Stephen Baxter: Project Hades

“You would, too, wouldn’t you? Look, I’m sorry about this, Constable Clare. You don’t deserve this. At least they ought to give you your own slopping-out bucket.”

“Try to relax. And stop pacing.”

“I’m all too aware of time draining away for that.”

A key rattled in the lock. Tremayne entered. The door was slammed shut behind him and locked.

“Ah, what’s this, room service?

“You know, you’re not as funny as you think you are, Jones. But I must apologise—especially to you, Constable. You were absolutely in the right to make your stand.” He sat on the edge of one of the room’s two bunks. “But you don’t understand what’s at stake here, Jones.”

Jones said, “And is it important that I do understand?”

“I don’t know, frankly. I don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“The man from the Ministry’s UFO desk, you mean?”

“Well, quite. I don’t understand how a man of science like you can be involved with such flim-flam.”

“I do regard myself as a man of science, regardless of my murky occupation.” He glanced at Clare, who clearly knew less than Tremayne did. “Yes, Defence Secretariat 8 is best known as the military’s front desk for UFO reports—which of course is how we came to hear of the present odd business. I’m a sort of consultant, but Miss Bennet is a career civil servant, you know, and I would prefer it if you showed her the appropriate respect, by the way, Tremayne; she was seconded to DS8, which you can imagine is something of a blot on your curriculum vitae—and yet, drawn by the lure of the truth, she is working hard.

“You say this is all flim-flam. But observations of anomalies outside the normal realm have a pedigree that long predates science itself—as I’m sure you know. There are what we might call UFO reports in the Bible—read Ezekiel, chapter one! This area itself has its own pedigree. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles noted sightings of ‘fiery dragons’ as far back as the eighth century—the activities of our ‘Grendels’ all those years ago, do you think?

“Even the great minds who founded the Royal Society in 1660, an institution devoted to ‘experimental philosophy,’ set up a secretive Section to deal with what they called paradoxes. You may not understand a thing, but at least you can list it. Consider Linnaeus, the father of modern biological taxonomy—all that business of kingdoms, classes, orders, genera, and species. Well, when he carved up the natural world he added an extra class, called the Paradoxa, for all those elusive creatures he couldn’t prove didn’t exist, such as unicorns, dragons, phoenixes, and satyrs—and pelicans! That was the spirit. Though he was wrong about the pelicans.

“Of course the priority now is national security. So DS8 has quietly tapped into the Royal Society’s archive, and other sources. But this is all hush-hush, for the view is that if a minister were ever to admit to the existence of UFOs or other spooky phenomena, the government would fall sharpish.”

“Hmm. And it is ‘spooky phenomena’ that has drawn you to Aldmoor, is it?”

“Yes. Specifically what Winston Stubbins calls ‘Grendels.’ But I have a sense that it’s no coincidence I’ve stumbled across this Project Hades of yours. Perhaps you’d better tell me about it, Tremayne.”

“A new generation of thermonuclear weapons,” Tremayne said simply. “More powerful, more compact—and cleaner. They are currently under test in underground facilities all around the free world.”

“Yet more bombs and bigger than ever? To what end?”

“First I want to demonstrate the utter horror of these weapons. The bigger the bang the better for that. But I also want to show the weapons’ potential for good. Have you heard of a man called Edward Teller?”

“Ah. Project Ploughshare?”

Clare said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Using atomic bombs for engineering purposes, Clare. You could blast out new canals. Blow oil reserves out of the ground. That the sort of thing you have in mind, Tremayne?”

“Geographical engineering, we call it. You could even ride into space, hurled to the planets by atomic fire. Men are fools who must be shown the destruction they are risking—and the power for good of the technology in their hands.”

“Oh, you’re the fool, Tremayne. Project Ploughshare is nothing but a grab for power and money by a cynical cabal of politicians and technologists. You’ve been seduced. And are you quite sure everybody down here shares your radioactive vision? Godwin, for instance?”

Tremayne stood. “I’m disappointed, Jones. Given your own exotic calling, is your mind really so closed? I can see I’m wasting my time. Guard!”

Once they were locked in and alone once more, Clare sighed. “Well, that went well.”

“Yes. He’s easily offended, isn’t he? We didn’t even get a cup of tea.”

“Now what?”

“Well, there’s no use sitting here. You and I need to have a serious chat, Constable Clare…”

Winston’s home was a nondescript city terrace. Winston unlocked the door. “Mum? It’s only me. I’ve got a visitor.”

A woman came downstairs, overweight, limping, in a faded print dress and worn slippers. She was no more than forty-five or fifty. “What time of night do you call this? And who’s this? Not your probation officer again.”

“Oh, Mum. This is Thelma Bennet. She’s a friend. We’re here on business.”

“Oh, aye. Nice to meet you, Thelma.”

“And you, Mrs. Stubbins.”

“Call me Hope. I bet you’re gagging for a cuppa. I’ll get the kettle on.”

“Can you manage?”

“I’m all right on me stick, love.” She went down the short corridor to the kitchen, leaning heavily on a metal Health Service walking stick.

Winston ran upstairs. “Mum, where’s my rucksack?”

“Where you put it. What do you want that for?”

“My toilet rolls.”

Hope sighed. “Him and his bog rolls. Once I went and used one. He raised the roof. And it left ink smudges on me bum cheeks.”

Thelma said, “He’s a remarkable boy.”

“Ay, he’s a good lad. Had a rough time of it. He never knew his father. Mind you, I only just did, if yer kna what I mean! A GI broke my heart for the price of a pair of silk stockings. Wouldn’t mind, but they were laddered. Never saw the bleeder again.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I had a funny old war, me. Lost me heart to the Americans and me left leg to the Germans, but gained a son. I had to fight to keep him from being taken off me for adoption, mind.”

Winston came clattering downstairs. “Right, got it. Sorry about Mum. She always tells my whole life story to whoever comes in the door. Do you mind wearing the rucksack, Thelma? Ta ta, Mum.” He kissed her on the cheek.

“What, you’re off? What about your tea? I’ve got some nice gateau.”

Thelma said, “I am sorry, Mrs. Stubbins. We are a bit short of time.”

Winston had already kick-started the motorbike. Thelma hurried to climb aboard.

Jones sat on a bunk, leaning against the cold, hard metal wall. “I was impressed by the way you stuck up for Winston when Buck Grady was teasing him. Then you tried to protect me, when Godwin’s toy soldiers waved their guns around.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“But not everybody would have done it. Why did you become a police officer, Clare?”

“I was a prefect at school. I used to break up fights instead of start them. I always hated seeing harm done to people. And I hate seeing messes.”

“Messes?”

“Chaos. Things breaking down. That’s what crime is, isn’t it? Society breaking down, even just a little bit. I like putting things back together again.”