“You’re positive,” Freeborn said, after a pause, “that it was the white man, Snook, who had the weapon?”
“Yes, sir.” The soldier’s head rolled from side to side as he spoke. “And I only done what the Lieutenant told me.”
“Take this object away,” Freeborn ordered. As the redcaps bundled the soldier out of the office, the sergeant who accompanied them glanced back with an unspoken question. Freeborn nodded and mimed the action of pulling a hat down over his ears. The sergeant—who was a useful man, and knew that the invisible hat was a-polythene bag—saluted correctly and left the office.
As soon as he was alone, Colonel Freeborn lowered his head and thought for a few moments about his brother’s son, then he opened a communicator channel and gave a series of orders which would assemble a force of a hundred men at the entrance to National Mine No. 3. He picked up his cane, flicked a speck of dust from his half-sleeved shirt, and, walking with a firm and measured tread went outside to where his car was waiting. It was two hours before dawn and the night wind was cold, but he waved away the coat offered by his driver and got into the car’s rear seat.
During the drive from Kisumu he sat without moving, bare arms folded, and in his mind apportioned the blame for his nephew’s death. One part he allocated to himself—in his efforts to eradicate Curt’s weaknesses he had pushed the boy too hard and threatened him with too much; a larger portion he laid at the door of Paul Ogilvie, without whose interference there would have been no unwanted foreigners meddling with the operation of the mine; but the greatest share of the guilt lay with the insolent trickster, Gilbert Snook, who should have been put down like a dog on the day he entered Barandi.
The hour was not yet ripe for Ogilvie to be brought to book, but within a short time—a very short time, Freeborn promised himself—Snook would regret that he had not been quietly suffocated three years earlier. Each thought of Snook was like the opening of a furnace door within Freeborn’s head, and as he neared the mine he could feel himself being buoyed higher and higher on the searing blasts. It was like a plunge into black Arctic waters, therefore, when—on reaching the mine entrance—he saw one of the Presidential limousines parked outside the gates. Its gleaming waxy haunches looked incongruous against the backdrop of military trucks and watchful troops. He got out of his own car and, knowing what was required of him, went straight to the limousine and got into the rear seat beside Paul Ogilvie.
The President did not turn his head as he spoke. “I want an explanation for this, Tommy.”
“The situation has changed since we…” Uncharacteristically, Freeborn abandoned his officialese. “Curt has been murdered by Snook.”
“I’ve heard about that. I’m still waiting for an explanation of why these men are here.”
“But…” Freeborn felt his temples begin to throb. “I’ve just told you—my nephew has been murdered.”
“Telling me that your nephew and other members of his regiment went into the mine against my orders does not explain why you have assembled this force of men here against my orders.” Ogilvie’s voice was dry and cold. “Are you challenging my authority?”
“I would never do that,” Freeborn said, flooding his voice with sincerity, while his mind weighed up the kind of factors which influence the history of nations. His service automatic was within reach of his right hand, but before he could use it he would have to open the leather flap of his holster. It was most unlikely that Ogilvie would have ventured out without protection, and yet he must have moved very quickly after being contacted by his informants. This moment, here in the darkness of the car, could be a pivotal point for the whole of Barandi—and Curt’s death might have served a useful purpose…
“A penny for them.” The note of complacency in Ogilvie’s voice told Freeborn all he needed to know. The President was protected, and the status quo would have to remain for some time yet.
“Leaving personal issues aside,” Freeborn said, “the Leopard Regiment is a keystone of our internal security. Those men out there don’t know anything about international policies and diplomacies—what they do know is that two of their comrades have been shot down in cold blood by a white foreigner. They don’t think very much about anything, but if they get the idea that such actions are not followed by swift punishment…”
“You don’t need to spell it out for me, Tommy. But the UN people will be here tomorrow.”
“And will they be favourably impressed to learn that murderers go unpunished in Barandi?” Sensing he had found the right approach, Freeborn pressed home his argument. “I’m not proposing a massacre of innocents, Paul. The only man I want is Snook, and he’s probably an embarrassment to the others—they’ll probably be glad to get rid of him.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Let me go in there with a couple of men and simply ask that he give himself up. I’d only have to hint that it would be for the benefit of the others. Including the girl.”
“You think it would be enough?”
“I think it would be enough,” Freeborn said. “You see, Snook is that kind of a fool.”
Having disposed of the brandy, Snook climbed up on the platform and watched the others at work. Since hearing of Murphy’s death they had gone about their tasks with a moody determination, only speaking when necessary. Ambrose, Culver and Quig spent most of their time kneeling at the complex control panel on the rear surface of the Moncaster machine. Even Helig and Prudence were busy with hammers and nails, erecting a makeshift handrail which Ambrose had decreed necessary for safety reasons. They had already completed another structure resembling a shower cubicle built of wood and clear plastic sheeting. Two cylinders of hydrogen stood inside the transparent box.
The concerted activity, in which he had no part, increased Snook’s sense of not belonging, and it was almost with relief that he heard the distant growl of truck engines.
None of the others appeared to notice the sound, so he did not mention it. Minutes dragged by without any sign of military activity, and he began to wonder if his imagination had conjured with the irregular soughing of the night wind. The logical thing, bearing in mind the decision he had reached, would have been to stroll quietly towards the mine entrance, but he felt a powerful reluctance simply to fade away into the darkness. He was not of the group, and yet he did not want to face the alternative.
“That’s it.” Ambrose stood up and rubbed his hands together. “The mini-pile is delivering all the power we need. I think we’re all set.” He glanced at his watch. “Less than half an hour to go.”
“That’s quite a machine,” Snook said, suddenly aware of the enormity of what was being attempted.
“It certainly is. Up until ten years ago you would have needed an accelerator about five kilometres long to produce the radiation fields we can make right in here.” Ambrose stroked the top of the machine as if it were a favourite pet.
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“It can be if you stand in front of it, but that applies to a bicycle as well. It’s machines like this that have speeded up nuclear research so much in the last decade—and with what we’re learning from Felleth…
“Watch out for the cubicle!” Ambrose shouted to Helig. “We can’t afford any rips in the plastic skin—it has to be air-