Other Days, Other Eyes
Chapter One
At first the other car was just a blood-red speck in the dwindling perspectives of the highway, but even at that distance—and in spite of the glare caused by the keyhole-shaped iris of his left eye—Garrod was able to identify the year and the model. It was a 1982 Stiletto. Prompted by an illogical apprehension, he eased his foot off the throttle and his own car began slowing from its 90 mph cruise. Even with the smoothness of his movement the turbine gave a moan of mechanical disappointment on the over-run.
“What’s the matter?” His wife was predictably and instantly alert.
“Nothing.”
“But why did you slow down?” Esther liked to keep a close watch on all her property, in which category she included her husband, and her stiffly-lacquered broad-brimmed hat made scanning movements like those of a radar dish.
“No particular reason.” Garrod smiled his protest at being questioned, and watched as the Stiletto ballooned larger in the windshield. Suddenly—as he had known it would—the Stiletto’s left-hand turn signal began to flash orange light. Garrod checked and saw the sideroad which branched off the highway at a point midway between the two cars. He hit the brake and his Turbo-Lincoln dipped its nose as the tyres gripped the road. The red Stiletto swerved across their path and vanished up the sideroad in a cloud of saffron dust. Garrod had a fleeting impression of a boy’s face at the sports car’s side window, the mouth a dark circle, shocked, accusatory.
“My God, did you see that?” Esther’s neat features were momentarily haggard. “Did you see that?”
Because his wife was acting as spokesman for their anger, Garrod was able to remain calm. “You bet I saw it.”
“If you hadn’t slowed down when you did, that stupid kid would have been right into us…” Esther paused and turned sideways to look at him as the thought struck her. “Why did you slow down, Alban? It was almost as if you knew what was going to happen.”
“I’ve learned not to trust kids in red sports cars, that’s all.” Garrod laughed easily, but his wife’s question had disturbed him more than it would had no spoken comment been made. What had prompted him to throttle back just when he did? On one level, he was entitled to have a special interest in the current-model Stiletto car—it was the first production line vehicle to be fitted with a Thermgard windshield made in his own factory; but that did not explain the icy heavings in his subconscious, the sense of having looked at something ghastly and of having erased the memory.
“I knew we should have gone on the official plane,” Esther said.
“You also wanted to make a little vacation out of the trip.”
“I know, but I didn’t expect…”
“There’s the airfield now,” Garrod interrupted, as a high wire fence appeared on their left. “We’ve made good time.”
Esther nodded reluctantly and settled back to stare at the runway markers and landing aids which had become visible beyond the wavering blur of fence poles. This was their second wedding anniversary and Garrod had a niggling suspicion she resented such a large portion of the day being taken up by a business appointment. There was nothing he could do about that, however—even if her family’s money had saved the Garrod organization from collapse. The United States had been disastrously late in entering the civil supersonic transport field, but the Mach 4 Aurora would go into service before very long—just at a time when the SSTs of other countries were beginning to show their age—and he, Alban Garrod, had made a contribution. He could not say exactly why it was so important for him to be present at the Aurora’s first public flight, but he knew nothing would stop him seeing the titanium eagle take to the air and find its way aloft with the eyes he had given it.
In five minutes they were at the main gate of the United Aircraft Constructors’ field. A guard in crisp, oatmeal-coloured linens saluted and waved them through when he saw Garrod’s contractor’s invitation card. They drove slowly through the crowded administration complex. Brightly-painted direction signs glowed in the morning sunlight, creating a fairground atmosphere. Everywhere Garrod looked he saw leggy golden girls in the uniforms of the airlines which had placed advance orders for the Aurora.
Esther placed a possessive hand on his thigh. “Lovely, aren’t they? I’m beginning to see why you were so determined to be here.”
“I wouldn’t have come without you,” Garrod lied. He squeezed Esther’s knee to reinforce his words, and felt the sudden rigidity of her muscles.
“Look, Alban, look!” Her voice was pitched high. “That must be the Aurora. Why didn’t you tell me it was so beautiful?”
Garrod felt a pang of vicarious pride as he glimpsed the vast silvery shape, sentient, futuristic yet prehistoric, a mathematical organism. He had not expected Esther to appreciate the Aurora and his eyes prickled with gratification. Abruptly, he was completely happy—the incident with the red Stiletto had been too trivial for words. Another guard waved them into the small parking lot which had been created for the benefit of contractors by string varicoloured ropes on portable standards at the edge of the field. Garrod got out of the car and breathed deeply, trying to fill his lungs with the pastels of morning. The air was warm, evocatively laced with kerosene fumes.
Esther was still staring raptly at the Aurora, which loomed beyond the roof of a red-and-white marquee. “The windows seem so small.”
“Only because of the scale. That’s a big aeroplane, you know. We’re more than four hundred yards from it.”
“I still think it looks a little…short-sighted. It’s like a bird with its eyes all squeezed, trying to see.”
Garrod took her elbow and guided her towards the marquee. “The point is that it has eyes, just like an ordinary aircraft. That’s why our Thermgard was so important to the project—it let the designers cut out all the weight and complexity of the heatshields used on the sort of SSTs that are flying around now.”
“I was only teasing you, Mr. Garrod, sir.” Esther playfully hugged his left arm with both of hers as they entered the comparative shadiness of the marquee, and her small, precision-cast features developed new facets as she smiled. With one part of his mind Garrod noted that, once again, his rich wife had contrived to have a firm and obvious grip on her property as they joined a gathering of strangers, but he was in no mood to object. A sense of excitement was building up within him as a tall man with gold-and-silver hair and a tanned boyish face came shouldering through the crowd. It was Vernon Maguire, president of United Aircraft Constructors.
“Glad you could make it, Al.” Maguire eyed Esther appreciatively. “And this is Boyd Livingstone’s little girl, is it? How is your father these days, Esther?”
“Busier than ever—you know what he’s like about work.” Esther shook hands with Maguire.
“I hear he’s thinking about going into politics. Is he still so touchy about gambling?”
“He wants to blow up every racetrack in the country.” Esther smiled at Maguire, and Garrod was surprised to feel a faint twinge of annoyance. Esther knew nothing about the aviation industry, was present only on a courtesy basis, yet Maguire’s attention was fully on her. Money was talking to money.
“Give him my regards, Esther.” A look of theatrical concern passed over Maguire’s young, not-young face. “Say, why didn’t you bring the old boy along with you?”