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  Chain Reaction

  Christopher Hodder-Williams

  © Christopher Hodder-Williams 1959

  Christopher Hodder-Williams has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1959 by Hodder & Stoughton, Ltd.

  This edition published in 2015 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I. THE NUCLEUS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  II. THE FIRST DAY

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  III. THE SECOND DAY

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  IV. THE THIRD DAY

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  V. THE REACTION

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  GLOSSARY OF TECHNICAL TERMS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THIS novel is by no means the work of one person. For this reason, I would have liked to have paid personal tribute to those specialists who were so generous with their time and their brains. Unfortunately, some of these kind people must remain anonymous at their own request because of their positions in Government concerns and official bodies.

  I am fortunate, however, in being allowed to mention the following, who contributed so much to this novel and whose appointments do not prevent them from being mentioned by name:

  Victor Crosse — Crosse and Blackwell Limited.

  Anthony Dawson.

  Miss E. E. Herron — Hodder and Stoughton Limited.

  Colin Mann — H. J. Heinz Company Limited.

  W. H. Stevenston — Kodak Limited.

  To all, I would like to express my warmest thanks.

  This book is a work of fiction, and all the characters are entirely imaginary and do not bear relation to any living person; in particular, the Atomic Development Commission is a fictitious body invented for the purposes of the story. The accident described occurs to a reactor of a completely different type from any that has been involved in any sort of mishap, and there has been no accident in the course of the development of atomic energy that approaches in magnitude the one described here. Indeed, we are fortunate that the control of nuclear energy is vested in the Atomic Energy Authority, who are well aware of their responsibilities to the public and are leading the field in their precautions against radiation hazards.

  This novel is not written for the technically minded; it is a story of people rather than things, but, for those interested, a highly simplified glossary of some of the technical terms, together with a diagram showing the chain reaction itself, is to be found at the end of the book.

  CHRISTOPHER HODDER-WILLIAMS

  February 1959

  I. THE NUCLEUS

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE sun poured down with surprising warmth upon the roof of the Rolls that picked its way fluidly between jagged lines of less mobile traffic. A pennant fluttered authoritatively from its little mast on the radiator cap. Skilfully manoeuvred by a uniformed driver, the big car seemed to have an inevitable forward impetus as it nosed its way with unquestioned precedence in and out of more humble autos.

  In the back Sir Robert Hargreaves was staring thoughtfully out of the car window without seeing anything in particular. But in Westminster Square he consulted his watch and checked it, as he always did, with the severe face of Big Ben, which frowned on the scene below and sternly reminded the minions of Whitehall that it was seven minutes past nine.

  Two minutes later the car drew up at the entrance of Filbury House, and Drake, the commissionaire, had his hand on the door-handle before the shining metal of the bodywork had stopped slipping past the kerb.

  Hargreaves omitted the usual greeting and climbed out with the agility of a fit man. ‘Is Mr Simmel here yet?’ he enquired.

  Sergeant Drake saluted. ‘Yes, sir. He’s waiting in the hall.’

  Hargreaves said ‘Good’ and walked briskly up the steps and through the foyer, where his footsteps clacked evenly on the stone floor. Dick Simmel, the Personal Assistant, was waiting by the lift.

  ‘I got your message, sir,’ he said, holding back the gates. They both stepped in, and Simmel pressed the button for the top floor. ‘I don’t want this talked about outside,’ said Hargreaves. ‘Will you make that clear to all concerned? The Home Office will put out an agreed press release in due course.’

  Simmel nodded as the lift stopped, and he followed Hargreaves, Director of the Department, through the glass swing-doors. Kate was already at her desk. She looked up, a little startled. Hargreaves seldom got in before 9.30. And Dick seemed unusually preoccupied. Most days he hailed her with some frivolous comment, but this morning he walked straight through to the inner sanctum upon the heels of the Director with only a quick ‘ ‘Morning, Kate’ for a greeting.

  Hargreaves did not sit down at his desk, but walked across to the big window overlooking Whitehall and lit a cigarette, snapping his lighter decisively. He said: I’ll have to call a meeting as soon as possible, of course.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Shall I lay-on the Conference Room?’

  ‘No. We’ll meet in here. Have the necessary equipment sent down.’

  Dick wrote something on a kind of script-board, consisting of a piece of plywood cut to foolscap size. There was a large crocodile-clip at the top for keeping the papers in place. Without looking up, he said: ‘When, and how many people?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll work out the numbers with you later.’

  ‘Isn’t tomorrow a bit soon?’

  ‘Why?’

  Simmel selected a file from the in-tray and consulted it, though he knew its contents well enough. ‘Gatt is still on the Continent. Seff is in Scotland.’

  ‘I know. Get them back on the first available aircraft. Charter them if necessary.’

  Simmel looked up a bit doubtfully. ‘I don’t think Gatt will like that very much. Flying usually makes him sick.’ He didn’t say ‘Mr Gatt’. It was customary in the Department to leave out the prefix; it saved time.

