The Smog (6 page)

Philip glowered, but made no retort. Palfrey turned towards the door and Costain and Storr followed him. Storr went ahead and opened the door, and Palfrey stepped outside.

He stood absolutely still, staring down.

The tops of the houses and the church tower had disappeared again, hidden by a thick yellow pall. Worse, far worse, a pale yellowish smoke seemed to be rising out of dozens, hundreds, of cracks and crevices in the drive and in the grassy banks which lined the drive, so that even the gates of the Manor were invisible.

 

 

“Oh, my goodness,” Marion exclaimed from just behind the men. “Look!”

“Now we'll have to get out,” Griselda said, with a break in her voice. “Stephen, you can't insist on staying.”

“Everyone out the back way, at once,” Palfrey ordered. “Costain, will you drive my car to the back? Professor, will you—”

He did not complete what he was going to say, for several masked men broke through the smog, dim figures at first, then more sharply defined. As they drew near, the first man pushed his mask to one side and called out: “Dr. Palfrey! We can't contain this—get everyone away at once.”

“They've already started,” Palfrey said. “Do you know where the stuff is coming from?”

“It seemed to start near the gates of the Manor,” the man answered. “For God's sake—”

He broke off, kicking against a stone and pitching forward – and as he did so a wisp of the smog rose up from the spot where he had tripped. Then Costain, almost by the car, saw a little puff of smog near the car itself. The fumes bit into his throat and he started to cough.

Marion Kemble was just behind him, and wrenching the passenger door open he turned and pushed her roughly in, then ran round to the other side, and grabbed the wheel. The key was in the ignition. All about them, on higher ground as well as low, the puffs of smog were getting thicker and more frequent. Griselda sprang to the car and scrambled in the back as Costain started off.

He glanced towards the porch and saw that Palfrey was wearing a small mask, not much different from a hospital mask, but with goggles which fitted snugly. Other men with more conventional masks had emerged from the smog, but the most awful sight was the little spiral clouds of smog which rose everywhere until one joined with another to make a blanket of evil smelling fumes that crept slowly but remorselessly towards the Manor.

Palfrey raised an arm, waving the car away. Costain put on speed, relieved at seeing the gravel ahead and the grass on either side free from the clouds of vapour.

“I don't know whether that man's a fool or a genius,” Griselda remarked.

“I don't know whether to hate him or admire him,” said Marion. “Do you know him well, Mr. Costain?”

“Know Palfrey well?” asked Costain, startled. “I'd never met him until yesterday. I'd heard of him, of course.”

“What do you think of him?” asked Griselda.

Costain took his time in answering, knowing that if he were ever to make the right impression with these two members of Storr's household, this was the great opportunity. He turned out of a side entrance onto the narrow road which led sharply upwards, reached the top, saw the other car half a mile ahead, and a stretch of clear sky and lovely countryside, an unbelievable contrast with what lay behind them.

“On the whole,” he answered at last, “I think he frightens me. Almost as much as the smog,” he added with a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl.

“How does he frighten you?” inquired Marion.

“I think he's utterly ruthless and will let nothing get in his way,” Costain answered.

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Griselda, and the tone of her voice added a strange, almost prophetic warning to all that Costain had said.

 

Palfrey was not thinking of them.

His mask was effective enough for the time being but he knew that he would not have to stay in this atmosphere long. The clear goggles were darkened by the polluted air, and although he could see within a radius of a hundred yards, beyond that there was only the thick, slowly stirring smog. It carried him back to the days of his boyhood, to days of London's pea soupers, but there was something much worse about this, a sinister, uncanny element that struck terror to the heart.

And he knew how bright and fresh was the air beyond it.

Half a dozen men were moving about, all of them with what looked like mine detectors, and each stopped at one or other of the tiny cracks in the ground from which the smog seemed to come, and held the ‘detector' over it. They were measuring the density and taking samples which would be analysed in the laboratories at Fulton. The irony of the fact that Fulton was so near was never far from his mind; nor was the possibility that, in spite of the assurances of the authorities there, this poisonous gas was a result of some unofficial experiment.

But why and how did it come out of the ground?

He walked through the gateway of the Manor and turned right, towards the village. He knew it fairly well, now, for he had spent much of the night here – and he did not think that he would ever be free from the effects of the macabre horror of this village of the dead.

How many bodies had been taken away by now?

