It was then that Kimberley had asked Carter suddenly, “Do you think it’s symbiotic or parasitic?” Both men knew what she was referring to.
“It’s too early to tell,” wheezed Carter.
She was thoughtful for a while, then said, “Well, at least it’s prettier than some I’ve seen.”
Carter began the transmission. As he was relying solely on batteries for power, he wasn’t sure if the signal would carry far enough, nor did he have the means to build a receiver to hear if the signal was acknowledged.
“What are the chances?” Wilson asked him.
“Fifty-fifty. We’re sending on the designated frequency, so someone somewhere should be monitoring it 24 hours a day waiting to hear from you. It all depends on how close to us the nearest functioning receiver is now. It may be that the fungus has spread right through Wales to the coast. Then again, how far a signal travels often varies depending on atmospheric conditions; so the longer I can keep this equipment functioning, the better our chances are.”
Wilson and Kimberley left Carter in the dimly lit control room, anxiously tending the vulnerable transmitter. They returned to the apartment they’d found earlier. They knew there were some cans of food stored in a kitchen cupboard.
They ate in darkness on the floor of the living room, opening one can after another by touch and then tasting to identify the contents. It was a strange meal, consisting of asparagus tips, courgettes, tuna fish, tomato soup, apricot halves, rice pudding, and evaporated milk. They even managed to laugh at one point when Wilson realized he’d opened a can of dog food.
Afterward, by an unspoken agreement, they made love. In the darkness, on the floor, they made love with a frantic, desperate, urgency. At first he tried to avoid touching her right leg but soon it didn’t matter to him, nor to her.
Later, as they lay in each other’s arms, she sighed and said, “I wish now we’d got to know each other better.” She spoke matter-of-factly and he realized she was now resigned to the fact of her imminent death.
He gave her a gentle hug. “So do I. But there’s still time.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said but he knew she didn’t mean it.
“For a start you could tell me why you came along on this trip. I know you’ve been hiding something all along.”
She sighed again. “You’re right. I had an ulterior motive. It made sense once but now it seems crazy. I would never have succeeded.”
“In doing what?”
“In getting my parents out of prison. They were convicted last year in Johannesburg under the Anti-Terrorism Act, conspiring to cause explosions.” She gave a bitter laugh. “It was all trumped up by the security boys, of course. My parents have had connections with anti-apartheid movements for years now, but they’d never be involved with violence. My mother’s a doctor, for God’s sake. But she’s been sentenced to 10 years and my father to 15.”
Wilson made a sympathetic sound though he couldn’t see what possible link there might be between her parents’ jail sentence and the fungus.
“When I heard what was happening in London,” she continued, “and learned the reason for it, I came up with this wild scheme. It involved mutated lichen fungi—you know the special properties of lichen fungi, don’t you?”
“Vaguely,” he said, trying to remember. “I know they’re a strange combination of fungi and algae.”
“Yes, and they have the ability to absorb heavy metals. There’s a theory that the gold deposits in South Africa at Witwatersrand are the result of lichen fungi in pre-Cambrian lagoons absorbing the gold out of the water. I had the idea of using mutated lichen fungi to extract gold in vast quantities from sea water. And if that was possible it would mean the ruination of the South African economy, because the price of gold would plummet and the country still depends on the damn stuff so much.”
He understood now. “You were going to try and blackmail the South African government into setting your parents free.”
“Yes.”
“But it would have meant modifying Jane’s mutating agent to the point where it was safe. That would have been very risky, and complicated.”
He felt her shrug in his arms. “I was going to worry about that later. The main priority was to make sure your wife’s secret wasn’t lost. So I maneuvered myself into a position where I was indispensable to the mission.”
He considered what she’d told him. “You were crazy,” he said finally. “It would never have worked.”
“Maybe not, but I had to try. Now I rather wish I hadn’t. I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I don’t want to die but I don’t want to end up like all those other creatures.”
He squeezed her. “Don’t think about it. Not now.”
But she continued, “Will you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“If you survive all this, will you try to contact my parents and tell them about me?”
“Of course, if I survive. But I don’t think much of my chances.”
“No,” she said seriously, “I’m certain you will get out of this uninfected. Your wife was right. One of us was naturally immune, but it wasn’t me.”
“I’ve just been lucky so far.”
“No. It’s probably genetic. Your son was immune, before your wife—” She paused. “I’m sorry.”
He felt her lips brush his. “Promise me you’ll do what I asked?” she whispered.
“Yes, I promise,” he said and meant it. And he’d do his best to get her parents out of prison as well. As the man who—hopefully—helped save the world, he would be entitled to some rewards.
They made love again. More slowly this time, and with genuine affection. Then he fell asleep.
When he woke up bright daylight flooded the room and Kimberley was gone.
He knew in his heart it was a waste of time, but he searched for her anyway. He couldn’t find her until he went out onto the roof and looked down. Far below, lying on yellow fungus that coated the sidewalk was a small splotch of bright orange.
His eyes stung as the hot tears filled them. Then he went back down to the control room.
Carter was asleep. The equipment didn’t appear to be functioning. Wilson gently shook Carter awake and asked him what the situation was.
“I kept it going for over six hours,” wheezed Carter, “but then some mold got into the works. We can only hope someone heard—” He looked around. “Where’s the lady?”
“Kimberley’s gone,” said Wilson.
“I see,” said Carter, his heavy head tilting forward.
The days passed monotonously. When Wilson wasn’t scavenging for food and drink, he spent the time sitting on the roof of the Euston Tower with Carter. They were waiting for something to happen—a sign of some kind—though they didn’t know what.
Carter didn’t talk much anymore. He was finding it difficult to breathe due to the weight of the crust on his head, neck and chest.
During one of their last conversations Wilson said, “Christ, I could do with a cigarette.”
“Bad for your lungs,” wheezed Carter, and made his laughing sound. Then he said, “Me—I’d like to read a book. Anything at all. Even a Flannery novel.”
Wilson laughed too.
On the eighth day they got their sign. It was near sunset and they were sitting in their customary place on the roof. Suddenly an RAF jet flew overhead with a thunderous roar. It circled low over the area, rocked its wings, and then disappeared to the north.
“You think that was an acknowledgment of our message?” Wilson asked eagerly.
“Had to be,” wheezed Carter. “No other way they’d know we were here.”