Implosion, p.8
Implosion, page 8
Bart was puzzled at the Premier’s attitude. He said so.
Farmer grinned. “Not sure I should tell you, mightn’t be good for your peace of mind. Simple really. I’ve been under a lot of pressure from the US and NATO to tell all. Yesterday I did. Made a free gift of the PROLIX formula to all NATO members.”
That shook Bart. “Good God! You didn’t!”
Farmer’s grin broadened. “The US are bloody livid we didn’t pass it to them alone—and they daren’t say so!”
“But why?” Bart frowned. “What is the point?”
“Simple. We’ve no friends now. D’you imagine NATO would sit back and let this desirable residence be occupied by a mere five or six—or even twenty—million? Not on your life! I told ’em straight: we’re getting out of NATO—and all overseas commitments. We’re on our own, must become self-supporting—”
“But how do we defend?”
“As I told you earlier, we’re being discreetly cordoned off. Large armed forces are a luxury we can’t afford—no money, no spare manpower. We’ll still be under the US nuclear umbrella, active partner or not. They’ve no option. Smaller threats—much more likely—takeover by France, for instance, we can handle.”
“How?” Bart was fascinated, horrified by these other aspects of government.
“We’re producing PROLIX as a very fine powder. Porton’s sure it’s effective even if inhaled, never mind the water vector. We’re also making a new version of the old flying bomb. Simple backyard job. Carries two hundred pounds of PROLIX, range two thousand miles, speed three hundred and fifty knots.” The Premier was not grinning now. “Flies at eighteen thousand feet, time device blows up plane, disperses powder. Easy.”
“And pretty easy to shoot down,” observed Bart.
Farmer looked at him sadly. “Thought of that. Any explosion near the plane will create a shock wave, and set off the bursting charge. So that if the plane does not reach its target area someone else gets the benefit! No, people will be only too anxious that the damned thing keeps going. I’ve told NATO all this, and am letting the rest of the world know through diplomatic channels.”
“You think this will be an effective deterrent?”
Farmer shrugged. “Nothing’s certain, but it is as good as we can get. We’re also producing Black Knight rockets with a hundred-pound warhead for longer ranges. That’ll take time, but if you’re thinking these are fiddling little things, you should know Porton has calculated that it only needed twenty pounds of tablets to fix us. Dispersion will get at the livestock, too.”
“Livestock?”
”Um. The Min of Ag is sure the chicken failure was due to PROLIX. Cattle position’s not so clear. For a start, most cows and bullocks drink from natural sources, and it looks as if they wouldn’t be affected anyway. Something to do with their double bloody stomachs, I suppose. No doubts, though, about pigs. PROLIX dispersed on grazing’ll fix ‘em.”
“So famine is part of the deterrent?”
Farmer glared. “No! Anyway, it’s a temporary state of affairs. Animals have a much shorter reproductive cycle than us—except elephants, and we don’t eat many of those! Mind you, Agriculture’s flat out, isolating immune strains, just in case those bastards launch a second strike. Not that that’s likely—overflying problems.”
Bart did not answer at once. The ecological damage might be immense, perhaps unknowable in human terms, but he did not think Farmer would be very interested. For a short while he tried to grapple with the implications for bees, pollination … He gave it up. “So our defense is instant retaliation against anyone who tries to take us over?”
“Not quite. I told you it was a backyard job. No guidance systems or fancy stuff. The bomb goes in the direction it is pointed. If anyone attacks us, we’ll fire in all bloody directions. One thing to be said for our position; we’ve damned little to lose.”
“Don’t you think the rest of the world may regard us as a plague spot, and act accordingly?” said Bart.
“Maybe.” The Premier did not seem unduly worried. “Reason why I handed the formula out. Vaporizing us will solve nothing. A lot more people have this toy now. Sooner or later some of them will play with it, too.” Farmer blew noisily through his pipe. “I hope.”
Bart was silent. Farmer, digging inside his pipe, waited, then went on.