The man who had come to warn the group in the Manor joined him, and pointed downwards. His meaning was obvious; there were no outlets of smog on the macadamised surface of the roadway, or on the paths. A red pillar box built into an old brick wall faced him on the right, with the familiar ER on it and the times of collections black on white enamel.

It had been the postman, who had come to clear the boxes in the village for the morning collection, who had given the warning about the smog.

Palfrey came to the Drummonds' house.

He wondered how Grace Drummond was, then that thought faded, for he saw two soldiers, grotesque in special protective suits, wearing masks which had built-in cylinders of oxygen. The door was open but beyond it was a thick canvas curtain. The man with Palfrey pushed this aside, and Palfrey stepped into a small decontamination chamber where two men stood, each carrying a miniature spray gun. One sprayed Palfrey, one the officer. The men nodded, and now Palfrey led the way into the next room.

This was a pleasantly furnished living room.

The whole of the window had been blacked out with gas-resistant, processed hessian, and there was a square cover built over the fireplace. Otherwise, nothing appeared to have been altered. In an ashtray by the side of an armchair were several cigarette butts, while in between two chairs was a low table with whisky, a soda syphon and two glasses.

Both men removed their masks.

“You'd better have a regulation mask if you're going to be here long, sir.” The officer, Lieutenant Hill, was probably half Palfrey's age, fresh-faced, clear-eyed, obviously public school.

“I shall indeed,” said Palfrey. “How did this particular bother start?”

“Can't be absolutely sure, sir. I was in here when I received a report that the concentration was much greater than it had been, between this spot and the Manor. And I didn't lose any time coming to warn you.”

“A good thing you didn't,” said Palfrey. “What is the concentration like at the other end of the village?”

“Very much as before. Care to come straight into the operations room or would you like some coffee or anything?”

“I'll go straight in,” Palfrey said.

The ‘operations room' was across a narrow passage, and was in fact the dining room. Here was a long refectory table set with chairs which looked very much like genuine William and Mary. On one wall were two lighting brackets which had been adapted by the army to take a couple of powerful lamps. A non-commissioned officer, sitting under the harsh brilliance, scrambled to his feet as Palfrey and the officer entered.

The lieutenant picked up a small stick, rather like a conductor's baton, and pointed to an Ordnance Survey map fastened to one wall. All over this there were red marks, tiny crosses – sometimes two, three or even four close together.

“Where the bodies were found,” he said.

Palfrey nodded. “What are the green smudges?”

“They denote the deeper concentration of the stuff,” Hill said. “How many more reports since I left, sergeant?”

“Twenty-seven, sir—you see where the area has been dotted?” The man pointed with a long forefinger and Hill waved the stick. “Between the north end of the village and the Manor, sir.”

The whole of this area had been dotted with green. It was narrow, close to the village, and gradually widened, until it looked like a mass of dots encircling the Manor.

“Well?” Hill asked.

“The reports are so numerous from that area, sir, that I dotted it—impossible to keep an accurate record.”

“I see, yes.”

“Meaning, exactly?” said Palfrey.

“That's the area we walked through,” Hill said. “Any source discovered?”

“No, sir. But obviously it comes from underground.”

“I like proof, not guesswork, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What investigations are pending?”

“The blue areas indicate places where we are digging to find out if the source
is
underground, sir.”

“And are there no reports in?”

“None, sir.”

“Where is the nearest dig?” asked Palfrey.

“Fifty-two yards from this safety zone, sir.”

“In the garden of this house, do you mean?”

“In a shed, to be exact, sir—a shed at the end of the garden.”

“Is there a petrol-fired generator plant here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'd like you to get some alternative source of light, and have the generator dismantled with very great care,” Palfrey said to Hill.

“I'll put some mechanics onto it straight away. Sergeant, see to it.”

“Yes, sir.” The man picked up a field telephone near his chair.

“And I'd like to go and see this dig,” said Palfrey. “Can I have one of the regulation masks?”

“And a protective suit,” Hill recommended.

“In the next room, sir,” the corporal volunteered. “The kitchen.”

Hill nodded, and led the way. As they reached the door, Palfrey paused and turned on his heel.

“Any further casualties reported?”

“Birds and animals only, sir—no human casualties. The whole area is cordoned off, of course, with an electrified wire fence.”

“Yes. Any reports of anyone trying to get through?”

