He was puzzled, therefore, to discover a sense of unease growing within himself as the sun passed its zenith. Snook had learned to trust his premonitions—he sometimes suspected he was slightly prescient—but as he looked around the spacious and almost empty lounge he could think of nothing which might have triggered subconscious alarms. From his seat at the window, Snook could see into a small storeroom behind the bar and he was surprised to notice the white-coated barman going into it and putting on what appeared to be a pair of magniluct low-light spectacles. The barman, a suave young Arab, stood perfectly still for a moment, staring upwards, then put the glasses away and returned to the counter where he whispered something to the black-skinned floor waiter.- The waiter’s eyes flared whitely in his African face as he glanced apprehensively at the ceiling.
Snook took a ruminative sip from his drink. Now that he thought of it, he had noticed a group of European visitors carrying magniluct glasses at the swimming pool and had wondered briefly why they wanted low-light spectacles amid such searing brilliance. At the time it had seemed just another example of the peculiarities which afflicted over-civilised human beings, but other thoughts were beginning to stir.
This was close to the end of May, Snook recalled with effort, and some important astronomical event was almost due. He had no-interest in astronomy and, from overhearing conversations among the pilots, had gleaned only a vague notion about the approach of some large but tenuous object, less substantial than the gaseous tail of a comet. When he had
learned that the object could not even be seen, except through some tricky property of magniluct glasses, Snook had classed it as little more than an optical illusion and had dismissed it from his mind altogether. It seemed, however, that other people were intensely interested, and this was yet another proof that he was out of step with the rest of humanity.
He took a long swallow from the misted crystal of his drink, but found that his feeling of unease had not been dispelled—there was nothing new in the realisation that he marched to the sound of a different drum. The midday intoxication he had been savouring abruptly vanished, much to his annoyance. He got to his feet and stood at the long window, narrowing his eyes against the influx of light from sand, sea and sky. The European party were still grouped at the screened pool. For a moment he considered going to them and asking if there had been a recent development he should know about, but that would involve him with unnecessary human contacts and he decided against it. He was turning away from the window when he noticed the dust cloud of a vehicle approaching at speed from the north, the direction in which lay the town and airfield. In less than a minute he was able to discern that it was a jeep painted with the desert camouflage of the Sultan’s armed forces.
That’s it, he thought, oddly satisfied. That one’s for me.
He returned to his seat, lit a fresh cigarette and tried to guess what had happened. From vast experience, it could be anything from one of the jet engines having swallowed a bird, wrecking its metallic digestion in the process, to a faulty warning light on the Sultan’s private Boeing. Snook settled down further into the upholstery and made up his mind that he would refuse to respond to any so-called emergency unless it was a matter of life or death. He had just finished his cigarette when Lieutenant Charlton, a pilot in the Skywhip flight, strode into the lounge, red-faced and bristling in his wheat-coloured uniform. Charlton was an Australian of about thirty, who was on a three-year contract to fly fighter planes, and who had less feel or regard for machinery than any other man Snook had ever met. He came straight to Snook’s table
and stood with his bare gold-haired knees pressed against the white plastic. His eyes were pink-stained with rage,
“Why are you sitting here drinking, Snook?” he demanded.
Snook considered the question calmly. “I prefer it to standing drinking.”
“Don’t be…” Charlton took a deep breath, apparently deciding on a change of approach. “Didn’t the desk clerk give you my message?”
“He knows better,” Snook said. “This is my first day off in two weeks.”
Charlton stared helplessly at Snook, then lowered himself into a chair and looked cautiously around the bar before he spoke. “We need you out at the field, Gil.”
Snook noted the use of his first name and said, “What’s the trouble, Chuck?”
Charlton, who always insisted on ground crew addressing him formally, closed his eyes for a second. “There’s a riot brewing up. There’s a chance of some of the planes being wrecked and the CO has decided to move them up country until things calm down a bit.”
“A riot?” Snook was mystified. “Everything was quiet when I left the field yesterday.”
“It sprang up overnight—you should know what the Malaqi are like by this time.”
“Well, what about the Sultan’s militia? What about the firquat ? Can’t they control it?”
“It’s the bloody firquat who are stirring things up.” Charlton wiped his brow. “Gil, are you coming or are you not? If we don’t get those aircraft out of there in one hell of a hurry there aren’t going to be any aircraft.”
“If you put it like that…” Snook stood up at the same time as Charlton. “It won’t take me a minute to change.”
Charlton caught his arm and urged him towards the door. “There’s no time. This is a come-as-you-are party.”
Thirty seconds later Snook found himself in the passenger seat of the jeep and hanging on tightly as it took off in a spurting shower of gravel. Charlton brought the vehicle out on to the coast road in a barely-controlled power drift and
drove northwards at top speed, accelerating to the limit in each gear. A hot wind, so different to the air-conditioned coolness of the hotel, roared under the tilted windscreen and made Snook’s breathing difficult, while the barren ramparts ofihtjebel shimmered beyond the plain to his left. It came to Snook that he had allowed himself to be bulldozed into giving up a well-earned rest period, and into taking a ride with a dangerously reckless driver, without actually learning the reason for it all.
He tugged Charlton’s sleeve. “Is this thing worth getting killed for?”
“Not in the slightest—I always drive like this.” Charton’s spirits appeared to have picked up now that he was accomplishing his mission.
“What’s the riot all about?”
“Don’t you ever listen to the news?” Charlton took his eyes off the road to scan his passenger’s face and the jeep wandered close to the encroaching sand and boulders.
“No. I’ve got other ways of making myself miserable.”
“Perhaps you’re wise. Anyway, it’s Thornton’s Planet that’s causing all the fuss. Not just here—there’s trouble flaring up everywhere.”
“Why should there be trouble? I mean, the planet doesn’t really exist, does it?”
“Would you like to try explaining that to the average Australian bushman? Or even to the average Italian housewife? The way a lot of people figure it out is that…whoops!” Charlton broke off to swing the jeep back into the centre of the road, then resumed shouting above the rush of air. “People like that reckon that if you can see it coming, you’ll feel it when it gets here.”
“I thought you couldn’t see it without Amplite glasses.”
“Those things are everywhere now, sport. Biggest growth industry since they invented sex. In poorer areas the importers snap them in half and sell them off as monocles.”