‘The next probe will have electrically controlled cameras, working with a 55-mm. lens at F/1.2 on highspeed black and white. It’s essentially dim-light photography. We are inclined to accept the theory that the origin of Gegenschein is particles of matter trapped at the Moulton Point, reflecting sunlight. You know what the Moulton Point is?’
He wasn’t relaxing for a moment, thought Adrian. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘The theoretical point 940,000 statute miles from earth along the anti-solar axis where the sum of all gravitational forces is zero.’
‘Bet you were the top boy in the class,’ mocked Pavel.
‘Alpha-plus every time,’ replied Adrian.
‘Or perhaps you’ve absorbed a lot. Alexandre must have been very forthcoming.’
Adrian didn’t reply, but marked the response on his clipsheet for later examination when the tape was transcribed. He felt there had been a little too much eagerness in Pavel’s reaction, too much artifice in trying to annoy with sarcasm, then following up with a question which could have brought out any angry, unconsidered reply. Pavel went on. ‘Can I see Alexandra?’
‘Of course.’
‘When?’
‘In a while.’
‘After you’ve drawn all the material possible from me?’
Adrian smiled. The other man was remarkably well informed about debriefing procedure. ‘Yes,’ he smiled.
‘How long will that take?’
‘Depends on how long our debriefing sessions last.’ The Russian-speaking guards entered with coffee, and for a few moments they stopped talking. Adrian waited, putting a theory to the test. It was Pavel who broke the silence.
‘We could talk and take our coffee at the same time.’
Adrian nodded, happy at the outcome. For the next three hours they talked, ranging over future Russian moon exploration from passive seismic experiments, suprathermal ion detection and cold cathode gauge probes to planned geology investigations and then covering, point by point, the equipment that would be provided in the space platforms and mooncraft.
Adrian stopped at one-thirty. No cooked meal for forty-eight hours he thought, as he looked at his watch.
‘We made progress today,’ said Pavel.
‘Yes.’
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘Yes, but I have to stop on the way here, so I won’t arrive until eleven-thirty.’
‘Oh, so he’s quite near here.’
Adrian had his back to the Russian, storing clipboard and questions into the briefcase with the numbered combination lock, so the surprise was concealed.
‘Who?’ he parried.
‘Alexandre, of course,’ said Pavel, irritably. ‘Who else would you be seeing? Will you tell him about me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No, I suppose there’s not a lot of point. You’ve got all you want from him, so there’s nothing to be gained in using my defection as a bargaining point or shock revelation.’
‘I can’t recall telling you that we’ve got everything from Bennovitch.’
‘Haven’t you then?’
A fraction too quick, judged Adrian. He didn’t reply to the Russian’s question. Perhaps detecting his own eagerness, Pavel did not repeat it.
Again Adrian drove leisurely back to London. It would not be possible for them to hear the full tape, but he would give them sufficient time to realize progress was being made.
He thought about Anita, wedged in that cramped City office, typing out shipboard invoices and cargo manifests. She had said Anne Sinclair worked in the same building. But not a typist, judged Adrian, easing the car through Vauxhall. No, Anne Sinclair didn’t fit the role. She’d be a personal secretary, super-efficient, shouldering a lot of responsibility, friendly yet just a little bit too aloof from any office Romeo who tried to create any relationship. He wondered if anyone there knew of the association between the two women, guessed from intercepting a glance or seeing a half hidden gesture. Probably not. Anne Sinclair wouldn’t let that happen because it would reveal a failing and Adrian didn’t think she was a girl who admitted to any failings.
Miss Aimes was in the office when he entered and carefully locked away the briefcase.
‘He hasn’t come back,’ she reported.
Adrian was momentarily confused.
‘Who?’
‘The pigeon.’
‘Oh.’
He felt her looking at his creased suit. At least the shirt was fresh.
‘Your wife away?’
‘What?’
‘I asked if your wife was away.’
Why should he reply? The relationship between them had always been strictly businesslike, so there was no encouragement to impertinence, sarcasm veiled in what appeared a casual inquiry. He should put her in her place, immediately.
‘Yes,’ he lied instead. ‘As a matter of fact she is. Her mother … her mother is ill. She’s gone to the country to look after her.’
‘Oh.’ The woman took another look at the suit.
‘Any messages?’
‘Sir Jocelyn wants to see you at three-thirty,’ said the secretary. ‘I’ve typed yesterday’s debriefing, and the resulting questions have come across from the Technical Section.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There was a note on your reminder pad.’
‘What?’
‘On your reminder pad, you’d written my name. Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?’
Adrian recalled her early departure from the office the previous evening and the resolution to make a protest to re-establish his position with the woman. He turned. Inevitably she was patting those rigid iron grey furrows. He wondered if he would ever satisfy his curiosity about that hairpiece.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It was nothing.’
‘Sure?’ she asked.
‘Yes, quite sure.’
The cleared line from Binns buzzed and Adrian picked up the grey telephone.
‘How did it go?’ asked the Permanent Secretary.
‘Better,’ said Adrian. ‘Haven’t you heard all the tape?’
‘Up to the moment he lapsed into Russian.’
Adrian had forgotten the language change. It would mean translation and cause several hours’ delay.
‘He was much more forthcoming,’ he said.
‘Well, that’s progress.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Adrian.
‘What?’
‘I’ll explain it when we meet.’
‘That’s the point of this call,’ said Binns. ‘This thing is creating the most incredible international outcry from practically everyone. We’ve even had some of our men expelled from Moscow now, alleging that we are actually enticing their scientists across. It’s far far worse than when Oleg Lyalin defected and we expelled the majority of their Trade Mission. America has been asked to pressure us privately to return both Bennovitch and Pavel, in return for future closer space co-operation. The Russians have even offered to let some people from Houston visit Baikonur …’
‘I don’t believe it would ever come off,’ interrupted Adrian.
‘Neither do I,’ picked up Binns. ‘But it’s an impressive offer and the Americans are nibbling hard at the bait.’
‘What else?’
‘Every newspaper in the world is advancing every sort of speculation you can imagine on the importance of these two. The Prime Minister wants to see us this afternoon.’
Adrian looked down at his creased suit. He wouldn’t have time to have it pressed.
‘The Prime Minister?’ he queried.
‘Yes,’ said Binns. ‘He’s taken over personal control.’
‘Oh,’ said Adrian. ‘What time does he want to see us?’
‘Four,’ said Binns. ‘So you’d better come across here at three to brief me fully before the meeting.’
Adrian replaced the receiver and saw Miss Aimes smiling across the desk at him.
‘Going all afternoon?’ she asked.
He nodded, aware she was planning another early night. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps then he’d talk to her.