Fred Hoyle - A for Andromeda

He found himself suddenly caught in a cross of emotions: of course he had wanted her gone and out of the way, and yet the idea of sending her to her death had not occurred to him. A part of him wanted her to live, and he felt overwhelmingly responsible for her. The three-quarters of her, or whatever it was, that he could understand was a creature with feelings and fears and emotions that he had helped to create, and now that the cord between her and the intellect that guided her had been cut she was in limbo, and perhaps only he could reach out and save her. If indeed she was not dead.

The camp warning siren suddenly brayed out, lugubrious and menacing, and every light in the compound seemed to come on and dance mistily behind the snowflakes. Beneath the siren’s wail he could hear motor engines starting up, and the white beam of a searchlight stabbed out abruptly from above the main guard building and began to swing slowly around the camp.

He could imagine the tide of alarm and command rippling like a wave through the establishment: the sentry’s phone call to the guard room, the guard commander to Quadring, the duty office to the security patrols, to the fire squad, the perimeter guard, and Quadring to Geers and Geers possibly to London, to a sleeping Minister and to an area commander, fumbling out of bed in his pyjamas to switch on whatever sabotage drill had been laid down.

He strained his eyes to see what was happening behind the light-flecked curtain of snow, and cursed the siren that smothered the other sounds. A fire truck whipped past his hut, clanging and roaring, and its lamps and the beam of the searchlight showed up the silhouettes of other people running—people with greatcoats that they buttoned up as they went, and soldiers with automatic rifles and sub-machine-guns. Another truck went by—a Land Rover with a radar scanner circling on top—and then the lights went and the siren died, leaving a jumble of sounds and snow-hidden movements in the dark.

A moment later a second searchlight came on, flooding the open space between the living quarters and the technical area where the computer building was, and into it drove another vehicle, going fast. It was an open jeep, and he could clearly see Quadring sitting beside the driver mouthing into a field telephone. A single figure ran across in front of it and for a split second he thought it was the girl, then he could see that it was Judy, with a coat flung over her shoulders and her dark hair dishevelled round her face. The jeep stopped and Quadring spoke to her briefly, then the driver sent it forward again and Judy crossed behind and ran to Fleming’s hut.

She pushed in at the door without knocking and looked round wildly for a moment before she saw him.

“What’s happened?” she gasped.

He spoke without turning away from the window. “She’s done it. Andre’s done it. That’s the code burning.”

“Andre?” She went over to him, not understanding. “But she’s dead.”

There was no time to explain much, but he told her a little as she stood beside him staring out.

“I thought it was you,” she said, only grasping part of it. “Thank God for that anyway.”

“What did Quadring say?” he asked.

“Only to wait here for him.”

“Has he found her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’s any idea. He was giving orders to the patrols to clear the compound and, if anyone disobeyed, to shoot on sight.”

The sounds of shouting and of moving vehicles grew more muffled; whatever was going on was happening at the far side of the camp. The column of smoke from the computer building had swelled and thickened and a tongue of flame flickered up in its centre, clearly visible between the white smudges of the searchlights. Fleming and Judy watched and listened without speaking, then out of the confusion in front of them came the sharp crack of a rifle, followed by another and another.

Fleming stiffened.

“Does that mean they’ve found her?” asked Judy.

He did not answer. The space in front of the hut was empty now. The searchlight which had swung away moved partly back, throwing a slanting finger of blurred light across it, but at first nothing moved in its beam except the snow falling. Then into this no-man’s-land came a small figure, pale and uncertain, stumbling out of the shadows between two buildings.

“Andre!” Judy whispered.

The girl was half-running, half-staggering, without direction. She made a little rush into the beam of light, stood blinking for a moment, and doubled back. The searchlight crew did not appear to have seen her, but another shot rang out, closer to them, and a bullet whistled away between the buildings.

Judy’s fingers clutched on to Fleming’s arm. “They’ll kill her.”

Shaking her off, he turned and ran to the door.

“John! don’t go out!”

“I sent her!” He picked up his heavy-duty torch from beside his bed and was gone without looking back. Judy followed him to the doorway, but he was lost at once in the snow-hidden blackness between the huts.

He kept in the lee of the huts for as long as he could, then sprinted across the beam of the light to the darkness on the further side. This time the searchlight crew were on the watch. The white beam swung over with him and dazzled on the buildings beyond, but this only helped him. As he ran he could see the girl slumped against a wall facing him. The snow made heavy going but he managed to keep sprinting until he reached her and, pulling her up by main force, lugged her round the corner into the dark.

At first she did not recognise him, as they leant together panting. He kept her propped up with one arm.

“It’s me,” he said and, remembering the flask in his pocket, pulled it out and forced what was left of the whisky between her lips. She spluttered and gulped and then, with an effort, managed to stand on her own.

“I did it,” she said, and although it was too dark to see her face he knew she was smiling.

“How did you get out?”

“Through a window at the back.”

“Shush.” He put a finger to her lips and held her to him. In the open space he had just crossed the searchlight wavered to and fro, and a party of men in battle-dress went past at the double, peering from side to side, their guns at the ready. He tried to think what to do next. To go back to his hut was impossible and to hide anywhere else in the camp probably meant that they would be come upon by surprise and be sewn across by a spray of bullets before the men who fired had time to think. Even to give themselves up was probably to court death in the darkness and hysteria of the night. It seemed to him that their only hope was to get clear until daylight came and the search grew less impassioned and more under control.

From where they stood there was only one way of reaching the perimeter fence without crossing the beam of one of the searchlights, and that would take them to the wire above the cliff path that led down to the jetty in the bay. A memory—a very distant memory—came into his mind and filled it, so that all his thoughts turned together to the jetty and a boat. He put his arm firmly round Andre’s waist to support her.

“Come on,” he said. He half-led, half-carried her along the snow-covered strips of ground between buildings, zig-zagging from the lee of one to the lee of another, and turning back whenever he heard voices and finding a new way. It seemed impossible that they should not be discovered within minutes, but the falling snow hid them and the snow on the ground muffled the sound of their shoes. Andre was breathing fast and shallow and obviously could not keep going for very much further, and he remembered that when they got to the cliff they would find the perimeter fence stretched right along—it had been reinforced since Bridger’s death and there would certainly be a guard at the gate nearest the path. On the face of it it seemed hopeless, but something buried in his mind urged him to go on and he plodded forward, half blinded with snow, while the girl leant heavily on him and stumbled beside him. Then he remembered what it was he was looking for.