Harry Harrison - The Daleth Effect

“I suppose there is no need to address the envelope?” he asked.

“No, sir.” The man smiled. “For my own part, for everyone, let me wish you the best of luck. I don’t think you have any idea of what the country is feeling today.”

“I think that I am beginning to understand.” They saluted—and shook hands.

Back on the bridge, Nils thought of the letter resting now in his safe.

“I suppose that you are not going to tell me?” Henning asked.

“No reason why I should.” He winked, then called over to the radioman, the only other person on the bridge. “Neergaard, take a break. I want you back in fifteen minutes.”

There was silence until the door had soughed shut. “It was from the King,” Nils said. “The public ceremoay for this afternoon was a fake all along. A cover-up. They are going to announce it, we are supposed to tie up by Amalienborg Palace—but we are not going to. As soon as we are ready we get out of here—and leave. He wished us luck. Sorry he couldn’t be here. Once out of the harbor, the next step will be…”

“The Moon!” Henning said, looking out at the welders working on the deck.

Martha Hansen had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t being alone in the empty house that bothered her—that had become a commonplace when Nils was flying. Perhaps she was just too used to having him around the house of late, so that the big double bed seemed empty now that he was gone.

It wasn’t that either. Something very important, perhaps dangerous, was happening, and he had not been able to talk to her about it. After all these years she knew him well enough to tell when he was concealing something. Overnight, maybe a few days, he had said, then turned away and switched on the television. It was much more than that, she knew, and the knowledge was keeping her awake. She had dozed off, woken up with a start, and been unable to sleep again after that. Too tired to read, she was too tense to sleep as well, and just tossed and punched her pillow until dawn. Then she gave up. After filling the electric percolator she went and took a shower.

Sipping at the too-hot coffee she tried to find some news on the radio, but there was nothing. Switching to the short wave band she ran through an incomprehensible lecture in some guttural language, flipped past some Arabic minor key music, and finally found the news on the BBC World Service. There was a report on the continuing stalemate in the Southeast Asia talks, and she poured more coffee—almost dropping the cup when she heard Copenhagen.

“…incomplete reports, although no official statements have been made at this time. However eyewitness observers say that the city is filled with troops, and there is a great deal of activity along the waterfront. Unofficial reports link the Nils Bohr Institute, and speculation is rife that further tests of the so-called Daleth drive may now be in progress.”

She turned the volume all the way up so she could hear it while she was dressing. What was happening? And, more important, the question she tried to avoid all the time now, how dangerous was it? Since the spies had been killed and Arnie had been hurt she was in continual anticipation of something even worse happening.

Fully dressed, with her gloves on and her car keys already out, she stopped at the doorway. Where was she going and what was she doing? This almost hysterical rushing about suddenly struck her as being foolish in the extreme. It couldn’t help Nils in any way. Dropping into a chair in the hall she fought back the strong impulse to burst into tears. The radio still boomed.

“…and a report just in indicates that the experimental ship, often referred to as a hovercraft, is no longer at the shipyards in Elsinore. It can be speculated that there is some connection between this and the earlier events in Copenhagen…”

Martha slammed the door behind her and opened the garage. There was nothing she could do, she knew that, but she did not have to stay at home. Speeding south on Strandvejen—the road was almost deserted at this hour—she felt that she was somehow doing the right thing.

It did not seem that clear once she reached Copenhagen, a maze of closed streets and soldiers with slung rifles. They were very polite, but they would not let her through. Nevertheless she kept trying, probing around the area in the growing traffic, discovering that a great ring seemed to be thrown around the Free Port area. Once ae realized this, she swung wide, through the narrow streets, and headed for the waterfront again on the other side of Kastellet, the five-sided moated castle that ormed the southern flank of the harbor. A block from the waterfront she found a place and parked the car. People passed her on foot, and she could see more of them ahead near the water’s edge.

The wind from the Sound pulled the heat from her body, and there was no way to hide from it. More and iiore people arrived, and the air was alive with rumors as everyone searched the Oresund before them for sign of any unusual activity. Some of the spectators had brought radios, but there were no news reports that mentioned the mysterious events in the Frihavn.

One hour passed, and a second, and Martha began to wonder what she was doing here. She was chilled to the bone. The radios blared, and a sudden chorus of shushing went up from the groups around these radios. Martha tried to get closer, but could not. But she could still make out the gist of the Danish announcement.

The Galathea… an official launching… ceremony… Amalienborg Palace in the afternoon… There was more, but that was enough. Tired and chilled, she turned to go back to the car. She was certain to be invited to anything public, official. They were probably trying to call her now. Better nap first, then call UUa Rasmussen to find out what they would be wearing.

A man stood before her, blocking her way.

“You’re up early, Martha,” Bob Baxter said. “This must be an important day for you.” He smiled when he said it,, but neither the words nor the smile were real. This was no coincidence, she realized.

“You followed me here. You have been watching my home!”

“The street’s no place to talk—and you look cold. Why don’t we go into this restaurant here? Get some coffee, a bite of breakfast.”

“Fm going home,” she said, starting around him. He blocked her with his arm.

“You didn’t keep that appointment with me. Passpc matters can be serious. Now—what do you say we keep this unofficial and sit down for a cup of coffee together Can’t be anything wrong with that?”

“No.” She was suddenly very tired. There was no poin in irritating the man. A hot cup of coffee would taste gocn right now. She allowed him to take her arm and open th door of the café.

They sat by the window, with a view of the Sound over the roofs of the parked cars. The heat felt good, and she kept her coat on. He draped his over the back of the chain and ordered coffee from the waitress, who understood his English. He did not speak again until she brought the coffee and was out of earshot.

“You have been thinking about what I asked you,” Baxter said, without any preamble. She looked into the coffee cup when she answered.

“To tell the truth, no. There’s nothing, really, that I can do to help you.”

“I’m the best judge of that. But you would like to help, wouldn’t you, Martha?”

“I would like to, of course, but…”

“Now that is much more reasonable.” She felt trapped by her words: a generalization suddenly turned into a specific promise. “There are no ‘buts’ to it. And nothing very hard or different for you to do. You have been friendly with Professor Rasmussen’s wife, Ulla, lately. Continue that friendship.”