“No, sir.”

“How many corpses have been removed?”

“Fifty-one, sir. The operation is still proceeding.”

Palfrey nodded, and went out with Hill. One man was in charge of the masks and uniforms next door and in a mild way Palfrey marvelled at the efficiency with which the military had taken over. It was almost as if they had been in control here for weeks, not just a few hours. Masked and safely clad, he went out by the back door, and stood for a moment, studying the situation.

The land rose upwards in a gentle slope from the end of a patch of grass on which stood a child's steel framed swing, a see-saw, and one or two gaily painted toys. Beyond this was a vegetable garden in which everything was wilting; an orchard; and at the end of the orchard, a shed which, wider than an average garden shed, looked more like a large summer house or cabin. Beyond this in turn, masked men in the now familiar protective clothing were digging.

The uncanny thing was that they dug down into the rising blanket of smog, which rose thickly about their feet, thinning a little at waist height.

“Looks as if they've found one source,” Hill muttered grimly.

Palfrey nodded as they went on to the shed, the door of which stood open. On the threshold they paused. Two men were standing inside a hole which was at least five feet deep, dug in the floor of the shed, and they were on either side of a big container, of the kind in which Calor or Butane gas was stored. One end of this disappeared into the earth; from the other, thin pipes rose to the surface, controlled by valves and stop cocks.

“So we've found
one
source,” Lieutenant Hill said, and this time he could not keep the excitement out of his voice.

Palfrey nodded, as for the second time he saw a picture of Grace Drummond's face in his mind's eye.

 

 

Palfrey stayed with the investigating team and watched the story unfold.

Yet more pipes leading from the big tank led hundreds of feet along the ground, surfacing through holes drilled in the ground. All the pipes led to the Manor House. There was no doubt that the means of distributing the carbon monoxide had been discovered. Sooner or later what had happened this morning would have happened; there was as yet no way of telling whether it was simply a case of accidental escape of the gas.

“I still don't see how it rises up through the topsoil,” Hill had said.

“Worm holes and mole and rabbit holes, sir,” volunteered a sergeant in the team. “You'd be surprised at just how many tunnelling animals and insects there are. The gas has been released through little valves in the pipes—” he pointed to marks in a plastic hose, rather like a garden watering hose – “and the pump we saw back at the shed created sufficient pressure. Once the gas was released it found its way through the crevices and holes and loose earth. Very simple, sir, really.”

“Yes,” said Palfrey. “But
why?
Any ideas, sergeant?”

“Not really, sir, except that a clever johnny who could fix a thing like this is just the chap to go off his rocker.”

“You could be right,” said Palfrey bleakly. He turned to Hill. “Have you enough men to organise a rigorous search for any other source of distribution?”

“I could use another company,” Hill admitted.

“I'll arrange it,” promised Palfrey.

Not long afterwards he was out of the contaminated area, being driven by one of his own agents who had been summoned by radio. The almost unbelievable thing was the normality of everything outside the stricken area. Cows and sheep grazing, here and there men working in the fields, birds flitting, a flock of rooks feeding on one freshly ploughed field. He was at Winchester police station twenty minutes after leaving Sane, and Superintendent Devine was in his office, studying reports already sent in from the village.

“I can hardly believe it,” he said to Palfrey. He looked pale and shaken. “If this stuff were introduced through domestic gas pipes, or sewers or water mains—” he broke off, looking helplessly at Palfrey. “But that's why you're so worried, isn't it?”

Palfrey said: “Yes. Don't breathe a word about such a possibility to a soul.”

“I won't, I promise you, but it's the kind of thing the Press might think of.”

“If they suggest it to you, make light of it, will you?” Palfrey waited just long enough for Devine to nod, before going on: “Is Mr. Costain still with Professor Storr?”

“Yes, sir. They had lunch together in a private room at the hotel.”

“Any indications of where they're going?” asked Palfrey.

“One possible indication,” answered Devine. “They've been in touch with a firm of estate agents in Bournemouth about an apartment or apartments. Their call to the agents was tapped.”

“Bournemouth,” echoed Palfrey. “They don't appear to want to go far. Is there any indication of an association between Geoffrey Drummond and Professor Storr?”

“None that I can trace,” said Devine. “There's one thing, Dr. Palfrey.”

“Yes?”

“I've been instructed by the Home Secretary to give you all possible assistance and absolute priority and of course I will, but—” he broke off awkwardly.

