He spoke almost to himself. ‘To be damaged in transit it would have to be exposed to a strong light; that would mean unsealing the package.’
Julia answered him. ‘Then it must have left the makers in that condition.’
He laughed. ‘Kodak? That sort of thing just doesn’t happen. But I would very much like their opinion on it.’
‘Well, hadn’t you better process it, or whatever you do? I seem to remember that the prints go foggy otherwise.’
He was still talking rather distantly. ‘I already have. I put it straight in the fixing-bath as soon as I noticed it.’
He laid the print down on the table and sipped his tea,
‘Well,’ said Julia, ‘I think I will go up to bed now. I expect you’ll sort this out before long, darling. Will you make sure all the lights—’
He cut her short abruptly. ‘Get me a tin of beans!’ he rapped. ‘Go on, quickly!’
He was so intense that she didn’t question the sudden command.
John heard the car draw up outside while Julia was in the kitchen. He thought it was probably someone visiting the house next door.
Julia called from the kitchen. ‘I’m so used to a muddle that I can’t find the dratted things now! What on earth do you want them for. anyway?’ The door-bell rang. ‘Get it, will you?’ she shouted. ‘I’m still looking.’
It was Dr Fuller. ‘Can I come in, Mr Cartwright?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, barging in at this hour.’
‘Of course!’ said John. ‘You must have a drink. Come into the living-room.’ He led the way, still talking. ‘I expect you’ve got the result of the blood test, perhaps?’ They entered the room. ‘You must forgive the muddle; what will you have? Some whisky?’
‘Thanks. Just a little… that’ll do fine.’
Julia came in, clutching the tin. She was surprised to see the doctor there. She greeted him warmly, however, and handed the tin absent-mindedly to her husband. She had forgotten about it now.
Ignoring Fuller for a moment, Cartwright placed the tin over the angry mark on the printing paper.
It fitted exactly.
Cartwright looked up blankly. Then he looked back at the tin; and some faint memory of his schooldays — something buried among all the long-forgotten science lessons through which he had sat so inattentively — was trying to filter through to his conscious mind.
He said: ‘Now, just what the hell is going on here?’
CHAPTER THREE
On the third floor of Filbury House was the telephone exchange for the Directorate. It served the whole Department — that is to say, the top three floors of the building. The two lower floors were annexed by the War Office.
Sally was a good switchboard operator — always calm, even on a day like this, when the consoles seemed to have broken out into a rash of impatiently flickering lights, each one representing a member of the staff expecting instant service.
Between two calls she had time to remark to her neighbour:
‘Something’s going on; you can put your last dollar on that.’ She spoke into the headpiece microphone. ‘Atomic Development Commission,’ she parroted.
‘This is the Continental Service,’ said the girl at the other end, ‘what is your number?’
‘Whitehall 0011.’
‘Geneva is calling you; hold the line, please.’
Simmel paused at the typewriter and answered the plan 7 phone. When Gatt was on the line he put him straight through to the Director and listened on the line — normal practice except for personal or highly confidential calls. This way he could keep fully in the picture and take any notes that were necessary.
When Hargreaves had finished, he told Gatt the travel arrangements he had made. Gatt didn’t sound very pleased, especially when he was told he had got to fly. Dick pacified him as best he could and hung up.
A few more staccato jabs at the typewriter with his middle finger and Simmel had finished the report. He ripped it out of the machine and checked it through. Then he picked up Cartwright’s original letter and read it once more. It was a rambling communication — that of someone who had suddenly been faced with a situation so completely beyond his comprehension and emotional endurance that he could not throw off the impression that it was all part of some horrifying dream.
Dear Sir,
This letter is a little hard to begin. The events that have recently occurred down here in Oxford are so improbable and yet so terribly real that I don’t quite know how to convey them to you. Perhaps, when you receive this you would be kind enough to telephone me and I can give you what I believe to be the facts in more detail.
I would probably have dismissed the business of the tin from my mind but for two things: firstly, something I remembered (two days after it happened) having learned at school, and which I checked today at the public library here, and secondly the illness of my daughter Maureen.
I don’t wish to bore you with scientific history (which you must know backwards in any case), but the thing I remembered was this: Henri Becquerel had chanced to leave a photographic plate in a drawer of his laboratory. On top of the plate (which was wrapped in light-proof paper) lay a key. There happened, also, to be some uranium bisulphate in the drawer as well. After Becquerel had used the plate for some photograph or other he found, after developing it, that there was a clear image of the key imposed on the picture. As you know, this was how radioactivity was discovered…
The letter then went on to describe the incident of the canned beans, and continued:
Dr Fuller decided last week that it would be advisable for my daughter to have a blood-count. The results show that Maureen is suffering from a rare form of anaemia. I am not certain from what the doctor has told me how serious it is, or whether in fact it can be cured at all. It would be understandable if — in the gravest event — he decided to keep the truth from my wife and myself. Be that as it may, it is a fact that Maureen is particularly fond of baked beans and frequently has them for her supper. Since we apparently have been buying this brand for quite some time, it occurs to me, though I must admit it sounds fantastic, that other tins of beans might also have been ‘radioactive’. I haven’t been able to convince Dr Fuller that my seemingly wild theory is correct (and for the sake of others I certainly hope it’s not), but he agrees that if it were so it could account for Maureen’s condition, if it had been going on long enough.
I sent the prints to Kodak yesterday, and asked them to forward them, with their views, direct to you.
Should you decide to telephone me, you can reach me either here or at the hospital…
Kate poked her nose round the office door. ‘Thought you’d like to know,’ she said. ‘Old Gresham’s turned up, with Manson in tow.’
‘Is Manson in one of his moods?’
‘I’m afraid so. He’s wearing that awful blazer — you know, the one with the huge shield on it. Did the old man make him cancel his golf or something?’
‘Yes,’ said Dick with a grin, ‘and I knew he’d be furious. So is Gatt; I just had him on the phone.’
‘Golly! Tomorrow is going to be a happy party!’
‘I expect they’ll simmer down.’ He handed her two sheets of yellow paper. ‘Here. For duplicating. Sorry they’re carbons, but I’m taking the top copy straight in to the Director.’
‘They don’t accept carbons.’
He fluttered them at her. ‘They’re going to this time,’ he said firmly.
Kate took the yellow paper with distaste. ‘All right. But I wish I knew what was going on.’