Джон Пристли - The Doomsday Men

On arriving this morning, Hooker had been taken straight up to Paul MacMichael’s study, and had begun to talk by asking his host what the devil he meant by playing him that stupid dirty little trick in England. But MacMichael had instantly pooh-poohed all such talk, and not like a man trying to rid himself of an embarrassing topic but quite genuinely, as if they had no time to waste on such trivialities. Indeed, he said as much. He was in a queer, nervous, jerky, excited state, as if he had been working too much and sleeping too little for months, a condition Hooker had encountered before in men who were at the end of a long piece of close hard research. But he had never seen any fellow scientist in quite the state of mind MacMichael appeared to be in now. One minute he would be biting his nails, muttering doubts, and cursing to himself; and the next minute he would be striding about and shouting, gleefully and boastfully, like a conqueror crazy with victories. The vast and intricate piece of calculation that he had allowed Hooker to run an eye over, the greatest privilege, he declared, that young man had ever enjoyed, was a sound mathematical edifice, as Hooker acknowledged; but the formulas and symbols had no reference, so meant nothing. And Hooker had not liked the way MacMichael had looked when he had told him so. Either the fellow had really something tremendous that he was keeping to himself, or he was going off his head. Then there was the experiment, which Hooker would have the supreme privilege of witnessing. It could not be performed yet; something was missing, some essential piece of apparatus, Hooker gathered; and MacMichael was dancing on red-hot pins and needles, it seemed, because the apparatus had not yet arrived. Several times during the morning he had called his brother John on the house telephone to ask about this missing apparatus. What brother John had to do with it, Hooker could not imagine. Finally, Hooker had been told, rather peremptorily, to go up to his room and wait there until he was wanted. MacMichael had also hinted, rather grimly, that if Hooker had so little genuine scientific curiosity that he would rather not wait, would rather leave the place altogether, he might find it difficult to get away. It was annoying, of course, being talked to and treated in this high-handed fashion, and Hooker had been annoyed, but unless he could prove to himself that MacMichael was simply going mental, he had not the least intention of leaving the place, would not for the world have been anywhere else.

So he had had a late lunch served up in his room, and there he had stayed ever since, trying to make head or tail of the business. He remembered Malcolm Darbyshire’s talk of the previous night, and wished now he had not taken it so lightly. This was Mystery Number Two with a vengeance! He had decided then, rather reluctantly, that what these MacMichaels were up to here, with their secrecy and guards and guns and nonsense, must be something that had a commercial value, they were fooling about with gold or with the idea of a new precious metal; but now, after talking to Paul MacMichael again, he could not believe it even possible. The brothers, of course, might have their separate whims or lunacies, so that Paul knew nothing about John’s murderous fanatics; but that too was hard to believe. What, then, was the answer? He covered a mile or two round his room and out on to the balcony and back again, trying to find that answer. Even when he stood outside, leaning on the balustrade, watching one of the most gorgeous sunsets he ever remembered seeing, he was still attempting to come to a decision about Paul MacMichael. He remained where he was, even when the light had faded, trying to recall every encounter he had had and everything he had ever been told about MacMichael, and was still in a maze when he heard the clatter of horses below, and looked down. The lights at the front gateway had now been turned on. There was a girl, probably the one Darbyshire had raved about. But who was this, coming along with her, now on foot?

He leaned far over. “Darbyshire, Darbyshire,” he called. “I’m up here. Hooker.”

“Stay there,” the girl called up, softly but clearly. “I’ll bring him.” There were one or two men down there, but not one of the brothers came out. They were probably conferring together, up in the tower, Hooker decided. He knew they were all here, but so far he had only actually seen Paul.

The girl did not bring Darbyshire along the corridor but along the balcony, and there they all met in front of Hooker’s room, and Hooker was briefly introduced by his friend to Andrea MacMichael.

“Andrea,” said Malcolm, speaking very quickly, “I think you’d better keep out of this, and the less you know about us the better. So I’ll stay here with Hooker. Where will you be?”

She pointed to the end of the balcony. “In that little sitting-room we just came through. I think my father and the others must be in the tower. If you’re still up here in two hours’ time I’ll have some dinner sent up. And-please-” But whatever she was about to implore him to do or not to do, she suddenly changed her mind about saying it, and giving him a rather wan little smile, she nodded, then hurried away.

Malcolm hastily dragged Hooker indoors, and closed the long windows.

“I’ve found out what it’s all about,” he began hurriedly, “though it still doesn’t make any sense. These people must be quite mad. But Andrea told me what they’re planning to do, and obviously she believes it, and they must believe it themselves. Hooker, they’re trying to bring the world to an end.”

Hooker had to laugh. “Is that all?”

“Oh-I know, it sounds absolutely barmy. But let me tell you what she said.” And Malcolm, omitting the more intimate and tender passages, recounted what he and Andrea had said to one another, dwelling carefully on her revelation of the secret. “And whatever you may think about it all,” he concluded earnestly, “I do assure you of this, Hooker, that Andrea was dead serious-as a matter of fact it completely explains her; you remember, my Mystery Number One-and she knows what she’s talking about, and I believe that whether these three brothers are sane or mad-and I suppose, anyhow, they can’t be quite sane-that really is their plan. It can’t be done, I suppose.”

“What? Bring the world to an end? Of course not,” said Hooker easily. “You might manage it if you could steer a comet this way, but I don’t imagine they think they can do that. This planet may be a comparatively small and insignificant celestial object, but nevertheless it’s a tidy lump of matter.”

“But supposing it wasn’t a question of destroying the whole earth, but only its surface, where there’s life-could that be done?”

“Quite impossible. Of course, if you could make the earth crust shift everywhere, that would make a mighty nice wreck of us. Or if you contrived a simultaneous explosion of interior gases everywhere, like the one at Martinique, we’d soon be done for, but that’s not on the cards either. If you brought the moon down, as the cosmic ice people argue-they say an earlier one did come down-we might soon be all tied in knots.” Hooker was enjoying himself. It was a pleasant change from his recent bewilderment.

Malcolm still looked and sounded unconvinced. “Didn’t they used to say something about splitting an atom?” he ventured.

Hooker laughed again. “You’ve been reading the back numbers of Sunday supplements, old son. We’ve been splitting atoms for years. Nothing happens that you’d be interested in. You don’t even get a Nobel Prize for it any more. No, you’d have to do a bit more than that, to be dangerous. Now if all the electrons took it into their heads to be positive instead of negative, then there would be an almighty crack-up.”