“I know what you’re thinking, John. Perhaps you’re right; I’ve no scruples, no morals. It’s a dirty game, and I don’t like it any more than you do—but that won’t stop me pulling every trick I know to buy the time you need.” He pointed accusingly at Bart. “We may not like what we have to do. That’s just hard luck. Still has to be done. I’m a good twenty years older than you. Won’t see the end of it all. You may—from this seat.”
“Me?” Again Bart was startled.
“Why not?” Farmer stared hard. “In time someone will. You’ve got the ability, and this sad business of your wife will give you the stiffening—and standing—you need. Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of giving up yet. Time for you to lose your bloody innocence, and get experience. Bear it in mind; try not to be so damned parochial in your outlook.”
Bart stared back. This was a new facet of the Prime Minister. He was not all hard, confident drive. The idea that Farmer had to force himself was a new one to Bart. As for the suggestion that he might be Premier one day … Bart reverted to PROLIX.
“Supposing someone does start using this formula?”
“Pure gain to us. I’m thinking of giving the stuff to the USSR as well—just supposing they don’t know already. Told the US Ambassador. At first he nearly had kittens, but in the end he saw my point that if they know officially, they would be unable to plead complete innocence.” Farmer looked up at the ceiling, “And if anything did happen in China …”
A sad, brooding Christmas had gone, and 1973 was ushered in by exceptionally cold weather. Bart was glad the extra heating installed in the camps proved adequate. In the main, the Mothers Homes, as they were now known, were running well, but the National Schools were proving more difficult. Parents were, understandably, reluctant to let their children go, and in these early days Bart was anxious to get voluntary acceptance as far as possible. No schools were yet open, but intensive propaganda was directed at parents—including the very secret use of subliminal TV techniques playing on their natural desires for a better life for their children. Your children will have the best of everything. Your children are special …
Bart’s idea, the Chelsea Barracks scheme, was a shop window prototype. The Guards had been sharply relegated to Caterham, and the conversion put in hand. The Pensioners were more gently eased out of the Royal Hospital and Wren’s masterpiece replanned as a school. The scheme was given full TV and press cover, and interested parents were invited to view. Even so, it was not all plain sailing.
Bart had a personal problem too. Julia did not take kindly to the MOH escort, especially as her husband was less than honest about the reason. The attacks on pregnant women still went on, and while the number of assaults did not rise appreciably, Bart was keenly aware that the percentage of women assaulted did; there were fewer targets as women entered the camps. He told Julia the escort was necessary for her as a Minister’s wife. If Julia guessed the real reason, she did not say so. Otherwise their life was, as far as circumstances permitted, near idyllic. Deeply conscious of the passing days, it sharpened their appetite for all that life could offer. Both begrudged the loss of a single hour; both avidly stored memories, experiences of their life together. This was the summer of their life, and all too soon it would be winter.
Julia had grown more philosophic—at least outwardly—about her future. She spoke of it without evident strain. She had elected to go to Clacton, and Bart secretly arranged for two chalets to be connected, one furnished as a sitting room. This was, he knew, bad for camp discipline—they preferred to call it “Home harmony”—but he told the Matron, that as Minister, he had to work on weekends, and that the extra room was more for him than his wife …
January passed, and the biting cold continued into February. One morning, as Bart left for his office, Julia said she was going to do a little shopping and have her hair done. He had been married long enough to know he could not hope to get that sacred rite postponed, but he warned her to be especially careful on the icy pavements. The duty MOH woman, a mother before the advent of PROLIX, assured him she would see Mrs. Bart was careful. Even patted his arm as she helped him into his overcoat. He was not to worry, etc.
