The white-overalled technician on watch — quite a youngster, red-haired and fresh-faced and keen — came forward, raised an eyebrow at the security policeman.
“All right, mate. Gentleman’s been sent by Major Staunton.”
“Oh… okay, then.” The technician looked at Shaw, who smiled in a friendly way, shook his hand, and established his Admiralty status. He asked the man one or two questions, the answers to which, horrifyingly, confirmed the theories which he’d put to Staunton. The technician looked a reliable sort — and the Old Man back in London had told him that all the men on this job had had a severe screening and were all first-class hands. Shaw cut into the man’s technical explanations and asked:
“Is any help being requested from home, now Mr Ackroyd is — gone?”
“Yes, sir. The Admiral’s asked for a team of experts to be flown out from London, but if we can’t stop her I reckon they won’t either.” The youngster opened a panel in the side of AFPU ONE after raising a lead ‘curtain,’ and pointed to a small red button. He said, “That’s what ought to do it — see? Just press that and off she goes. But it won’t work.”
The young man’s face was troubled, as though in some way his own efficiency was at fault. Shaw stretched out a hand and pressed, hard. The red button went right in, quite freely, as though it had no resistance behind it, as though something wasn’t engaging somewhere; it hadn’t the touch of a button which has merely gone a bit screwy as it were, a button which might have jiggled a little in its socket like a faulty bell-push.
Shaw’s face puckered up. In natural bafflement, he said, “Feels almost as though something’s missing somewhere.”
It was just a shot in the dark really, but it brought a response.
The man’s eyes lit up and he said, “Well, sir, that’s just exactly what I’ve been thinking. But I don’t see how it could be… unless—” He broke off, uncertainly.
“Go on,” Shaw prompted. “Unless what?”
“Well, sir, Mr Ackroyd, he was — always very touchy about the fuel-producing unit, if you know what I mean.” The youngster spoke awkwardly, hesitantly, a little diffident that he should be critical of his chief.
Shaw helped him out. He said, “Yes, I know, lad. Well — what’s your theory?”
“I was on watch when he was in here last — before he disappeared, see? I don’t think he realized it, but — Look, sir, you come over here a minute.”
Shaw followed him to the remote-control panel. The technician pointed to it. “See, sir? It’s very highly polished; you just look into it. You can see the machine reflected in it.”
“Yes,” Shaw agreed. “You certainly can, and very clearly.” He could see beyond that lead curtain, right to the panel where the red button was. “Well?”
“Well, sir, Mr Ackroyd, he was messing about with the primary starting-panel last night. He didn’t know I was watching, and I wasn’t, not all the time. I was looking at the dials. You have to most of the time when she’s just started up, see. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be at the starting-panel, of course, but I did think he was — well, sort of edgy, and he kept looking in my direction… almost as though he was doing something he didn’t ought to.”
“Uh-huh.” Shaw looked searchingly at the man, blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You mean he may have done something to the starting-mechanism?”
“Yes, sir, I do, and that’s honest. I think he may have removed a bit of it. That’s the sort of thing he would do, as you’d see if you’d worked with him. He’s — he was as nice as anything to work for if you kept on letting him see you knew he was brainy, like… but he wouldn’t put up with any of what he called interference. I don’t know if you follow, sir? He’s—”
“I think I follow all right. But so far as I know, nothing was found on the body.” An idea had come to Shaw and, though he felt certain that the body wasn’t Ackroyd’s, he knew that it would be just as well if the impression got around that he did believe it was, for this impression would, with any luck, reach Karina through her contacts and help to give her a false confidence. “Didn’t any of this occur to you last night — while Mr Ackroyd was here?”
“No, sir. Wouldn’t have been up to me to say anything if it had, come to that.” He still looked puzzled. “I’ve just been putting two and two together after all this happened and we couldn’t stop her, and a short while ago I remembered what I’d seen, see?”
Shaw nodded. “Told anyone else?”
“Well, I talked it over with my mate.”
“Natural enough,” Shaw murmured. “But for the time being, I want you and your mate to keep dead quiet about this, and in the meantime I’ll see it’s passed on to the proper quarter. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Shaw went back to the fuel unit. “When these London experts get here, won’t they be able to make a spare, if that is what’s happened?”
The man shook his head doubtfully. “There’s no real expert except Mr Ackroyd so far as I know — these people, they won’t be properly familiar with it.” He sniffed a little. “You couldn’t strip the mechanism right down anyway, not while she’s working, not unless you’re prepared to commit suicide. I’d say they won’t get results in the time.”
Shaw felt his guts twisting. He asked, “I believe this particular fault was always on the cards, wasn’t it — at least, after you ran her through for test the other day?”
“That’s right.”
“Has it started producing yet?”
“Just started, sir — before we expected her to, but nothing’s been ejected.” The man looked strained.
“I see. Is there any sort of indicator which’ll tell you when the thing’s on the point of — going up?”
“Yes.” The technician led Shaw back to the main remote-control panel, pointed to a bulb set in the centre of it, a bulb which very dimly glowed, a mere thread of redness illuminating its coils. “That’s the primary safety indicator. Far as we know at present, there’s a time-limit anyway to the running of the fuel unit, after which it starts to get dangerous if she’s not switched off for a rest and to cool down, but of course what’s happened now, see, it’s a definite fault—over-heating.” He wiped sweat from his face. “None of us know very much about this, mind, but the brighter that light gets the nearer we are to the time to switch off. ’Course, it’s only meant to draw the attention of the man on watch to it — there’s a dial indicator here — see? When the pointer reaches the red line that’s going to be the danger mark — so far as we know, sir. We can’t be absolutely certain because she’s never been run for long before.” He added, “There’s one more warning — a final one. A siren. When that sounds you throw the switches off fast as you can and beat itl That’ll only go if the dials are faulty and under-reading.”
“Uh-huh. These danger indicators weren’t put in just in case this particular situation arose — I mean, this clogging-up fault?”
“Oh, no, sir. They’re just a general indication that she’s getting to the end of her safe running time, that’s all, but they’re all we’ve got to go on — except for a bell which rings if any activity’s released, and that’s a different thing altogether.”
“So, in fact, she could go up at any time, really?”