Implosion, p.1
Implosion, page 1
Implosion
D. F. Jones
www.sfgateway.com
Enter the SF Gateway …
In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:
‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’
Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.
The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.
Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.
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Contents
Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Contents
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Three
Chapter 1
Website
Also by D F Jones
Dedication
About the Author
Copyright
Once there had been four tracks, but three had been ripped up. The remaining one was rust-red.
Tufts of grass pushed blindly up in the one-time trim tarmac of the platforms, and somewhere a door banged irregularly in the fitful summer breeze. The erstwhile modern angularity of the station buildings was marred by a large leaning sign, blotched and peeling:
ALIGHT HERE FOR GATWICK AIRPORT
The footbridge, known to thousands of apprehensive yet eager holidaymakers, bore a more recent sign, daubed crudely in red. Dribbles of paint had run down from some of the letters:
DANGEROUS—DO NOT USE
Beyond the bridge, the terminal buildings, larger than life in their echoing emptiness, accepted the slow encroachment of nature. Brambles extended long green feelers through broken windows. And all around the air was heavy with the sound of sheep.
August 1995. There had been no fighting, no bombs, no suicidal clash of nuclear might. The air was clean, fresh, untainted with radioactivity or unnatural microbes; there had been no invasion of unspeakable monsters from outer space or the hidden depths of the sea.
But Gatwick Airport was as dead as Nineveh.
Part One
1
As a research establishment it had no great reputation or tradition. It had, in fact, been created in an expansive moment by the People’s Government, largely as a status symbol. By the 1950’s even minor Soviet satellites felt the need to assert themselves, and this one, unable to afford an atomic reactor or a cyclotron, plumped for a chemical research center.
It was housed in an old palace—of which there were any number—and sketchily furnished with cast-off and obsolescent equipment obtained from Russia and Poland. But there is no substitute for creative ability, and the Karl Marx Institute had one outstanding man. To work there at all, he had to be. The Institute was ill-lit, damp, draughty and about as sterile as a pigsty. The Institute was also understaffed.
In what had been the ballroom, as the squeaking parquet floor still proclaimed, this man was standing beside one of four long benches which ran the length of the room, showing one particular cage to the Director.
“This group, Director.” He stood back, a tall, very thin figure, his bony hands plunged into the pockets of his long white coat, his gaze shifting between the Director and the cage.
The Director, a short, bulky man, peered into the cage. A dozen white mice, pink-eyed, noses twitching, stared beadily back. There was silence in the long room, the bench shook gently as a tram rumbled by in the street below.
“They certainly look very healthy.”
“They are, they are!”
“Yet it is six months since treatment?”
“To be precise, one hundred and ninety-two days.”
“Incredible!” said the Director, and meant it. He stood lost in thought, already planning how this might be presented to the Minister with the maximum kudos—for the Director. He smiled, “My dear fellow! It’s quite amazing—it’ll create quite a stir, even if it is of limited practical value. It breaks new ground …”
The white-coated man smiled gently, matching the gentle unbelief in his voice.
“You don’t mean that, Director.” He waved one hand as if dismissing a rather feeble joke.
Instantly the Director was stiff, defensive, “I don’t see—”
“Of course.” The reply was smooth, understanding. “I failed to realize that while this work is everything to me, you have so much else.”
Both knew the Director’s M.D. had been obtained shortly after the war when medical training had been, to put it kindly, primitive. They also knew that the Director had moved, at the earliest possible moment, from the practical to the administrative side and, as a thoroughgoing and sincere Party member, had done very well.
“Very well, how wide is its application—tell me!”
“In its present form, in four or five years we should be saving about one percent of the state budget.”
The Director blinked as he did mental arithmetic. “But that’s colossal! You can’t seriously mean that?”
“Oh yes, I had an economist check.”
“Who?” cut in the Director sharply. “You know no outside agency can be approached without my authority!”
“It was all quite unofficial. I posed what appeared a hypothetical question to —— (he mentioned a very powerful man in the Ministry of Economics) in the course of conversation.”
The Director looked at his subordinate in a new light. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Yes. Quite well, really. We play chess together twice a week—he finds my game interesting.”
“I see. Well, I rely on your discretion. The Minister would not like the news to leak out prematurely.”
The tall man inclined his gleaming bald head. “Of course. But, if I may say so, I do not think you noted what I said.”
The Director had not got to his position by sheer luck. He glowered. “Very well, Comrade, you may say so. I didn’t note what you said—tell me again!”
