Energetically, Forbes broke in. “The situation’s changed somewhat, my lad — if you’ll get off the line, I’m just about to ring H.E. myself.” He added, “Shaw’s back.”
There was an exclamation at the other end, and then Forbes rang off and called The Convent.
The urgent summons of the telephone rasped at Hammersley’s nerves, the sudden noise making him start. The Governor, at this late stage — this almost final stage, as it seemed it must be — of Gibraltar’s life, was just about at his limit. He had been content, after Shaw’s report that morning to take Staunton’s advice and hold up the evacuation, due to start at noon, for a few hours more; that call from Algeciras had been a shot in the arm to the Command and the Staff, but now that those hours had dragged slowly, sickeningly, out until late evening he knew he had no right to go on delaying further. That moment of action had come.
Shaw might be in Algeciras, but Algeciras wasn’t Gibraltar, and most of the ships and the aircraft were waiting now— and so in ten minutes the Governor of Gibraltar would speak to the people for the last time.
And then the telephone had rung.
Hammersley reached out for that phone, jerked the handset off. The sudden quiet was almost ominous… and then an urgent voice came along the wire, and at first Hammersley didn’t take in what it had to say.
“Forbes here, sir. It’s all right now. Shaw’s aboard one of the oiling-hulks, and a boat’s gone out to get him. Ackroyd is with him, and they’ve got the missing part of the power unit.”
Hammersley dropped back into his chair, feeling strangely weak, and then sat deathly still, didn’t answer.
“Are you there, sir?” Forbes sounded impatient.
Just for a moment, everything had gone swinging away before him, and the General felt almost light-headed. At the other end of the line the receiver-rest was jiggled up and down. Anxious now, Forbes repeated, “Are you there?”
“Yes, Forbes, I’m here.” The General’s voice was remote. “I’m sorry — go on.”
“I’m going down to the Tower Steps at once, sir, to meet Shaw. I’ll warn the men working on the fuel unit, tell them to hang on a little longer and reassemble the works as quick as they can — stripping down hasn’t done any good anyway — and disregard any orders to leave — if you’re agreeable?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have a naval doctor at the Tower as well.”
“Doctor? What d’you want him for — is Shaw hurt, Forbes?”
“No. But I understand Ackroyd is a bit off his rocker.” The phone shook in Hammersley’s fingers. He thought, God, what a damnably cruel thing to happen now… He said, “That’s a bit of bad luck, isn’t it?” There was a tremor in his voice now, a tremor which he was quite unable to conceal.
“Yes, I know, sir. We’ll do all we can, though. Do I take it you’ll authorize a further delay, sir?”
Hammersley said, “It’s chancy now, but I’ll give you one more hour — one hour, Forbes, no longer. See to your end, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll meet you at Tower Steps.” Hammersley put down the receiver. Taking it up again a moment later, he spoke to the Deputy Fortress Commander and then rang through direct to the broadcasting people to postpone his announcement.
Shaw came fast through the darkness towards the bright lights of the harbour and the town and made in through the moles. As he neared the jetty he could see the reception committee at Tower Steps — H.E., the Flag Officer, Major Staunton, and others. All the way across from the hulk Shaw had been trying to get Ackroyd to understand what he had to do, how everything depended on him now; he’d tried to get the little man into some sort of frame of mind in which he could grasp what was happening beneath the Rock. And all Ackroyd had done had been to look up at him and giggle.
It had given Shaw the shudders. The pain in his guts had come back tenfold, was coming up to gall the back of his throat. As soon as the boat touched he ran up the steps, pushing Ackroyd ahead of him, the small, vital piece of metal safe in his pocket now. Leaving Debonnair in the boat, he pushed brusquely through the reception committee, a bag of reflexes wanting to rush Ackroyd to AFPU ONE.
He caught Hammersley’s eye. “Reporting back, sir. And now we’d better hurry.”
“Of course.”
Transport was waiting, and Shaw took Ackroyd’s arm and propelled him towards the leading truck. The naval surgeon came towards them, eyes blinking rapidly through thick lenses. He put a hand on Shaw’s shoulder. “Just a moment, Commander,” he said. “My patient.”
Shaw rounded on him, shook off the detaining hand. “Your patient, hell!” he snapped. “He’s got a job to do first. After that you can put him to bed for a year for all I care.”
“But I understand… the man… I may be able to help in some way—”
“Get in the back of the truck with him, then, and help him as we go along.” Shaw gave the doctor a hard look. “I’m relying on his reacting automatically when we get there. That’s the only way and the only hope. Pills — stethoscopes— they won’t be any good.”
The Surgeon-Commander nodded non-committally, noting that Shaw himself was about all in. Then he got into the back of the truck with Ackroyd and they moved off, Shaw in the front seat, Hammersley and the others in another vehicle behind. They drove quickly along the jetty below the Tower, turned to the right by the Ragged Staff gate and moved along the dockyard’s eastern boundary until they came to the black hole which was the entry to Dockyard Tunnel; they drove under the arch into the gloom. The drips of water, ancient rains which had filtered down through the rock, fell on them, cold as a kiss of death — all the way Shaw could hear the Surgeon-Commander talking to Ackroyd in a low, soothing, continuous flow of words. Now and then Ackroyd’s giggle broke through to exacerbate what was left of Shaw’s nervous system, and then, farther along, the little man started that grotesque humming: Dum-da, dum-da, dum-da.
After a while the going became hard, the truck seemed to bog down; they had to go slower. Shaw, seething with impatience, was relieved when he heard Hammersley’s order to stop. The General called, “Quicker on foot — pile out, there!”
They left the vehicles where they stood and went forward at the double. If that thing ahead of them went up now at least they wouldn’t know a thing about it. Shortly after they’d started running Shaw could hear the noise of the machine itself; as it got nearer it seemed almost to thud and drum through the living rock itself, a crescendo of sound which battered at the ears and drowned everything else. It was much faster than Shaw remembered it the day he’d first heard it, only — what was it? — five days before.
The noise grew louder, much louder, as they came up to the side tunnel, went along the narrow passage towards the power-house. Shaw glanced at Ackroyd; the man, though pale and shaky, was looking about him, as though more aware of his surroundings now; a chord, Shaw thought, may have been struck already. He prayed fervently that it had, that it would remain responsive.
The heat was intense, and it seemed to Shaw as though it was coming in great waves from the power-house itself; and when they crowded in through the entrance to the vast cavern he saw that the men working on the fuel unit were stripped down to their shorts, great beads of sweat rolling down their glistening bodies. In here, the heat was almost unbearable, and it made Shaw feel faint. He looked across at Ackroyd again, willing him to get cracking on the machine and sort things out. The little man had a frown on his face now, and he looked back at Shaw appealingly, and then away from him to the great thundering machine behind its lead curtain, now half stripped away. As Shaw followed his glance he saw that the metal casing proper was glowing faintly in parts as though it was red-hot.