  ‘I know. But I’m afraid he’ll have to put up with it on this occasion; I’m sure he will understand. What about Gresham?’

  ‘He’s back from Harwell, fortunately. No problem there.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get him over here as quickly as possible. No; get him on the line: I’ll speak to him myself.’

  Simmel dialled Frank Gresham’s number on the direct line. ‘Mr Gresham? P.A. to Sir Robert Hargreaves here, sir.’

  ‘Oh, good morning, Dick.’ A warm, friendly voice. But a voice that seldom responded to urgency. ‘If it’s about those theatre tickets —’

  Simmel cut him short. ‘No, sir. Sir Robert wants a word with you.’

  ‘Ah! Must be about the new plant.’

  The P.A. decided to avoid the threatened guessing game. ‘He’s on the line, sir,’ he said to the Director.

  Hargreaves took the receiver from him. ‘Frank, can you get over here at once?’

  Simmel could hear the relaxed, easy voice of the Deputy quite clearly across the room.

  ‘Is it urgent, old boy? I’m supposed to be playing golf with Manson.’

  The Director strove to keep his patience. ‘It most definitely is urgent.’

  ‘I see.’ A pause. ‘What the devil do I say to Manson?�
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  ‘That’s easy. You can tell him to come too. And don’t arrange any golf for a few days, Frank; you’ll only have to cancel it.’

  ‘Oh, as bad as that, eh? Pity! There are distinct signs of an improvement in my swing.’

  ‘Well, there are distinct signs of a very unpleasant crisis here that is going to exclude golf from the schedule for a while, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Robert, come off it! It can’t be as bad as all that. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I can’t discuss it on the phone. How soon can you get here?’

  ‘I’ll get there within the hour.’

  ‘Good. Will you tell Manson, then?’

  ‘If I can catch him before he leaves for the club.’

  Hargreaves handed the instrument back to Simmel. ‘Arrange,’ he said.

  Simmel said: ‘This is the P.A., sir. If he’s left home, don’t bother to trace him. I’ll keep phoning Sunningdale until he gets there. Otherwise I take it you’ll inform him?’

  ‘All very efficient. Very well, we’ll do it your way. You chaps don’t half get excited, though.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve got plenty to be excited about,’ said Simmel, and hung up.

  ‘Talkative blighter!’ exclaimed Hargreaves.

  This required no comment. Frank Gresham was Sir Robert’s closest friend. Part of Simmel’s job was to know that such comments were not made for him to share. Dick had only attempted a reply on one ill-timed occasion; and that had been a mistake.

  ‘Gatt will be phoning at eleven,’ said Dick. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll be able to contact him before then.’

  ‘That’ll do. But if he doesn’t come through, don’t leave it too late. He must be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll go and arrange the other things now.’

  ‘Don’t so much as even think of moving from your office without telling me first, will you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘The same applies to Miss Garnet. You will both have your lunch sent up.’

  Dick paused by the door. ‘Do you want me in your office when Gresham gets here?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll buzz if I want you.’

  Simmel withdrew.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Yes. The Old Man is having a special conference, starting tomorrow. In his own room.’

  ‘Golly! Must be a special occasion.’

  ‘It is. Be a good girl and get all the paraphernalia sent down and ready by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘How many customers?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Better say a dozen for the moment. Oh, and he says we’re not to leave the building without asking him. You’re invited to lunch in my office — Her Majesty’s Government paying.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Order something for one o’clock; and with luck we’ll eat it at three, when it’s cold and disgusting. Incidentally, Gresham and Manson are due here soon. Whip them straight in to the Director.’

  Kate passed a hand through her springy red hair. It was cut very short, lending her a crisply attractive appearance. ‘I gather there’s quite a panic on,’ she said mildly. She caught his look. ‘All right, I won’t ask questions.’

  ‘See you for lunch,’ said Dick.

  She grinned and looked like a tomboy.

  Simmel had scarcely reached his office when the buzzer of the intercom sounded. He snapped down the switch.

  ‘I shall want a report on that photographer fellow,’ said the Director. His voice, rendered metallic and distorted by the instrument, had a mechanical quality that was stripped of any human characteristic. ‘What’s his name again?’

  ‘Cartwright,’ said Dick. ‘Do you want him on call?’

  ‘No; I think we can spare him that. I’d like those prints though, as soon as you can get them up here.’

  ‘They’re downstairs in the lab.’

  ‘Well, you’d better let Manson see them first; we must put him in the picture as quickly as possible. As it is, it’s unfortunate that we had to use his laboratory without his foreknowledge. However, I’m sure he will forgive us in the circumstances.’ Dick thought differently but didn’t say so. ‘You’d better have that letter from Kodak duplicated and attached to your report. Any questions?’

  Dick asked when Heatherfield would get in from Nairobi.

