The cook said, 'I'm coming too,' and took me to the command trench, where a young lieutenant, probably just as bored but with slightly better literary taste, was yawning over Edgar Snow's Red Star Over China. His name was Westlake and he, too, was galvanized by the word 'fire', and his hand streaked out towards the wall Tannoy microphone.
'It was an hour ago,' I said. 'Don't you think we'd better have another look first?'
'Well . . .' He was doubtful, but he put on his parka and followed me; then, his four a.m, mind seizing on the nub of things after he'd had two minutes to digest it, said as we walked along Main Street, 'An hour\ Why in hell didn't you - '
'Because,' I said, 'the trench door was closed and locked.'
He grabbed my arm. 'No buddy. Not locked.'
'Locked,' I said.
'In that case, I need the goddam keys, right?'
He went back, got them, and joined me a few seconds later. When we reached the trench, the door wasn't even closed, let alone locked, and Westlake fixed me with a hard stare. He said, 'So show me the fire.'
I stood there, looking along the trench. Its lights were on, the door to the hut stood open. There was no smoke anywhere.
'Come on, show me,' Westlake said impatiently. I walked forward to join him, and we went into the hut, Westlake first. The hut lights were on, too, and Westlake took one look round the room and said dryly,
'You sure were right about not sounding the alarm. Oh, brother!'
Beside my bed stood a chair, and on it I'd kept cigarettes and matches. It was the chair cushion that had been burning and had now gone out. But neatly in the middle of the charred plastic foam lay a cylinder of grey ash, the remains of a cigarette.
I felt myself colouring in embarrassment, standing there, staring stupidly at a small, accidental burn in a seatcushion. Westlake said two things, one after the other. The first was that I ought to take more water with whatever I drank so much of, the second that if I undertook not to inform Major Smales in the morning, he damn sure wouldn't, no sir! He left me then to my embarrassment and presumably went back to Edgar Snow's account of Mao-Tse-tung in the Yenan caves. All things considered, it was, I thought, decent of him.
After a while I checked that the fire was, in fact, truly out, and went back to bed, hoping to sleep, but for the second time that night I found I couldn't. My mind kept going back over the whole bizarre business, and some of the time 1 was forced to unpalatable conclusions. I'd certainly panicked when the hut door wouldn't open at first, and only then realized I was trying to open it the wrong way. Was it possible the trench door hadn't been locked either, and that I had been so panicky I hadn't even tried properly? But no, that wasn't true. I'd spent a lot of time on that door, pulling, pushing, twisting and turning, and it was closed and locked. Of that I was sure. The other door, in the trench where the bodies lay, was certainly locked, I knew that, and was kept locked, too, on Barney Smales's firm orders. And what about the burn? Thinking back, I could remember ... I was sure I could remember it.., leaning over on my elbow to stub out that final cigarette in the ashtray, and stubbing it out, moreover, the way I always did, bending the tip over the burning end and pressing down hard. 1 had, hadn't I? I always did it that way, so I must have! Admittedly, though, I'd been damned tired, my eyelids closing. At that point they must have closed again, because I fell asleep with the lights on and didn't awaken until nine, and I only woke then because there was a tap on the door and Sergeant Vernon came in and said,
'Sorry, sir, but Major Smales would like to see you right now.'
In the cold light of morning, which is hardly a precise description of the low yellowish lighting in my hut, it was clear enough to me that Barney Smales must, by now, know that I'd been out on the surface, without permission, without telling anybody, and alone, during the night. Three of Smales's sacred and sensible rules lay in ruins and it was unreasonable to imagine that Lieutenant Westlake, despite what he'd said, had not entered it all in the log. He'd have had to enter it; not to do so would have been severe dereliction of duty. So I was prepared for a roasting as I hurried towards the command trench and went into Barney's hut. Master Sergeant Allen, in the outer office, gave me a brief 'Good morning' and pointed to the door.
I hesitated, knocked, and went in on the word 'Come'.
Then I waited for the blast. Barney sat behind his desk, smiling benignly. I looked at him warily; the last days had accustomed me to his psychological tricks. He looked up at me and said, 'Ah, the Englishman, ain't that right ?'
'Morning, sir,' I said neutrally.
He snapped his fingers. 'Something I wanted to say to you.'
'Oh.' I watched his face, waiting for the swift change of expression, the sudden rasp of anger.
'Yeah.' There was a pause. He reached for a ballpoint pen on his desk and looked at it. 'Kind of a neat piece of design, you agree?'
'The pen?' I said. I could feel myself being drawn into some kind of trap. Any second now, the world would fall on me.
'Sure,' Smales said. 'Real functional.' After a second, he added: 'Pretty colour, too.'
'Very.'
'Yeah.' He blinked.
I said, 'You sent for me.'
'That I did.' He held up the pen. 'I like things functional, things that do the job. Like your machine.'
He was talking, I realized with relief, about the TK4. Metamorphosis into salesman. 'Fine machine,' I said quickly. 'And she can do a lot more than that. I'm looking forward to demonstrating - '
He nodded. 'Functional,' he said. He was still holding the pen, looking at it, not at me. I wondered suddenly if he were drunk, then rejected the idea. The pattern of his words, the genial lassitude, were reminiscent of mild drunkenness, but the words themselves were spoken with clarity; there wasn't even the suspicion of a slur.
He said, 'It's my duty to tell you a thing like that. I'll also tell you - ' he paused again and it was a long pause - 'that I don't want air-cushion vehicles up here.'
I felt my scalp click back. I knew perfectly well that Barney Smales didn't approve of the hovercraft as Arctic transport; I knew also that he was the last man to say so before the trials had taken place. There was something wrong here and I'd better disengage myself before it became worse. I said, 'Well, thanks for telling me,' keeping my tone carefully cheerful, turning for the door. He didn't stop me. 'You ought to be told,' he said, as the door opened and closed behind me. I found myself looking into Master Sergeant Allen's eyes. He said, 'Okay, Mr Bowes ?'
I hesitated. Allen looked calm, competent . . , was there an enquiring look somewhere behind the formality? I said, 'I'm not sure.'
He regarded me steadily. 'Not sure?'
I thought about it, and Allen sat there, still and intelligent, watching me think. If I said anything, however mild, however delicate the hint, the meaning would be the same; I'd be saying, 'Your boss is going weird.'
The phrases ran through my mind: 'a little strange this morning; did you notice anything? He must be tired.' All meaning the same, and if spoken by this possibly paranoid stranger who'd been seeing spooks ever since he arrived, further proof of a perhaps dangerous instability. I searched for some lame phrase. Finally, I said, 'I wouldn't want to job!'
Unhelpfully, Allen said, 'Why's that, sir?'
'Not at a time like this. The strain . ..' Strain! The word hadslid out. Your boss is going weird. Allen lit a cigarette. He said slowly, 'The responsibility is very great.'