“First there are a couple of formalities. Number One.” Walkinshaw leaned forward and passed over a little plastic card. Webb held it towards the nearest window. There was a Polaroid photograph of the civil servant, looking like a funeral undertaker, over an illegible signature. Next to the photo was a statement that
W.M. Walkinshaw, Grade Six, whose photograph and signature are adjacent hereto, is employed by His Britannic Majesty’s Government in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, Department of Information Research.
Webb nodded warily and returned the card.
“And Number Two.” The civil servant reached into his briefcase again and handed over a sheet of paper. “An E.24, quite routine. If you would just sign there.”
The Astronomer Royal unzipped his parka. “It’s hot in here,” he said, holding out a pen. Webb ignored it and read
OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT
To be signed by members of Government Departments on appointment and, where desirable, by non-civil servants on first being given access to Government information.
My attention has been drawn to the provisions of the Official Secrets Act set out on the back of this document and I am fully aware of the serious consequences which may follow any breach of these provisions.
Webb felt the hairs prickling on the back of his head. On the back, he read that if any person having in his possession or control any secret official code word, password, sketch, plan, model, article, note, document, or information which relates to or is used in a prohibited place or any thing in such a place, or which has been made or obtained in contravention of this Act, or which has been entrusted in confidence to him by any person holding office under His Majesty or which he obtained or to which he has had access owing to his position as a person who holds or has held a contract made on behalf of His Majesty, or as a person who is or has been employed under a person who holds or has held such an office or contract, communicates… or uses… or retains… or fails to take reasonable care of, or so conducts himself as to endanger the safety of, the sketch, plan, model, article, note, document, secret official code or password or information, then that person shall be guilty of misdemeanour.
He handed it back unsigned.
The Astronomer Royal made no attempt to hide his annoyance; his teeth audibly tightened on his pipe. He returned the pen to an inside pocket, and glanced quickly at Walkinshaw. The latter nodded briefly.
Tolman’s voice cut sharply into the intercom: “Do not smoke. Put that pipe out immediately.”
Sir Bertrand continued to puff. Bleak Atlantic light from a window had turned his wrinkled face into a mountainous terrain. The helicopter was filling with blue smoke. He said, speaking carefully: “The Americans suspect that an asteroid has been clandestinely diverted on to a collision course with their country.”
Webb stared at him, aware of a sudden light-headedness as he struggled to take it in. “What? You could be talking a million megatons.”
“Webb, I’m aware that you think I’m just an establishment hack. However even I can multiply a mass by the square of its velocity.” Sir Bertrand pushed a little metal stubber into his pipe. “The Americans informed their NATO allies late last night — the Eastern bloc partners excepted of course — and the Foreign Office requested my assistance at four o’clock this morning. But as you know asteroids are not my field.”
“An asteroid like that would devastate half the planet. This has to be wrong.”
“If only.”
“Which asteroid?”
“You’re missing the point,” said the AR. “The idea is that you tell us.”
Webb tried to grasp what he had just been told. The AR and the civil servant watched him closely. “Okay, you’ve scared me. What you’re asking is insane. It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack.”
“Nevertheless it must be done and done quickly. The Americans will need to find some way of diverting it.”
“You must have some information about it.”
The AR shook his head. “None whatsoever. All we can say is that at some unknown future time it will manifest itself over American skies as a meteor of ferocious intensity.”
“An asteroid impact on North America could leave two hundred million dead. Suppose I fail, or make a wrong identification? I can’t take responsibility for that.”
“There is nobody else. And I would prefer a more respectful tone.”
Webb felt his mouth beginning to dry up. “I’m sorry, Sir Bertrand, but the moment I say yes, I’m swallowed up in God knows what. Get someone else.”
The Astronomer Royal’s voice dripped with acid. “I know this will sound absurdly quaint in this day and age, Webb, but there is the small matter of one’s obligations to humanity.”
“Hold on a minute. I went to Glen Etive for a reason.” He tapped his back pocket with the papers. “Listen. I’m on the verge of something. I think I can put some meat into general relativity. You know GR is just a phenomenology, it lacks a basis in physical theory, and that Sakharov conjectured…”
The Astronomer Royal’s tone was icy. “You were instructed not to spend time on speculative theoretical exercises.”
“I happen to be on leave, trying to do some real science for a change. You have a problem with an asteroid? Get someone else to look into it.”
The Astronomer Royal took the pipe from his mouth, his face wrinkling with angry disbelief. He made to speak but Walkinshaw quickly raised his hand. “Please, Bertrand.” The civil servant lowered his head, as if in thought. Then he leaned forward, to be heard above the engine. “Doctor Webb, I apologize for the melodramatic descent from the skies, but the fact is that we are engaged in a race, with an asteroid, which we must not lose.” The helicopter was tilting and Webb gripped the table. He sensed that his face was grey. “The Americans are trying to put together a small team to look into this. They have specifically requested a British contribution. We do not know when impact will occur but it must be clear that time is vital. We must get you to New York instantly. As Sir Bertrand says, there is nobody else in this country.”
The AR, at last, poured a black liquid into the plastic lid of the flask. Webb took it and sipped at the warm tea. His stomach was churning and he was beginning to feel nauseous. “Who diverted the asteroid?”
The civil servant remained silent.
“There’s some risk attached to this, right?” Webb peered closely at Walkinshaw, but the man had the eyes of a poker player.
The AR turned to Walkinshaw. “A wasted journey,” he said contemptuously. “Turn the Sea King back. I’ll get Phippson at UCL.”
“Phippson? That idiot?” Webb said in astonishment.
The AR waited.
“But the man’s a total incompetent.”
The AR cleared his throat.
“He couldn’t find the full moon on a dark night!”
The AR stubbed the tobacco in his pipe, a smirk playing around his lips.
“Damn you, Sir Bertrand,” Webb said.
Sir Bertrand removed his pipe, exposed his teeth and emitted a series of loud staccato grunts, his shoulders heaving in rhythm. Webb was enveloped by a wave of nicotine-impregnated breath. He gulped the tea and handed the flask lid back to the Astronomer Royal, who was grinning triumphantly.
Walkinshaw’s eyes half-closed with relief. “Very well. The country is grateful etcetera. Now the quickest route from here is the polar one. After this briefing—” Walkinshaw glanced at his watch “—which must end in four minutes, we will be dropped off on a quiet beach near the Cuillins. You will carry straight on to Reykjavik Airport. There you will board a British Airways flight to New York. It’s the quickest route we could devise from this Godforsaken land.”