“Your pardon, Director. I said ‘in its present form.’ This preparation—I call it Test Fourteen—is only effective with rodents.” He ran a thin finger lightly along the wire of the cage in a highly theatrical gesture which annoyed the Director still further. “In its present form.”
The Director felt his way carefully. “You mean the same effect could be achieved with other—higher—forms of life?”
The sad eyes snapped shut with startling suddenness, the long fleshless head tilted back, and the eyes opened slowly, staring deep into the Director’s.
“Yes, Director. The very highest.”
2
Doctor John Bart, M.D., CH.M., looked with irritated apprehension at the intercom unit on his oversize desk. Even after ten days, he was still uneasy with the device, never entirely sure when it was switched off. And in the Ministry of Health in August 1972 it was highly desirable to know.
He glanced coldly at his new secretary, wishing she would stop playing with her pencil. She in turn regarded her new boss, the Minister, with some caution. Ten years as a top secretary in the Civil Service had given her a wide experience of politicians and others. This one was different—but then everything was different now.
“That will be all, Miss Parkins. Type that last one first, leave it on my desk. Switch all urgent calls for me to Downing Street before you leave—and call my wife, please. Tell her I’ll be late.”
Miss Parkins raised one well-trained eyebrow imperceptibly. This had happened every evening, and already it was getting harder to find just the right tone to tell his wife.
Bart uncoiled himself and stood up. He did not so much sit in a chair, as nest in it. Tall, dark and rangy, in the States he would have inevitably been taken for a Texan. His rather stern expression did not flatter him, and he looked his age, thirty-six. But thus f ar, life had been kind to him. Nearly twenty years of hard, absorbing work had produced their reward, a very lucrative practice in Wimpole Street. He was literally a Master of his profession and a brilliant surgical career had been confidently predicted, but Bart was dedicated to medicine, and much as he disliked the idea, felt that the parlous state of the medical profession made it his duty to stand for Parliament.
His by-election had surprised a good many, not least the other candidates. Devoted to his profession, shy, of austere expression and nature, he had little that was readily attractive to the electorate, but Bart got in. Politically innocent, his transparent honesty won votes. In his campaign he made no concessions, no smooth answers, no glib promises. Like Sir Alan Herbert before him, he went into Parliament with one intention, and did not try to conceal it.
In April 1972, shortly after his election, he had married a young—she was only twenty—and attractive wife, and installed her in a modern house, small but expensive, in Stanhope Mews, s.w.7. Its red brick with Portland stone trim was distinctly neo-Georgian, and delighted them both—which was just as well, for there was no time for a honeymoon.
In and out of the House, Bart worked with single-minded tenacity for a major reconstruction of the Health Service, but he had been aware of the ominous groundswell, harbinger of the coming storm, even before he was elected. Although he ignored it, it is possible that it was a very real help to him in his campaign.
When he had time to think about it, it seemed to Bart that his marriage had been the signal for the storm to break. There were rumors, charges, countercharges, scarcely veiled hints in the press that “the nation must be told” which reminded older readers with good memories, of the abdication of King Edward VIII. The vast majority of the population was really in the dark, and many were inclined to regard the whole thing as yet another political stunt. But gradually, the man in the street began to realize that there were some pretty odd stories circulating.
Perhaps poultry-keepers were the first to see the beginning of the trouble. There were isolated occurrences of hen fertility failing disastrously; one chick-breeding firm slumped to bankruptcy. There was much talk of a new virus infection, or genetic damage due to excessive inbreeding, but no one appears to have considered the water supply. However, few—apart from housewives, who complained bitterly about the sharp rise in egg prices—took much notice.
And then the stories moved closer to the public consciousness, stories with a local background, the local nursing home, the hospital. Slowly, very slowly, people began to tie local events to the mysterious, elusive hints in the press—ITV said little, and the BBC nothing—and the crisis was on.
Questions proliferated in the Commons. The Government vacillated, denied, hinted and contradicted earlier statements. Platitudes poured forth. Then came the break; a Government plan to import women was revealed in the press. Thoroughly alarmed, members of all parties demanded a full explanation, refusing to be fobbed off any longer by the plea that it was “in the interests of the nation” that the matter was kept secret. The Premier elected to speak to the nation on TV.
He made an appalling mess of it, enlightening few, and alarming practically everybody. Watched by thirty-five millions, his painful gyrations and evasions united the nation in an unprecedented way. The surging tide of public opinion was overwhelming; the Government—and the Opposition—had to go. Both had lost the confidence of the country. Alarmed, desperate even, the electorate wanted leadership, and the truth.
