The small room in which he was installed contained a single bunk, a wardrobe, and a table and chair. There was a date, course and speed displayed on one wall—denoting that the accommodation was of officer standard—and in the outer wall there was a fixed porthole. When he was alone Tarrant went to the porthole and stood looking out. The Pacific stretched away to the horizon, vast, empty and uncaring. Feeling utterly defeated, he went to the bunk and lay down. He began to wonder what sort of person Myrah had been in her previous existence, but exhaustion claimed him almost at once, dragging him down into unconsciousness.
Tarrant was summoned back to life by an insistent grip on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and gazed at the blistered metal ceiling. Just when it seemed identity and memory would forever elude him, he focussed on the bespectaded, watchful face of Theo Martine.
Reorientation was both immediate and unwelcome. He looked around the room, saw that the direction of the light had changed very little while he had been asleep, and at once was filled with resentment at having been recalled so soon to a world of responsibilities and insoluble problems.
“I’m awake,” he grumbled, pushing Martine’s hand away. “What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want,” Martine said. “It’s what you want.”
“All I want is some sleep.”
“And what about your friend Somerville?”
“What?” Now fully awake, Tarrant raised himself on his elbows and saw that Martine was holding a radio message slip. “What’s been going on?”
“Quite a lot,” Martine said, his jovial persona again in evidence. “Several computers have been holding a conversation about you.”
“So?” Tarrant stared blankly into the other man’s face.
“When you told me about your flying career you didn’t mention that you had received astronaut training.”
“Astronaut! We called it kamikaze training. That’s why I. …” Tarrant sat upright, his nerves taut with apprehension. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s about saving your friends,” Martine replied. “There’s a way we might be able to do it—provided you’re willing to fly a spaceship.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The helicopter which picked up Tarrant and Martine was a high-speed machine with rotor-tip jets and the initials of the Marine Technology Board in bold lettering on its fuselage.
As soon as both men had been safely winched inside, it dipped its nose and accelerated away to the south-west with a surge of power which Tarrant found exhilarating. It was the first time in three years that he had been airborne and his whole body took part in remembering the sensations of flight. The experience would have been entirely pleasant had it not served as a reminder that—incredibly—he was soon to be reintroduced to another type of flying.
It was too noisy for normal conversation in the helicopter’s passenger compartment, so he sat close to a window and stared down at the vivid blue ocean and its white-chevroned ships. The world’s supply of petroleum was virtually exhausted, which meant that the small number of remaining aircraft were destined to grow even fewer, and men had flocked back to the highways of the sea. The generous physics of water buoyancy made the solar-cell-battery-motor combination viable as means of propulsion, and the ordinary traveller had once more learned to measure his journeys in weeks rather than hours. As a military aviator Tarrant had to some extent been insulated from the forces of technological necessity. Aloft again, he felt that the crews of the seemingly motionless vessels far below might have been members of an alien race. Certainly, they were a generation of new men with whom, at that moment, he felt very little in common.
Tired and dissociated, he slumped in his seat as the helicopter carried him towards an undisclosed destination. It stopped to refuel on a small and nameless atoll, then flew on to a larger island which was traversed by an airstrip. He and Martine were transferred to a fixed-wing aircraft which, after a two-hour flight, put down on yet another island which Tarrant suspected might be one of South Newzealand’s acquisitions in the Kermadec group. They disembarked and were met by four civilians who greeted Martine warmly while appearing not to notice Tarrant’s existence, and the group went towards an administration block at the edge of the airfield.
Tarrant, who was becoming used to his ambiguous role—somewhere between that of a prisoner and a valuable item of luggage—looked all around him as he walked. His attention was immediately caught by a large hangar whose blocky shape he recognised as having been specially designed to accommodate a Type 7 ion rider. He took a deep breath, finally convinced that it was all true, that he was committed to flying into interplanetary space in a century-old craft which had been none too reliable when it was new.
“Feeling okay?” Martine fell into step beside him.
“Of course,” Tarrant said. “This is all routine for me.”
Martine smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry about all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. You’ll be meeting Miss Orchard in a minute and she’ll fill in the background for you—until then I’m not free to speak.”
Tarrant had not heard Miss Orchard mentioned previously and his imagination conjured up an image of an archetypal stenographer, complete with high heels, short skirt and notebook. They entered the administration building, went up a flight of stairs, and passed through a series of interconnected offices where their four escorts discreetly faded from sight. Men and women working at desks and drafting machines glanced at them incuriously as they passed.
Finally Martine ushered Tarrant into a larger, square room which had a window overlooking the airfield and on the opposite wall—traditional appurtenance of the senior scientist and engineer—an old-style blackboard. A tall, plump, scholarly-looking woman of about sixty was seated at an overflowing desk. She wore a loose-fitting grey dress and had her hair drawn back into a bun, but Tarrant’s first impression of austerity was offset by the broad smile with which she greeted his appearance. Her teeth were strong and well preserved, but stained with tobacco.
“Miss Orchard,” Martine said. “I’d like you to meet Hal Tarrant.”
She nodded and flipped a pack of cigarettes at him. “Have a smoke, Hal—by the look of you, you’re bloody near all-in.”
Tarrant caught the pack and, although he had not wanted one, took out a cigarette to give himself time to adjust to Miss Orchard’s manner, which was vastly different from that of the demure ladies of Cawley Island. He picked up a lighter from the desk and puffed the cigarette into life.
“Hasn’t much to say for himself, has he?” Miss Orchard leaned back in her chair and surveyed Tarrant appraisingly.
“He’s had a rough time,” Martine replied.
“Nonsense! There’s nothing like a quick drown before breakfast to set you up for the day.” Miss Orchard grimaced at her own lack of finesse and pointed to a chair. “Do you want to sit down, Hal?”
“I’m all right,” he said stiffly, still unsure of his ground.
“Take a seat anyway—you make the place look untidy standing there. You too, Theo.” While they were sitting down Miss Orchard lit a cigarette with practised movements, all the while continuing to stare frankly at Tarrant. “From what I hear, you’re lucky to be alive, young man.”