Being a cautious man, he had started out early, knowing that after a night like the past one travel would be difficult.
But he was beginning to worry. The Ministry meeting was scheduled for 10.30. The others; living around Whitehall, would doubtless be there on time.
The train stopped for ten minutes south of the river.
Osborne saw a Battersea power station, as vast and solid as ever, the usual plume of white smoke from the stack whipped away by the still boisterous wind. Almost imperceptibly they started again, and kept going. The electric signalling system was working here and they swung over the points and cruised gently into Charing Cross. Hastily scrawled notices gave warnings about falling glass from the roof; they were ignored by the rush of exasperated commuters making for the exits.
Out in the Strand life seemed fairly normal. A hoarding had blown down, but traffic was moving, though slowly. The centre of Trafalgar Square was roped off. Nelson still looked across London from his column, but presumably the authorities were taking precautions.
Osborne turned into Whitehall. A barricade or two where windows had been blown out, nothing more. Big Ben stood unharmed, its clock proclaiming that it was 10.21. Osborne quickened his steps. He would be just in time after all.
The Minister was already in his office when he arrived. He grunted a perfunctory greeting and returned to his reading.
'Neilson sent a message he'd be on time,' he said without looking up.
The American arrived a moment later. Osborne cut short his attempt at a cheerful greeting at the sight of the black band on Neilson's arm. The man looked older; the death of his son had hit him hard.
Without preliminaries the Minister opened the meeting.
'No time or reason for formalities,' he said. 'Professor Neilson wants your help, Osborne.' He paused and gave a quizzical look. 'As Neilson's in the picture as regards your position over the Thorness debacle, you won't mind my referring to it. To put your mind at rest, the enquiry's shelved. It's pretty pointless with the two main witnesses, Fleming and the girl, missing. So put that business out of your mind for the time being. This is what you might call a national emergency. An international commission's being set up under Professor Neilson, and we want someone to run the secretariat.'
'Preferably you,' said Neilson. The words were unnaturally hoarse and loud.
Osborne turned to him. 'You're feeling it too, are you?' he asked. 'The breathing?'
Neilson nodded. 'It's pretty general, and worse in the hills.'
'They're evacuating the Highlands,' said the Minister.
'We haven't announced it yet, but it's all part of a general pattern. The air at any altitude is getting too thin to be able to breathe.'
Neilson got up and walked to a table where a weather map had been spread out, held in position by drawing pins.
'The Alps and the Pyrenees are now depopulated,' he said.
'Would you just come over here, Minister, and you, Osborne? I can show you what we've so far ascertained.'
The two men stood on either side of the American. 'The atmospheric pressure's falling rapidly all around here' - he swept his hand in a wide curve from the Shetlands to Brittany - 'as well as in all spots where we have weather ships or Navy vessels able to make careful checks. In other words, the pressure's lowest over the sea in the Northern Atlantic and into the Mediterranean. The indications are slighter in the Indian Ocean and the Pacific, but they are there. Naturally, air rushes from the land masses to compensate, and so you have your storms and this thin atmosphere.'
'What do you want me to do?' Osborne asked.
'If you're fit enough?' interposed the Minister. 'Not getting any trouble from your injury?'
'I'm all right, Minister.'
'Good,' said Neilson. 'Now, as you can imagine, the data I've been able to collect is too vague, too sporadic. We want all the news we can get, properly collated, and then rationalised.
That takes some organising.'
The Minister moved to Osborne and put his hand on his shoulder. 'With this regrettable sabotage business hanging over you, the security people are rather agin your continuing to have access to - well, you understand, old boy? But we can second you to this weather job and faces are saved all round. Specious but practical.'
Osborne gave a wry smile. Before he could say anything, Neilson began explaining what he wanted. 'We've got to work back through the weather records for the past month or six weeks. Your Air Ministry has got out some preliminary data. There's no doubt in my mind that this abnormally low pressure began in one area.'
The Minister returned to the map. 'And I expect you can guess where that was, Osborne,' he said. 'It was here.' He stabbed with his index finger into a cluster of spirals. Beside his finger point the dotted lines of the prohibited maritime area fanned westwards - the Thorness rocket testing range.
Osborne felt no surprise. There was a sort of inevitability about the whole thing.
'So now you have some idea of the channels into which your work may lead,' said the Minister resignedly. 'But I would impress on you that you must remain objective. For a good while your work must be organising a reporting system from all countries. The U.N. people in New York have pushed through a general agreement for co-operation with the committee. You'll get no niet's or non's.'
A mass of wind surged against the building, the modern steel windows protesting but not rattling. It died away as suddenly as it had come. Somewhere in the street glass was tinkling. 'The great thing is speed,' said the Minister.
For the rest of the day Osborne and Neilson worked on setting up an organisation. Largely it was a matter of instructing clerical staff and setting up communications. The Meteorological people at Bracknell would service the information.
They installed a radio link. Land lines were no longer reliable.
Before the spring night had fallen the wind began to increase again. There was every sign of a far worse storm even than during the previous night. Osborne gave up all idea of going home.
Neilson went off to his hotel to get some dinner and Osborne was left alone. He took time off to relax and think.
The way every nation, large and small, had signified its eagerness to co-operate had been encouraging and stimulating. One tiny blank appeared in the long list of countries listed as willing to help. Osborne felt it peculiar that in the face of such danger from a natural phenomenon internal politics should be so jealously regarded in Azaran.
He picked up the phone and asked for the communications duty officer in the Middle East Section at the Foreign Office. The phone was answered immediately, but it was difficult to hear. The air had chosen that moment to whirl itself into a frenzy. Osborne had to shout his request, the effort making him gasp for breath.
Equally laboured came the reply: 'We'll try, sir, but things are difficult. Line communications have gone to hell, and radio is no more reliable. We'll be lucky to get any message out of this building tonight, let alone overseas. And as you know, sir, there's been an upheaval there. Azaran's officially sealed itself off.' A crash drowned out the rest of the words.
'Window's just blown in,' came the voice, 'God, what a night!'
It was mid-afternoon when Fleming heaved himself off his bed and went to his shower. Lethargy was insidiously enveloping him, making it possible to lie for hours doing nothing, sometimes hardly thinking. He had not really imagined that Abu would have any success in getting him an interview with Gamboul, any more than he had a definite idea of what he could say to her if he got the chance. Yet, in the frustration of his existence, he had played a sort of game ever since Abu had gone, pretending that the next ten minutes, or the ten minutes after those, would bring a summons.