“It poses problems,” Palfrey remarked drily. “I'll have a lot of my own men as well as Military Police here before the day's out, you won't be overstretched much longer. But they'll need someone with extensive local knowledge to work with them.”

“Not the slightest problem about that,” Devine assured him.

“Good. And my chaps will be fully briefed,” Palfrey said. “Now I'm going back to London.”

“There's an Army helicopter standing by for you,” Devine told him, and then added in an almost embarrassed way: “I would like to say what an—er—hon—er—what a privilege it is to work with you.”

“You're very good,” murmured Palfrey.

Soon he was flying over the Hampshire countryside, north-east towards London. He saw village after village, country towns like Basingstoke and Odiham, and in the distance the more urban ones of Guildford, Aldershot, Reading, Newbury, and Salisbury. Every village could be as vulnerable as Sane had been, every town could be wiped out.

“Take it easy,” he warned himself. “Time for panic later.”

He had an appointment at six o'clock with the Home Secretary, who was the political and administrative head of home affairs and so in direct authority over the police forces of the nation, and with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. The chiefs of other police forces, and representatives from the Army and from Biological and Gas Warfare Research Departments would also be there. The conference was inescapable but he hated the thought of it. There would be hosts of questions which he couldn't answer, questions which would come out of half knowledge.

But at least he would have a few hours at the London headquarters of Z5.

 

Deep beneath the streets of London, spreading over a considerable area and approached by lifts from sections of the Elite Hotel in Mayfair, the headquarters of Z5 had been made as invulnerable as it was possible to be. There were three floors. On the top one, over a hundred yards beneath the streets, were the administrative offices, on the middle floor the domestic quarters including Palfrey's regular home, and the Control Room. On the lowest floor were more sleeping accommodation, canteens, some of the more closely guarded records, and some rooms, actually ‘cells' where prisoners were kept and where, in times of grave emergency, extreme measures had to be taken to make prisoners talk.

At the moment no one was in these cells.

Palfrey went down by a one-passenger lift, from the hotel foyer, stepped out within a few yards of his own office, and went inside. Waiting for him and getting some papers out of a filing cabinet close to his wide-topped desk was Joyce Morgan, his secretary and confidant. She was a good looking woman in her early thirties, with a fair complexion, dark hair, dark blue eyes. There was a directness about her expression and the way she looked at people, and an innate honesty, that Palfrey fully appreciated. Today, in this room filled with simulated daylight, she was unfeignedly glad to see him, the love she had for him easy to recognise as she welcomed him back from a situation in which his life had been in danger.

He put out his hands, gripped hers, and gave her a quick, almost impersonal hug.

“All safe,” he said. “What kind of a day have you had here?”

“Hectic,” she answered. “Have you had enough to eat?”

“I could manage another sandwich and some coffee.”

“Good.” She turned away and pressed a bell in the desk. “Five minutes, will that do?”

“Just right, bless you.”

She nodded and went out, and he opened a door which led to his bedroom and bathroom, making a sudden decision to have a quick shower. Greatly invigorated, it was only a few minutes later than the time stipulated when he returned to the office. There architects and interior decorators and landscapers had worked a kind of miracle. One wall had become a huge window overlooking a lawn, flower beds, some small trees in full leaf, a table and several chairs. Joyce was in the garden, setting out coffee and cold meats. The garden was her idea, and a remarkable feat, for the lighting was a perfect simulation of daylight.

“If you're going to spend half of your life underground, you may as well have it as comfortable as you can,” she had said. Now, at his approach, she turned round, eager to see him.

“Wonderful,” he said. “No smog.”

“Can't you forget smog for half an hour?”

“I can give it second place,” he conceded.

He saw with satisfaction that the sandwiches and the coffee were exactly as he liked them, arranged with an unobtrusive regard to his small, personal preferences. He was deeply grateful, though no more than that. She knew the awful weight of the burdens he sometimes had to carry; and if he unconsciously traded on the affection she had for him she never, by word or look, allowed him to realise it.

At last he finished.

“Now,” he said, commandingly.

Joyce looked at him, judging him fit to receive the full impact of her report. “The situation is not good.”

“How bad?”

“There are seventy-one major cities where the carbon monoxide and sulphur oxides content in the air, with nitrogen oxides and hydrocarbons, is just below or even just above the danger level to human and to plant life.”

