Janice’s death had not been an accident.
She died because she was sleeping in the wrong chalet, and the invisible others had made a mistake. Garnett felt he shared the responsibility—something his conscience would settle with him later—but it carried the tiniest seed of consolation in that the mistake had been bigger than the unknown organisation suspected. Until now all his evidence had been entirely negative or personal, the type of witness that would cause people’s eyes to drift away in embarrassment. But an attempt had been made on his life, the name Xoanon had been spoken again, and Janice was dead….
The police inspector who took charge was a big man with a malarial complexion and baffled brown eyes. Garnett limped up the wooden steps into the motel office behind him, aware that his legs were weakening, and sat down on a magazine-littered couch. The inspector cleared a little space in the scurf of paperwork covering the desk then set his key-ring in the middle of it, somehow conveying his anxiety to get away.
“You look pretty tired, sir. We’ll get this over as soon as we can. You can make an official statement tomorrow.”
“I’m all right,” Garnett said. “I want to make a statement now. I’m Garnett of the Pryce-Garnett Aircraft Company and I have reason to believe that tonight’s explosion was intended to kill me because …’
The inspector’s hands made little swimming movements in the cone of light from the office’s single overhead fitting and he smiled uneasily. “Forgive me, Mr. Garnett. I think you should lie down. The shock …’
“I’ve already told you I’m all right, inspector. Will you let me speak? The men who set the bomb, or whatever it was, are …’
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garnett. I’m going to ask one of my men to have the doctor see you.” The inspector stood up and moved towards the dark rectangle of the open door.
Garnett leaped to his feet and had to grab the desk for support. He tried hard to make his voice cool and reasonable. “Inspector, I’m trying to give you the facts about the bomb explosion that took place here a little while ago.”
“That’s just the point, Mr. Garnett. We have all the facts. There was no bomb—it was a meteorite.”
“A meteorite?”
“That’s right. Quite a small one apparently, but was seen for miles. We’ve had reports of it from half a dozen places up and down the coast. A rare but entirely natural occurrence, sir—so there wasn’t any bomb. Now will you see the doctor? I think you should.” The inspector went out and Garnett heard him whispering to a waiting constable.
Garnett lurched to the door and sat on the polished wooden steps, staring upwards as he waited for the doctor. The sky contained no answers. It remained impersonal, anonymous, and beyond the mountains dawn was already beginning to overpaint the fainter stars.
The Pryce-Garnett organisation was a ‘second generation’ aircraft firm, as distinct from the long-established giants all of which had been founded by World War I aviators. It employed a total of only eight thousand men based in factories at Liverpool and Coventry, and had been given its toe-hold in the fiercely competitive industry solely by the introduction of the Pryce generated wing. The bulk of the electronics equipment associated with the wing was still produced at Pryce’s original plant in Liverpool, but the airframe fabrication and assembly unit in Coventry had become the company’s headquarters. Most of its senior management lived close to Coventry and it was there that Garnett headed on Sunday afternoon as soon as he was freed of his obligations to the authorities at Llanbedr.
He took the shorter route across the Welsh mountains, driving as fast as he dared in view of his condition. The events surrounding Janice’s death had punished him both mentally and physically, and he was reminded how the surgeon who had patched him up after the accident had commented that he might never fully get over it. Garnett had written that off at the time as pessimism but he was beginning to understand what the man had meant.
The big car hissed occasionally as it flashed through scattered rain showers. Once or twice on the journey he glimpsed newspaper billboards on which were scrawled, MOTEL GIRL KILLED BY FIREBALL. Part of him was forced to admire how merely describing Janice as a ‘motel girl’—whatever that might be—had added just the right connotation of shady sexuality to the story. The rest of him was filled with a brooding anger which at times caused his forehead to prickle painfully with sweat and turned his heart into a pulsating pillow, threatening to explode his ribs. In a way he was almost glad of the anger because an adversary who could guide meteorites down on to pin-point targets was someone of whom he would normally have been very afraid. As it was, Garnett was going to come to grips with his enemy in the only way he knew, and was looking forward to it.
It was late afternoon when he reached Coventry and swung round the outskirts to Baginton where Ian Dermott, his general manager, lived. Observation and deduction both indicated Dermott as top man in the mysterious ‘other’ production unit, but looking at his home Garnett was impressed by its sheer normality. The big redbrick house radiated friendliness through its helmet of rain-soaked ivy and the bright lawns vapoured introspectively in the sun. He parked outside the iron gates and walked up the drive, half expecting to be challenged at every step, but the place was silent until he rang the doorbell. As he waited Garnett began to feel foolish, but Janice was dead and there were questions which had to be answered, or at least asked. What was going on at the factory? Why had Janice mentioned someone known as Xoanon in her last breath? Was she one of them? How did one set about steering a meteorite? And why … ?
The door opened. Dermott stood there in a maroon silk dressing gown and with a pair of television glasses in his hand.
“We’ve got to have a talk,” Garnett said flatly.
“Of course, Tony. It’s good to see you. Come in. How was your trip to Wales?” Dermott stood back and cheerfully ushered Garnett into the hall, smiling down at him. “I’ve been watching television alone—becoming addicted to it, I’m afraid. I was able to take it or leave it while big screens were popular but these little gadgets have hooked me.” He held up the glasses. The little eye-sized screens glowed with movement like distant bonfires and a thin wisp of music escaped from the earpiece.
Garnett stared at the familiar, amiable face. “All right, Ian. You’ve done your sane, sensible, crumpets-for-tea bit—now let’s have our talk. What the hell have you been up to?”
“Up to! What do you mean, Tony?” Dermott turned and led the way into the spacious sitting room he used as a kind of office.
“I’m going to blast this thing out into the open,” Garnett said to the other man’s back. “I’m going to kick up the biggest row this country has ever seen, whether you talk or not. This is your only chance to talk about it in private—and you know me well enough to know I mean that.”
Dermott’s shoulders sagged slightly and he turned round. His face was suddenly very pale, almost luminescent. After a long, clock-ticking pause he said, “I suppose we must make the effort.”
“Never mind making efforts. Start making sense.”
Dermott swayed slightly and when he spoke his voice was harsh. “We are, as you suspected, completing a twenty-metre wing unit.”
Garnett had known, yet hearing it shocked him. ‘But why? For God’s sake why? Who wants it?”
“The customer’s name is Xoanon. I’ve never seen him. He’s an … I suppose you’d call it an extraterrestrial.”