Fred Hoyle - A for Andromeda

“And what about you?” Fleming asked Judy.

They sat on the cliff-top, inside the camp, above the jetty.

“I go round with the seasons.” She smiled at him tenderly but warily. She was shocked by the change in him, by his blotchiness and general deterioration, and the look of utter defeat that hung about him. She longed to hold him and to give herself to him. At the same time she wanted to keep him away at the distance of their original friendship, which seemed to her the limit to which she could honourably go so long as she was acting a part of which she was ashamed. She had even tried to resign her commission when she heard he was coming back, but it had not been allowed. She knew too much by now to be released, and far too much to be able to tell him the truth.

Bridger had stayed in the camp, working all winter, and had made no suspicious move; but Kaufmann’s car had been seen several times in the neighbourhood and the tall, improbably-dressed chauffeur had been watching arrivals and departures at the station and on at least one occasion had telephoned Bridger. After this Bridger had looked more unhappy than ever and had taken to having copies of the computer’s output retyped for his own use. Judy had not spotted that, but Quadring had. Nothing had come of it, however. The white yacht had not reappeared, and indeed could hardly have been expected to during a winter of gales and blizzards and wild storm-swept seas. Early in the spring Naval patrols were stepped up and reinforced by helicopters, and the yacht, if it ever had anything to do with it, was scared away. But if security was increasing, so was the value of the information, and there was a general feeling among Judy’s superiors that the stakes were rising.

Judy, having nothing to do but watch, had time—as usual—on her hands, and it suited Quadring to have Fleming covered. So she sat on the top of the cliff with him, pretending to be happy to see him and feeling bitterly divided against herself.

“When are you going to hold a press conference?” was his next question.

“I don’t know. This year, next year, sometime.”

“All this ought to have been referred to the public months ago.”

“But if it’s a secret?”

“It’s a secret because it suits the politicians. That’s why it’s going the wrong way. Once you take science out of the hands of scientists and hand it over to them, it’s doomed.” He jerked his shoulder at the compound. “If that lot isn’t doomed already.”

“What are you going to do about it?” she asked him.

He gazed down at the waves breaking a hundred and fifty feet below them and then turned and grinned at her for the first time in a very long while.

“Take you sailing,” he said.

It was one of those early false springs which sometimes come unexpectedly at the beginning of March. The sun shone, a light breeze blew from the south-west and the sea was beautiful. Fleming assumed that Judy had nothing else to do and they sailed every day on the bay and up the coast as far as Greenstone Point and down to the mouth of Gairloch. The water was freezing cold but the sands were warm and in the afternoons they used to beach the boat in any likely-looking cove, splash ashore and lie basking in the sun.

After a few days, Fleming looked healthier. He grew more cheerful and seemed able to forget for hours at a time the cloud that hung over his mind. He obviously sensed that she no longer wanted to be made love to and fairly soon fell back into the role of affectionate and dominating big brother. Judy held her breath and hoped for the best.

Then, one hot and glinting afternoon, they pulled into a tiny bay on the seaward side of the island, Thorholm. The rocks rose sheer behind, reflecting the heat of the sun back on to them as they lay side by side on the sand. All they could see was the blue sky above. The only things to be heard were the heavy, gentle sound of the waves and the calling of sea-birds. After a while Fleming sat up and pulled off his thick sweater.

“You’d better take yours off, too,” he told her.

She hesitated, then pulled it off over her head and lay in her shorts and bra, feeling the breeze and sun playing on her body. Fleming took no notice of her at first.

“This is better than computers.” She smiled with her eyes shut. “Is this where Bridger comes?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t see no birds.”

“I can see one.” He rolled over and kissed her. She lay unresponsively and he turned away again, leaving a hand on her midriff.

“Why doesn’t he go round with you?” she asked.

“He doesn’t want to barge in on us.”

She scowled up into the sun.

“He doesn’t like me.”

“It’s mutual, isn’t it?”

She did not answer. His hand moved down to her thigh.

“Don’t, John.”

“Signed a pledge for the Girl Guides?” He sounded suddenly cross and peevish.

“I’m not being prissy, only...”

“Only what?”

“You don’t know me.”

“Hell! You don’t give me much chance, do you?”

She got up abruptly and looked about her. There was a cleft in the rocks behind them.

“Let’s explore.”

“If you like.”

“Is that a cave there?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go and look.”

“We’re not dressed for it.”

“Aren’t you formal?” She smiled at him and pulled on her sweater, then threw him his. “Here!”

“They go hellish deep into the cliff. You need caving gear, like pot-holers.”

“We won’t go far.”

“O.K.” He hoisted himself to his feet and shook off his bad temper. “Come on.”

The cave widened inside and then tapered off as it went deeper into the rock. The floor was sandy at first and strewn with stones. As they went further in they found themselves scrambling over boulders. It was cold and very quiet inside. Fleming brought a torch from the boat and shone it on the rock walls ahead of them; patches of seeping water glittered in its light. After a few dozen yards they came to another chamber with a large pool at the far end. Judy knelt down and gazed into the water.

“There’s a piece of cord here.”

“What?” Fleming crouched beside her and looked down over the pool’s lip. One end of a length of white cord was knotted and held down by a boulder at the edge while the rest of it ran down into the water. Fleming pulled on it: it was quite taut.

“Is it deep?” Judy peered down the beam of the torch but could see nothing but blackness beneath the pool’s surface.

“Hold the torch, will you?”

Fleming took both hands to the cord and pulled it slowly up. On the end was a large thermos-type canister weighted with stones. Judy shone the torch on to the lid.

“It’s Dennis’s!” Fleming exclaimed.

“Dennis Bridger’s?”

“Yes. He bought it for picnics. It has that mark like a zig-zag on it.”

“Why should he leave it?” Judy spoke more to herself than Fleming.

“I don’t know. Better ask him.”

Judy opened the lid and felt inside.

“For goodness sake!”

“It’s full of papers.” She pulled some out and held them under the torch. “Do you recognise them?”

“It’s our stuff.” Fleming looked at them incredulously. “Copied. We’d better take them back to him.”

“No.” Judy put the papers hack in the flask and fastened it.

“What are you going to do?”

“Leave it where we found it.”

“But that’s absurd.”

“Please, John. I know what I’m doing.” She picked up the canister and threw it back into the water, while he watched sulkily, holding the torch.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, but she would not tell him.

When they got back to camp they found Reinhart there. He buttonholed Fleming outside the office block.