Two hours later a shocked secretary told him that Julia had been attacked outside Harrods and was in St. George’s Hospital. Within five minutes he was in his car. As he was driven with total disregard of the speed limit through the park, Bart called on the car phone. Julia did not appear to be seriously injured, but a complete examination was in progress. Some of the numbing anxiety lifted, to be replaced by anger. He leapt from the car before it had fully stopped, bounded up the steps to be met by the Matron. It appeared that the MOH guard had slipped on the pavement and broken her leg. Immediately a crowd gathered, and a woman had resented Julia’s manner in ordering her to keep clear, an order delivered with all the authority, Bart guessed, of a junior nurse. Her manner, plus her obvious condition, had been too much for the woman. She had gone for Julia’s face and belly. It was a sudden ferocious attack which took the bystanders by surprise, and the two women were on the ground scratching and kicking in an instant. The assailant was dragged off, and disappeared in the crowd. Fortunately the ambulance called for the MOH guard was soon on the spot, and both she and Julia were whisked off.
Bart’s anger with the MOH guard evaporated, and he forgot her entirely when he caught sight of Julia on the trolley, leaving the X-ray room. She was very pale, and there were two livid scratches down one cheek. She was in shock, explained a slightly overawed young doctor, but otherwise—apart from extensive bruising—unharmed, subject to the X-rays, of course. Subject also to Dr. Bart’s approval, they would like to keep her in for the night. Dr. Bart did approve, although his wife protested. He saw her into bed, given a mild sedative, and then he left. He drove back to the Ministry, his eyes closed, utterly thankful that she was safe.
He tried to work, but the implications of the attack were inescapable. His staff found him particularly difficult to deal with, and their quiet unspoken sympathy did nothing to improve his temper. Somehow the morning passed. He had intended going home to lunch, but now there was no point. The vigilant Miss Parkins decided for him, and a tray was sent up. Watching her set out the meal with her usual precision, Bart realized that soon this would be his daily pattern. Now it might be the pattern a lot sooner.
The phone rang. It was his brother-in-law, condoling with him.
“How did you know?” said Bart sharply.
“News travels fast in the jungle of West End medicine. How is Julia?”
Bart told him. Flavell expressed his relief and invited Bart to dine with him that evening. Bart was not overkeen, but the empty house in Stanhope Mews was even less attractive.
“You’re sure it won’t be too much—”
“My dear fellow! Mary will be furious if you don’t come!”
Bart went directly to the hospital from his office. Julia, under sedation, was slightly bemused and sleepy. She was comfortable and would be able to leave the next morning. Bart was well satisfied, and arranged to collect her at nine thirty.
It was a bitter night with a cutting northeast wind which made the Flavell drawing room even more attractive. Bart suppressed a pang of jealousy at the evidence of domestic happiness which he must soon lose. There was a good fire, dark wine-red velvet curtains that shut out the night, intimate subdued lighting. Bart looked sourly at his host and hostess and the large white bearskin before the fire … Mary, feet tucked under her, waved him to the sofa beside her. Bart braced himself for her flow of exaggerated chat, but was surprised again to find her warm, friendly and totally devoid of her usual artificialities. This was, he realized, the first time he had met her outside a “party” atmosphere, and her resemblance to Julia was overwhelming. Julia … Roger, full of graceful charm, was a perfect host. Although Bart had few interests apart from his work and his wife, they managed to give him a very pleasant evening. He left much later than he had intended, and with a revised opinion of both of them.
10
Bart visited and reassured a most abject MOH guard, then took Julia home. As arranged the night before, Mary was waiting for them at Stanhope Mews, and the invaluable Mrs. Humphries, only too anxious to help, had the house in review order. Despite her protests, Bart insisted Julia go to bed, and having assured himself that all was under control, he left.
To his surprise, Mary was still there when he returned in the late afternoon.
“Mary! I thought you’d have gone—”
She held up a warning finger, looked significantly up the staircase, then led the way into the drawing room.
“I must warn you, John, Julia is in a very upset state. Be careful what you say. She’s very nervous—says she will never go out without you, and is very near tears. You’d better go up, or she’ll wonder what we’re talking about.”
Mary had not exaggerated. It took all Bart’s skill to keep his wife from breaking down. She was terrified, not only at going out, but at the possibility of someone breaking in. Bart soon saw that her terror embraced all sterile women; he suspected that it even included her own sister. He talked quietly, gently, to her and gradually she calmed down. The core of her fear, to which she reverted again and again, was the woman who attacked her.
