching his hand, as if unbelievingly.

“Please,” said Costain. “For two.”

“Do you take sugar and cream?”

“Just a little cream.”

“I understand, sir. Miss Kemble?”

“Black, without sugar,” Marion said. She turned to smile at Costain as the girl went off. “Did you sleep?”

“A little.”

“I didn't expect to sleep at all,” Marion admitted. She looked at the others, stirring to wakefulness, and then out at the starlit night. “Of course we've crossed two time zones. Or is it three? It's early morning there, anyway.” The stewardess brought the coffee, and David drank it eagerly and was glad of another cup.

Two minutes later, he was unconscious, absolutely dead to the world: and Marion sat on the edge of her seat and looked at him for a few moments, a strange expression in her eyes. Then she pushed past him to the gangway, touching his cheek gently with the tips of her fingers as she passed.