'That'll be fine,' Fleming said. He took a spoon and began feeding Andre, who sipped hungrily at the thick, red liquid.
'What's the name of this island?' Fleming went on to Preen.
'Soay?'
'It's just off Soay and very much smaller.'
'Then you're on your own ?'
Preen nodded. 'And at your mercy.' Hastily he apologised.
'That was crude of me. But you were a surprise, you know.
Anyway, I'll leave you and your friend to enjoy the soup.
Might I enquire your name?'
'Fleming, John Fleming.' He did not volunteer Andre's.
'I ask only out of courtesy,' said Preen mildly. 'Since I'm your host. You'll have to stay here, naturally. There's nowhere else to go. That's why I chose this island.'
'But why isn't really answered, is it?' Fleming suggested.
Preen hesitated, looking embarrassed. 'I came because it's safe, or comparatively so. I used to protest against the Bomb and so forth, but I got tired of exposing lunacy and decided it was more sensible to opt out.'
Fleming gulped down the last of his own soup. 'That makes three of us,' he grinned. 'But when the bombs drop and you're the last oasis of life and learning how are you going to ward off the pirates, all frightened, starving, and full of radiation sickness?'
With an air of conspiratorial triumph Preen walked over to a heavy old chest which served as a window seat. From it he removed a short automatic rifle.
'Splendid,' laughed Fleming. 'We'll sleep safe tonight. I take it that we can all doss down somehow and get some sleep? It's been a busy day.'
Preen showed unexpected resources. He had his own bed in the shelf alcove beside the fire. From another cupboard he produced heavy wool rugs. Andre was tucked in, the fire was made up, and Fleming wrapped himself up and lay down on the floor beside the sofa. Preen shot the bolts on the door and turned out the paraffin lamp. Fleming vaguely heard the indeterminate noises of his host undressing and going to bed before a sleep of utter exhaustion swept over his brain and body.
It had been three hours before the continued absence of Geers and Fleming aroused misgivings, and a Marine Commando launch went to the islet to investigate.
By the time action could be taken to locate the fugitives night had fallen and the weather had become almost impossible.
Geers, ill with his miserable wait on the island and sick with apprehension about the repercussions in London, sat at his desk drinking a hot toddy and blusteringly ordering Quadring and Pennington to do something. But he could not put off for very long the unpleasant task of phoning Whitehall with the news of the latest debacle.
The Minister of Science took the call himself. He remained completely silent while Geers babbled on about the bad luck of the whole business in general and the unforgivable treachery of Fleming in particular. The great man's silky comments before he hung up were worse than the most sarcastic reprimand.
'Most unfortunate,' he said softly. 'You have my complete sympathy in a situation where you seemed to be surrounded by incompetents and traitors. You may leave it to me to put the best construction on it to the Old Man. He's unusually disturbed about all this, which is so uncharacteristic. Not going to Chequers. Staying at No. 10. And you know how he loathes the place since it's been done up. I do hope I can get his P.A. Such an excellent buffer when the P.M.'s in one of his captious moods. Well, goodbye. Keep in touch.'
The Minister did get the P.A. He could be more forth right with him. 'Just had a call from Thorness, Willie,' he said. 'They found the girl, and then the bloody fools promptly lost her. Now Fleming appears to have abducted her. So romantic, isn't it? Geers has bawled futile orders to every R.A.F. and Navy station from Carlisle to Scapa. I suppose masses of ships and planes and little men with radar sets are now rushing about like mad. Met. reports Gale Force 9, and storms of both the moisturised and electrical variety.
The pursuers won't have much luck, and I don't feel this is a situation where praying for miracles would be listened to.
But officially, Willie, I'm asking that you'll tell the Old Man that we're leaving no stone unturned, exploring every avenue. You know, the usual pap. Oh, I've decided to send Osborne back to Thorness so we get some coherent facts, and also to broach something else that's cropped up. He put up a bit of a black so he'll be all the more anxious to please. He's a sound chap at heart.'
Osborne was sent for in the early hours of the morning and despatched to Thorness at first light by air. He was in Geers' office by noon. The Director had grabbed a few hours'
sleep on a make-shift bed in the night duty officer's room.
For the first time in his life he was conscious of looking dishevelled and grubby. He had disliked Osborne from the start. The fact that the man was still entrusted with a job which was nothing less than a check-up on his own efficiency made him dislike him still more.
'No news from the searchers, of course,' questioned Osborne, taking a chair without invitation.
Geers shook his head. 'We'll just have to wait and hope.
It's my fault,' he mumbled. 'I should never...'
'It doesn't really matter whose fault it is,' said Osborne kindly. 'It's happened. How's Madeleine Dawnay?'
Geers looked at him suspiciously, wondering about this new topic. 'Much better,' he replied. 'The electrical burns she got from the computer weren't in themselves particularly bad. It was using that damned enzyme formulated from the machine. Or rather some error her morons made in compounding it. Fortunately Madeleine had the mental power to check and see the mistake. From then it was easy: a miracle cure which will revolutionise our burns units and indeed all plastic surgery. One last priceless benefit from that machine the vandals have smashed.'
'I'm glad - about Madeleine, I mean,' said Osborne. He paused thoughtfully. 'There's nothing more for her to do here, is there? Now the computer's wrecked?'
Geers shrugged. 'Nothing much left for any of us,' he said.
'I wonder where the devil Quadring's got to? He should have some news of what's happening. Good or bad.'
Osborne ignored this. 'We've had a request for her from the Azaran Government.'
'Who?'
'From Colonel Salim, in fact. The Azarani ambassador.'
'No, I mean who have they asked for?'
'Dawnay, whom we've been talking about,' said Osborne impatiently. 'A formal request passed to us last night via the Foreign Office. They want a biochemist.'
'What the hell for?' Geers demanded. Then, resignedly: 'It's up to her, if she wants to go. I've other things to worry about.'
'Ask her,' Osborne replied. 'And either you or she can phone the Ministry. Don't defer a decision too long. These little oil states have protocol. Mustn't suggest discourtesy by ignoring their enquiry.'
'All right,' grunted Geers.
The phone rang and he snatched it from the cradle. He listened to the brief message and then replaced the receiver, smiling with relief and satisfaction.
'They've located some wreckage. Splintered wood and so on. Registration number on one piece. It's the boat Fleming took; no doubt of that. No sign of bodies so far. Take some time for them to come up, of course. They hadn't a hope in hell.' There was no tinge of regret in his voice. Geers was not mourning the presumed death of two colleagues.
'Whereabouts was the wreckage?' Osborne enquired.
Geers glanced at some figures he had jotted on his memo pad during the phone call. 'They give Victor Sugar 7458 as the approximation.' He went to the wall map of the Thorness rocket lanes and prodded with a finger at a spot on the grid lines.