“Her eyes, John. If you could have seen her eyes.” She held his hand with desperate strength. “The hate in those eyes!”
Bart managed to get away long enough to see Mary leave. She offered to come in the next day, but Bart said, with some hesitancy, that he did not want to bother her, adding with sudden inspiration that he hoped to spend the next day at home. He would give her a ring.
Mary’s smile was ironical, tinged with bitterness. “I understand, John. Don’t worry. Remember Julia and I are twins.”
Looking at her, he was not likely to forget. He took the bull by the horns. “Can you honestly say her fear—as far as you are concerned—is completely irrational?”
She looked carefully, dispassionately at him, slowly buttoning her coat. “Yes, I think I can.” Her words were carefully chosen. “Julia is safe with me. Deep down she knows it—but I’ve a notion how the woman with the eyes felt.” Her mood lightened, she brushed her lips against his cheek. “Poor John! If you think I can help—anyway, keep in touch.”
Bart let her out without answering. He was absorbed in what she had said, and the way she said it. For once he knew Mary had made an understatement. Julia called out, bringing him back to his immediate surroundings. He was aware of lingering traces of Mary’s perfume. A couple of steps, and he stopped again. If he had rightly interpreted Mary’s mind—and she was Julia’s own sister! Julia called again, there was rising fear in her tone.
“Coming, darling, I’m coming!”
For two days Bart stayed at home. He practically lived on the telephone, and there was an endless succession of visitors and messengers with reports, memos and requests. At first Bart had his secretary in, but Julia, now up and about, immediately showed signs of stress. At the end of the second day, the improvement in his wife was fractional, and Bart knew they had to face it. The only woman Julia could stand near her was Mrs. Humphries, a dear old soul of indeterminate age and uncertain false teeth. She had volunteered to live in until “you get settled,” an offer they both gratefully accepted. Mrs. Humphries had produced a meal, stayed long enough to see Julia start eating, then retired to the guest room and a TV set.
They finished the meal, and sat back on the sofa before the fire. Bart gave his wife a glass of brandy and remarked that the meal was not bad.
“Yes. Mrs. H is a real treasure.” With her head on his shoulder, her arm linked with his, Julia was relaxed, happy. Bart thought this was the moment.
“She certainly is. It’s very good of her—how does her husband get on?”
“Mr. H? She told me there is a good canteen where he works, and that he can have all his meals there.” Julia smiled. “Mrs. H says he is an old soldier, and is always telling her he can look after himself. Now he’s got a chance to prove it.”
“All the same, it’s rather hard on him, isn’t it? We can’t expect her to stay long, darling. I could arrange for an MOH woman,” Bart felt Julia’s hand tighten its grip on his, “to live in. You could choose—”
“No, John.” Julia’s tone was quiet but determined. “I know I’m being a dreadful nuisance—no, let me go on—but what with this unspeakable disaster, and being pregnant, and then that woman—” She broke off; the grip on him was even tighter. Gradually it eased as she went on, “But for all my silliness, you must see I’ve a deeper, personal involvement in all this than you. In the last few days I’ve come to realize that there is now a very real and deep division in women of childbearing age. Either you can or you can’t. Even those who had children before this happened and are now sterile are really on the other side. As for the sterile ones, the ‘have-nots,’ I saw something in those few seconds in that woman’s eyes which you, as a man, cannot hope to understand. I know now I’ve seen the same look—not so intense or so horrible—in other women. Many other women—even Mary—”
“Oh really, my dear! You mustn’t—”
Julia shook his arm. “Don’t tell me I mustn’t imagine things! I know! If only you could understand! It’s like the eyes of a cat—any cat, all cats. It doesn’t matter if they’re tabbies, tigers or lions, there’s the same watchful, deadly look. It doesn’t mean you fear a house cat, but you know, given the right circumstances, they’d have you. The ‘have-nots’ are like that to—to us. You’ve been busy selling the idea that we ‘Nationalized Mums’ were different. It’s true, really true!”
