Christopher Hodder-Williams
Chain Reaction
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel is by no means the work of one person. For this reason, I would have liked to have paid personal tribute to those specialists who were so generous with their time and their brains. Unfortunately, some of these kind people must remain anonymous at their own request because of their positions in Government concerns and official bodies.
I am fortunate, however, in being allowed to mention the following, who contributed so much to this novel and whose appointments do not prevent them from being mentioned by name:
Victor Crosse — Crosse and Blackwell Limited.
Anthony Dawson.
Miss E. E. Herron — Hodder and Stoughton Limited.
Colin Mann — H. J. Heinz Company Limited.
W. H. Stevenston — Kodak Limited.
To all, I would like to express my warmest thanks.
This book is a work of fiction, and all the characters are entirely imaginary and do not bear relation to any living person; in particular, the Atomic Development Commission is a fictitious body invented for the purposes of the story. The accident described occurs to a reactor of a completely different type from any that has been involved in any sort of mishap, and there has been no accident in the course of the development of atomic energy that approaches in magnitude the one described here. Indeed, we are fortunate that the control of nuclear energy is vested in the Atomic Energy Authority, who are well aware of their responsibilities to the public and are leading the field in their precautions against radiation hazards.
This novel is not written for the technically minded; it is a story of people rather than things, but, for those interested, a highly simplified glossary of some of the technical terms, together with a diagram showing the chain reaction itself, is to be found at the end of the book.
CHRISTOPHER HODDER-WILLIAMS
February 1959
I. THE NUCLEUS
CHAPTER ONE
The sun poured down with surprising warmth upon the roof of the Rolls that picked its way fluidly between jagged lines of less mobile traffic. A pennant fluttered authoritatively from its little mast on the radiator cap. Skilfully manoeuvred by a uniformed driver, the big car seemed to have an inevitable forward impetus as it nosed its way with unquestioned precedence in and out of more humble autos.
In the back Sir Robert Hargreaves was staring thoughtfully out of the car window without seeing anything in particular. But in Westminster Square he consulted his watch and checked it, as he always did, with the severe face of Big Ben, which frowned on the scene below and sternly reminded the minions of Whitehall that it was seven minutes past nine.
Two minutes later the car drew up at the entrance of Filbury House, and Drake, the commissionaire, had his hand on the door-handle before the shining metal of the bodywork had stopped slipping past the kerb.
Hargreaves omitted the usual greeting and climbed out with the agility of a fit man. ‘Is Mr Simmel here yet?’ he enquired.
Sergeant Drake saluted. ‘Yes, sir. He’s waiting in the hall.’
Hargreaves said ‘Good’ and walked briskly up the steps and through the foyer, where his footsteps clacked evenly on the stone floor. Dick Simmel, the Personal Assistant, was waiting by the lift.
‘I got your message, sir,’ he said, holding back the gates. They both stepped in, and Simmel pressed the button for the top floor. ‘I don’t want this talked about outside,’ said Hargreaves. ‘Will you make that clear to all concerned? The Home Office will put out an agreed press release in due course.’
Simmel nodded as the lift stopped, and he followed Hargreaves, Director of the Department, through the glass swing-doors. Kate was already at her desk. She looked up, a little startled. Hargreaves seldom got in before 9.30. And Dick seemed unusually preoccupied. Most days he hailed her with some frivolous comment, but this morning he walked straight through to the inner sanctum upon the heels of the Director with only a quick ‘ ‘Morning, Kate’ for a greeting.
Hargreaves did not sit down at his desk, but walked across to the big window overlooking Whitehall and lit a cigarette, snapping his lighter decisively. He said: I’ll have to call a meeting as soon as possible, of course.’
‘Yes, sir. Shall I lay-on the Conference Room?’
‘No. We’ll meet in here. Have the necessary equipment sent down.’
Dick wrote something on a kind of script-board, consisting of a piece of plywood cut to foolscap size. There was a large crocodile-clip at the top for keeping the papers in place. Without looking up, he said: ‘When, and how many people?’
‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll work out the numbers with you later.’
‘Isn’t tomorrow a bit soon?’
‘Why?’
Simmel selected a file from the in-tray and consulted it, though he knew its contents well enough. ‘Gatt is still on the Continent. Seff is in Scotland.’
‘I know. Get them back on the first available aircraft. Charter them if necessary.’
Simmel looked up a bit doubtfully. ‘I don’t think Gatt will like that very much. Flying usually makes him sick.’ He didn’t say ‘Mr Gatt’. It was customary in the Department to leave out the prefix; it saved time.
‘I know. But I’m afraid he’ll have to put up with it on this occasion; I’m sure he will understand. What about Gresham?’
‘He’s back from Harwell, fortunately. No problem there.’
‘Well, you’d better get him over here as quickly as possible. No; get him on the line: I’ll speak to him myself.’
Simmel dialled Frank Gresham’s number on the direct line. ‘Mr Gresham? P.A. to Sir Robert Hargreaves here, sir.’
‘Oh, good morning, Dick.’ A warm, friendly voice. But a voice that seldom responded to urgency. ‘If it’s about those theatre tickets—’
Simmel cut him short. ‘No, sir. Sir Robert wants a word with you.’
‘Ah! Must be about the new plant.’
The P.A. decided to avoid the threatened guessing game. ‘He’s on the line, sir,’ he said to the Director.
Hargreaves took the receiver from him. ‘Frank, can you get over here at once?’
Simmel could hear the relaxed, easy voice of the Deputy quite clearly across the room.
‘Is it urgent, old boy? I’m supposed to be playing golf with Manson.’
The Director strove to keep his patience. ‘It most definitely is urgent.’
‘I see.’ A pause. ‘What the devil do I say to Manson?’
‘That’s easy. You can tell him to come too. And don’t arrange any golf for a few days, Frank; you’ll only have to cancel it.’
‘Oh, as bad as that, eh? Pity! There are distinct signs of an improvement in my swing.’
‘Well, there are distinct signs of a very unpleasant crisis here that is going to exclude golf from the schedule for a while, I’m afraid.’
‘Robert, come off it! It can’t be as bad as all that. What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t discuss it on the phone. How soon can you get here?’
‘I’ll get there within the hour.’
‘Good. Will you tell Manson, then?’
‘If I can catch him before he leaves for the club.’
Hargreaves handed the instrument back to Simmel. ‘Arrange,’ he said.
Simmel said: ‘This is the P.A., sir. If he’s left home, don’t bother to trace him. I’ll keep phoning Sunningdale until he gets there. Otherwise I take it you’ll inform him?’
‘All very efficient. Very well, we’ll do it your way. You chaps don’t half get excited, though.’
‘I’m afraid we’ve got plenty to be excited about,’ said Simmel, and hung up.