Even for Gil Snook, the human neutrino, the uncommitted particle of humanity, the pace of events had been bewildering. He tightened the last buckle, raised his head and saw at once that they were flying south. Not wanting to jump to conclusions, he waited until the aircraft had levelled off at 7,000 metres without changing course before he spoke to the pilot.
“What’s the idea, Chuck?” he said coldly.
Charlton’s voice was crisp and unabashed in the headphones. “Look at it this way, sport—we’re both finished in Malaq. That old scarecrow who jumped out in front of us probably had thirty or forty sons and nephews, and no matter where you go they’ll be potting at you with their Martinis and Lee-Enfields. Most of them are lousy shots, but they’ll get in close enough some day and it won’t do you any good to explain you were just a passenger. Believe me, I know about these things.”
“So where are we going?”
“I’ve finished flying for Gross anyway. We’re supposed to be a strike force and all we do is…”
“I asked you where we’re going.”
Charlton’s hand appeared above the rim of his ejector seat, the index finger pointing straight ahead in the direction of flight. “There’s the whole of Africa to choose from.”
Snook shook his head in disbelief. “My passport is back in my hotel room. Where’s yours?”
“Back in my quarters.” Charlton sounded supremely confident. “But don’t worry about a thing—we’re within range of at least six brand-new republics where they’ll be glad to give us asylum. In exchange for the aircraft, of course.”
“Of course.” Snook glanced upwards into the eastern sky, frowning. Thornton’s Planet was invisible and unreal, but -like any other spectre in the heavens—it had been an omen of ill luck.
Chapter Three
By the Spring of 1996 the passage of Thornton’s Planet was fading from the memories of those peoples who had been most alarmed at the time of its close approach to Earth. It had actually passed through the cosmic needle’s eye which was the space between the Earth and the Moon, but—as various authorities had predicted—the physical effects had been zero as far as the man in the street was concerned. As the object had dwindled in size to that of any other planet, so had its significance shrunk for the average human being who continued to be faced with the task of remaining alive in an increasingly hungry and factious world. Thornton’s Planet could still be seen by anybody who chose to put on magniluct glasses to search for it, but the novelty of sometimes being able to look downwards and observe a blue star shining up through the entire bulk of the Earth remained just a novelty. It provided neither food nor warmth, and was of no other practical value—therefore it was relegated to the same category of astronomical curiosities as auroras and falling stars.
The situation was different in the world’s scientific community. The very nature of the celestial intruder hampered its observation and study, but long before Thornton’s Planet swept past the Earth it had become obvious that it was being—captured by the sun. Angling down through the plane of the ecliptic, it had plunged inside the orbit of Mercury, gaining speed all the while, swung around the sun, then had retreated back through the dim outer limits of the Solar System. Its behaviour was not quite compatible with that of a planet made of normal hadronic matter, but calculations showed that it had adopted a highly elliptical precessing orbit with a period of little more than twenty-four years. The elements of the orbit were such that the planet was expected to revisit the Earth when it had completed four revolutions, that is, in slightly less than a century after its first pass.
This information had a mixed reception among scientific workers of many disciplines, all of whom—given the available data as a theoretical exercise—would have predicted that an antineutrino body should pass on through the Solar System in a straight line, completely unaffected by the sun’s gravitic pull. Most were appalled at seeing the entire citadel of human science threatened by a casual, heedless visitor from infinity; others were uplifted by the new challenge to man’s intellect. And a few totally rejected the interpretation of the data, denying that Thornton’s Planet could have any objective reality whatsoever.
For his part, Gilbert Snook knew beyond any shadow of doubt that Thornton’s Planet genuinely existed. He had looked into its livid, blind face, and he had experienced the devastation of his whole way of life.
There were a number of things which Snook disliked about his new career in the nine-years-old republic of Barandi, although—he was compelled to admit—many of the problems had been of his own making. The first of these had arisen within one minute of the Skywhip rolling to a standstill on Barandi’s principal military airfield on the northern shore of Lake Victoria.
Lieutenant Charlton, after some fast talking on the local communications band, had managed to arrange a sympathetic reception for himself. And when it was realised he was making Barandi the gift of a well-maintained counter-insurgency aircraft, plus his own services as a pilot, the reception was elevated to a state ceremony in miniature, with several high-ranking officers and their ladies present.
The belated discovery of diamonds in western Kenya had caused local acceleration of a world-wide process—the breaking up of countries into smaller and smaller political units as strong centralised government became impossible. Barandi was one of several new statelets in the region which were poised on the brink of legality, and it was hungry for defence equipment which would consolidate its position. Consequently there had been a distinct atmosphere of self-congratulation, almost of gaiety, among the resplendent group which assembled to greet the benefactors who were swooping down out of the northern skies.
Unfortunately, Snook had marred the occasion by turning to Charlton as soon as they were both on the ground and felling him with the hardest single punch he had ever thrown. Had it been his intention simply to induce unconsciousness he would have gone for Charlton’s solar plexus or chin, but he had been gripped by an overwhelming desire to mess up the pilot’s face, and therefore had hit him squarely between the eyes. The result had been two black panda-patches and an enormously swollen nose which had gone a long way towards spoiling Charlton’s public image of a clean-cut young airman.
That had been almost three years earlier, but—on days when his spirits were at a low ebb—Snook could still get a boost from remembering how Charlton’s social activities had been curtailed by his grotesque appearance during the first week in his adopted country.
His own life had been even more restricted, of course. There had been two days in prison while Charlton was making up his mind not to bear a grudge; a day of interrogation about his political attitudes; and a further month of confinement after he had made it clear that he was not going to service the Skywhip or any other Barandian aircraft. Finally he had been released, warned against trying to leave the country, and—in view of his engineering qualifications—given a job teaching illiterate tribesmen who worked the deep mines west of Kisumu.
Snook believed his post was something of a fiction, created as part of a scheme to give Barandi status in the eyes of UNESCO, but he had devised a workable routine and had even discovered certain aspects of the life which he could enjoy. One of them was that there was a plentiful supply of a superb Arabic coffee, and he made a practice of drinking four large cups of it every morning before thinking about work.
This was the part of the day, just at dawn, during which he most enjoyed being alone, so when the noise of a disturbance at the mine head reached him he doggedly continued with his fourth cup. The trouble, whatever it was, did not seem too serious. Against a background hubbub of voices there was a single high-pitched yammer which sounded like one man indulging in hysterics. Snook guessed that somebody had contracted a fever or had been drinking too much. Either way it was not his concern—picking up bugs and falling down drunk were almost national pastimes in Barandi.