J.G. Ballard - The Wind From Nowhere

Gasping for air, Maitland tried to control himself, spread his legs apart and pressed his shoulders against the stiff backrest of the chair. Above, fluorescent lighting shone across a low bare ceiling. In a few seconds his face had stopped stinging, and he lowered his eyes slowly.

Directly in front of him, across a wide crocodile-skin desk, sat a squat, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit. His head was huge and bull-like; below a high domed forehead were two small eyes, a short stump of nose, a mouth like a scar, and a jutting chin. The expression was somber and menacing.

He surveyed Maitland coldly, ignoring the red-flecked saliva Maitland was wiping away from his bruised lips. Dimly, Maitland recognized a face he had seen in a few rare magazine photographs. This, he realized, was Hardoon. Wondering how long had elapsed since their arrival, Maitland began to glance around the room. He was aware of Hardoon sitting forward and tapping his knuckles on the desk.

"Are you completely with us again, Doctor?" he asked, his voice soft yet callous. He waited for Maitland to murmur, then nodded to the guards, who took up their positions against the rear wall.

"Good. While you were resting your companions have been telling me about your exploit. I'm sorry that your little outing has ended here. I must apologize for the stupidity of my traffic police. They should never have allowed you in. Unfortunately, Kroll-" he indicated the tall guard with the single helmet triangle, lounging against the wall beside the desk "-was somewhat delayed on his return, or you would have been able to continue your journey to Portsmouth unmolested."

He examined Maitland for a moment, taking a cigar from a silver ashtray on the pedestal behind the desk.

Puzzled why Hardoon was bothering to interrogate him, Maitland massaged his face, peering around the room.

He was in a large oak-paneled office, the heavy walls of which appeared to be completely solid, flatly absorbing the sounds of their voices. Behind him, where the guards stood, were high bookshelves, divided by a doorway. There were no windows, but on the far side of Hardoon's desk was a shoulder-high alcove sealed by high shutters.

Hardoon drew reflectively on his cigar. "I gather that once again I am personna non grata with the authorities," he went on in his slow leisurely voice. "It was foolish of Kroll to allow Marshall to broadcast our whereabouts to all and sundry. However, that is another matter."

Maitland sat forward, aware of the guards poised on their toes behind him, the huge figure of Kroll stiffening slightly. "What happened to Halliday?" he asked, tongue tripping inside his bruised mouth. "He was shot as we arrived."

Hardoon's face was blank, his eyes narrowing as he considered the interruption. "A tragic misunderstanding. Believe me, Doctor, I abhor violence as much as you. My traffic police assumed that you were Kroll. Your vehicles are of the same type, with identical markings. When they discovered their mistake they were naturally rather excited. These accidents happen."

His tone was matter-of-fact, but even though his eyes were fixed coldly on Maitland's face the latter had the distinct impression that most of Hardoon's attention was elsewhere. His voice seemed to be an agent that was automatically carrying out instructions given to it previously, like the guards standing behind Maitland.

"Where are the others?" Maitland asked. "The two Americans and the girl?"

Hardoon gestured with his cigar. "In the-" he searched for a suitable phrase "-visitors' quarters. They are perfectly comfortable. Mr. Symington was slightly injured en route, and is now resting in the sick bay. A useful man; let us hope he is soon recovered."

Maitland studied Hardoon's face. The millionaire was about fifty-five, still physically powerful, but with curious lusterless eyes. Despite its hard edge, his voice almost droned.

"Now, Doctor, to come to the point. The arrival here of you and your three companions presents me with an opportunity I have decided to make the most of." As Maitland frowned, Hardoon smiled deprecatingly. "No, I am not in need of medical attention; far from it. We have an ample number of doctors and nurses here. In fact, you will find this one of the most efficiently organized bastions against the wind in existence, if not the most efficient, my traffic police notwithstanding."

He pressed a button set into a small control panel on the desk in front of him, and then turned slightly in his chair to face the shutters, gesturing Maitland to do the same. The shutters began to retract. Behind Maitland the ceiling lights dimmed, and as the shutters slid into their housings they revealed an enormous block of plate glass, three feet deep and twice as wide, apparently set into the face of the pyramid.

Sloping away below was the east wall of the pyramid. At its base were the causeways and entrance passage they had taken to the elevator. Beyond, obscured by the storm, was the wide approach road. The wind stream swept directly toward them, the thousands of fragments carried past at incredible speeds, vaulting out of the lowering storm cloud on a thousand trajectories.

At the same time Hardoon had pressed another tab on the desk, and a loudspeaker on the wall above the window crackled into life. Muted at first, and then rising to full volume, was the bare, unalloyed voice of the wind stream, the roaring Niagara of sound that had pursued Maitland in his nightmares for the past month.

Hardoon sat back, watching the wind through the window, listening to it on the speaker. He seemed to sink into some private reverie, his cigar half raised to his lips, its smoke curling away toward a ventilator in the ceiling. An automatic rheostat must have been mounted to the speaker, for the volume rose steadily, until the noise of the storm wind filled the office, a blast of rushing airlike the sounds of an experimental wind tunnel at maximum velocity.

Suddenly Hardoon woke out of his trance and stabbed the two buttons. The sound abruptly fell away, and the shutters glided back and locked across the window.

For a moment Hardoon stared at the darkened panels. "Its force is incredible," he commented to Maitland. "Nature herself in revolt, in her purest, most elemental form. And where is Man, her prime enemy? For the most part vanquished, utterly defeated, hiding below ground like a terror-stricken mole, or wandering about blindly down dark tunnels."

He looked at Maitland rhetorically, then added: "I admire you, Doctor, and your companions. You still do battle with the wind, to some extent retain your initiative. You move about the surface of the globe undeterred. I'm sorry that Captain Halliday should have been killed."

Maitland nodded. His head had finally cleared, the warmth of the office reviving him. He decided to take the initiative in their conversation, and sat forward. "When did you start building this pyramid?" he asked.

Hardoon shrugged. "Years ago. The bunkers were originally designed as my personal shelter in the event of World War III, but the pyramid was completed only this month."

Maitland pressed on. "What are you hoping to gain? Supreme political control when the wind subsides?"

Hardoon turned and stared at Maitland, an expression of incredulity on his face.

"Is that what occurs to you, Doctor? You can think of no other motive?"

Maitland shrugged, somewhat taken aback by Hardoon's reaction. "Your own immediate survival, of course. With the backing of a large, well-run organization."

Hardoon smiled bleakly. "It's astonishing, how the weak always judge the strong by their own limited standards. It's precisely for this reason that you're here." Before Maitland could ask him to expand upon this he said: "Surely the unusual design of this shelter indicates my real motives. In fact, up to now I assumed this was the case. It must be obvious that if survival and the maintenance of a powerful and well-equipped private army were my object I would certainly not choose to house myself in an exposed pyramid."