He stared at her, his mind working fast.

“Seventy-one,” he echoed. “Seventeen more than at the last count. Is Los Angeles still in the lead?”

“Barely.”

“Which city has caught up?”

“Tokyo,” she answered. “London, Milan, Oslo—”

“
Oslo!
”
Palfrey exclaimed.

“Yes,” answered Joyce quietly. “Chicago, New York, Denver, Colorado, Lucerne—”

“My God,” exclaimed Palfrey.

“Glasgow—” Joyce broke off. “You can see all the reports, Sap. There's no doubt that pollution in the atmosphere has increased ominously in the past month.”

Palfrey nodded, slowly, fearfully.

For weeks, now, he had been studying the effect of this pollution – rather loosely defined as smog – not only on people but on plant life, and there was nothing remotely reassuring. It was so much on the increase, not only in the major industrial cities, where it might be expected, but in small cities, like Lucerne. Reports of the higher density had been coming in for a long time, and the official government and industrial research units could offer no explanation. The report had been both vivid and terrifying. It had come from Dr. Erasmus Smith, whom Palfrey had since met, Professor of the Oxford Foundation for Air Purity.

He had said:

 

“The progressive contamination of the atmosphere by gases from oil, petrol and coal threatens the future of mankind. Anyone who doubts this is ignorant of the facts. Already the health of most people in city and manufacturing areas is affected. My estimate (see charts) shows a 10% loss of efficiency as a direct result. This, no doubt, the economy could stand. However, there is much worse. Respiratory diseases, leading to death as well as partial or total disability, have startlingly increased. Cancer is also a direct result, both to animal and human. Vegetation – which means food – is also seriously affected. Some areas have a productivity loss of 50% from their smog-free potential. The increasingly adverse effect on metals, stone and rubber has now been proved beyond doubt.

“This is the normal estimate of progressive contamination. Many of the instances investigated, however, are far from normal. In some cases the density of contamination is at least five times above normal. This suggests an additionally malignant cause. Either some new constituent, in some form or another, has been introduced to one of the factors,
or –
an even greater threat – the amount of pollution is now so great as to cause some chemical reaction in the sun's rays, new to science. This
photo chemical
smog, if it increases at the same rate as it has in specified areas (see chart) for the next twelve months, could increase the death-rate by over 500%.

“I am not joking. In my considered view smog is becoming a killer-gas against which there is no defence. Physicists everywhere in the world are working day and night to find if there is a natural cause of the startling increases. It is for the authorities to seek out any other, man-made, cause, and stamp it out. Better that the rate of human social progress should be delayed by a decade or so, than that civilisation should be wiped out.”

 

Country after country had turned to Palfrey and Z5 to find if there were a man-made source, and the nations, through U.N.O., had taken the almost unprecedented step of putting all their resources of research, police and security at the Department's disposal. There were local and national conferences, at various levels; and one was to be held here, at Z5's headquarters, this evening.

So far, there had been no clues; nothing except the continuing and terrifying rate of increase in air pollution even in areas normally clear. But never before had there been a report of anything like the concentrated pollution at Sane. And never before had the once-thought ‘alarmist' prophecies of Professor Smith been so terrifyingly fulfilled.

Palfrey was toying with his hair.

“Nothing else reported on the Sane scale?” he asked.

“Absolutely nothing,” Joyce assured him. “It's the first time there's been any indication that there might be a deliberate attempt to—” she broke off again. “But you're going to tell the Conference all this.”

“Yes,” agreed Palfrey. “Is the Conference Room ready?”

“Of course.”

“Wall map, the lot?”

“Everything.”

“Did any of those coming protest at being asked to attend?”

“I think they're very curious,” Joyce said.

Palfrey smiled, a little vaguely, patted the hair down onto his forehead, pondered, and then looked down at the lists of towns and cities so grievously affected. At last, he looked up.

“Is there any further word from Winchester?”

“Professor Storr has taken three apartments on the same floor of a block of flats on the East Cliff, at Bournemouth, but that's all.”

“He doesn't let the grass grow under his feet. Costain?”

“With Professor Storr's party at the Winchester Hotel.”

“There's not much doubt that Drummond was involved,” Palfrey said thoughtfully. “It's quite possible that his wife may have known something of what he was doing, or at least, whom he worked with. Where is she?”