The New Britain Party grew almost overnight, and support came from all quarters. Many M.P.’s quickly transferred their allegiance, some because they were astute enough to see where the future lay, others, like Bart, because they were convinced the old system could not handle the situation.
Quite without precedent, elections were held a bare fortnight after the Government’s fall. Significantly, no one suggested that there was not enough time to prepare. An old order died when the Premier made his TV appearance.
All parties went down before the onslaught of the NBP and sheer chaos reigned for a few days; then a new Government emerged—and Bart was its youngest Minister. He had Cabinet rank, a key position, and much of the future of the nation lay in his hands.
His scanty political background was no great disadvantage, for the new administration was backed by nearly six hundred members; only fifteen members were in theoretical opposition. Party warfare had ceased to exist.
As Bart walked swiftly to Downing Street, he thought of the new Premier. Like Bart, he had been a backbencher and something of a lone wolf. A blunt, Cromwellian man, George Farmer was well named. Bart, who had only known him slightly, hoped they might see eye to eye.
He nodded to the saluting policeman, ignoring the press. The famous door swung open almost magically. Inside, there was an atmosphere of well-oiled tradition which Bart found ended sharply at the Premier’s door.
There was an air of urgency, almost revolution, about Farmer’s study. The Prime Minister sat hunched over his desk in his shirtsleeves, deep in a sea of paper, a whiskey bottle at his elbow. He spoke without looking up. Bart stared at a mass of wiry gray hair.
“Sit down, John. Pour yourself a drink.”
Bart took in the briefcase propped against the chair leg, the discarded jacket carelessly dropped on the floor. Here too was a man neither impressed nor overawed by his surroundings.
The Premier grunted triumphantly, scribbled furiously, his free hand groping for a button on his desk. With a flourish he initialed the document and held it out for his secretary before the man had entered the room. Farmer refilled his glass and looked inquiringly at his visitor.
“No, thank you, Prime Minister.”
“For God’s sake, cut that out—we’re not in the House! Now; tomorrow’s Cabinet meeting. I want the last Government’s investigation committee reformed. Perranwell’s a good man. As far as he got he did a good job. I want him to continue as Chairman—any objections?”
“No,” said Bart, slightly surprised, “why—should I?”
“I want things straight from the start. You might feel you should be in the chair.”
“I’ve no time—”
“Good. He’ll need your support. I want a daily report from him—I’m making him a Minister without Portfolio which will help—on all aspects of PROLIX. All Ministries are making studies of how they reckon they are affected. Perranwell’s committee will consider and coordinate. This doesn’t mean you can’t talk direct to me, but I want you to keep them in the picture. OK?”
“I understand.” Bart wondered if he had been called over just for this.
“Now the other thing. You’re a good man, Bart. Wouldn’t have picked you otherwise, but I’m not sure we quite understand each other yet. This is important. Before all this,” he waved an arm at the world in general, “the Minister of Health was small beer. It’s different now. There’s me, the Chancellor, the Foreign Secretary—and you. We’re the ones that count. We must work as a team—take this PROLIX Committee. Job’s to find out what happened, how it happened, who did it. Correct?”
“Certainly. There’s no chance of repairing the damage until we know.”
“Good. We see eye to eye so far. Where we split is what we do once we know exactly what has happened—correct?”
Bart was not going to be cut short again. “Frankly, I don’t think we should concern ourselves with anything other than the rebuilding of the nation. I’m afraid you will dissipate some of our badly needed effort in punitive action—if there’s someone to take action against.”
“And that’s where we differ. The country’s in a damn’ funny mood, John. No one, least of all the great British public, knows the extent of the damage. But they do know they’ve been badly hurt, and they want action. By God, they want action.” There was a world of feeling in his voice. “Our election proves that.”
“But there’s no proof we were attacked,” protested Bart. “We’ve got to be extremely careful whom we accuse, never mind threaten or attack.”
“It was an attack all right,” replied the Premier with grim certainty. “The PROLIX Committee is still working—I fixed that—and this morning old Perranwell had news. A week ago someone in the Ministry of Science dug out a paper published in some obscure Scandinavian scientific journal, thought it looked interesting. It was. Called ‘Some Observations on the Possible Use of Chlorinated Hydrocarbons as Selective Sterilants.’ Written by some damned Slav, Pavel something-or-the-other. Science had the wit to pass this to DGI—”