  ‘Get in touch with the Colonial Office and find out. You’d better make sure that arrangements have been made to meet him. And get him a decent hotel while you’re at it. And Dick …’ — a more personal note.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I’m going to have plenty on my hands for a while. So make as many of your own decisions as you can. If in doubt, act first and tell me afterwards. You’ve been around long enough to know what’s what.’ The click of the switch being cut.

  Simmel rolled a clean sheet of quarto into the typewriter, paused to light a cigarette, and typed the heading: For Conference Circulation, April 1959.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE air was still for March, and the be-gowned cyclists of Oxford made cheerful sounds with bicycle bells. The sun, brighter than it was warm, beat down hopefully upon the academic scene, as if by its brilliance it could make up for its lack of heat. Great Tom caught its glint and proclaimed his pleasure by striking the hour of ten. The echo of the bell’s deep tones did the rounds of the quad, then ventured out into the High, hopping from building to building, magnificently offering its information to the people it served. Even farther along the valley, on towards Abingdon, the sound sailed with the slight breeze. Across the fields it went, skittling along the main road and up the hill. Until it reached a row of houses known as ‘The Wall’ — so named because the backs of these residences presented a flat, vertical surface for a distance of about fifty yards, giving on to the open country where cattle grazed. Only the double row of modern windows, unbroken for the entire length of the block, relieved the elongated rectangle of brickwork, giving it the appearance from this viewpoint of a modern factory. The fronts of the houses, however, were pleasing enough, each having a long finger of a garden the width of a house-front, and extending twenty yards or so down on to the main road, so that it was necessary to walk quite a distance from the wicket gates to the brightly coloured front doors.

  In the garden of Number 14, the gay, busy little sound of a light lawn-mower, being used without the bin. Cartwright never used the bin because, he claimed, the cut grass acted as a fertiliser when it rotted. Actually, it was because the bin was so battered that it didn’t fit any more, and he couldn’t be bothered to get it fixed. However, thought Julia, he was at least cutting the grass, and that was something. She ran over the windowsills with a duster, and then called out.

  She was considerably younger than John Cartwright, and it was more noticeable to their friends now than it had been, say, ten years ago. Not that they were any the less happy for it — indeed, they had fewer skeletons in their cupboard than most. John was even happy with his job — a rare state of affairs, it seemed, in ‘The Wall’ — and daily set out in the 1946 Morris, quite content with life, towards the motor works at Cowley.

  John paused when he saw her open the window.

  ‘Coffee up!’ she called.

  He left the mower where it was, without bothering to finish the strip he was on. He made a detour round the swinging seat, pushing it thoughtfully as he went past, and stepped into the hallway.

  Julia said: ‘Darling, how can you possibly mow the lawn without moving the chaise-longue?’

  He took the coffee-cup from her. It was one of those huge affairs, like a soup-bowl on a saucer; so shallow that you had to be careful not to slop it over. ‘It isn’t a chaise-longue,’ he said.

  ‘Well, what is it, then?’

  ‘Maureen calls it the Ice-cream Cart.’

  ‘Why ever?’

  ‘Search me, my dear!’ He sipped perilously. ‘Wishful thinking, I suspect.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, you’ll have to move it.’<
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  ‘I haven’t got to that bit yet.’ He had planned to skirt round it, as he usually did.

  ‘You’re as bad as Maureen,’ said Julia. ‘Lazy, the both of you!’ She topped up her cup and peered up at him over the rim. ‘As a matter of fact, that child gets me quite worried at times, John.’

  ‘Why? She seems pretty well adjusted to me.’

  Julia laughed and said ‘Oh!’ at the same time. ‘You and your books on child upbringing! I simply meant that she seems listless.’ She came over and sat beside him. ‘Haven’t you noticed?’ John rested a large hand on her knee, flopping it there loosely with a little pat. ‘Don’t worry, old thing,’ he reassured. ‘I’m listless sometimes. I feel listless now.’

  ‘You!’ she said. ‘You’re just listless because you’ve got to mow the lawn! There’s something else you’ve got to do after that, too.’

  He groaned. ‘The cupboard?’

  ‘Precisely. The cupboard. Why can’t you keep all that junk in the dark-room?’

  ‘I can’t see in the dark-room.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather the idea?’

  ‘Not for finding things.’

  ‘Well, you can’t keep that wretched printing paper in my food cupboard. Incidentally, another lot arrived from Kodak yesterday.’

  His face registered mild disapproval. ‘Well, thanks for telling me! I was waiting for it.’ He played with her wrist, twisting it round delicately into different patterns, making pictures with her hands. ‘Where did you put the stuff?’

  She laughed in spite of herself. ‘With the rest.’

  ‘In the food cupboard?’

  ‘There are some things you can’t fight!’ she acknowledged forlornly. ‘Still, they’ve got to go. Besides, they might get spoiled.’

  ‘How can they,’ he countered, ‘in your nice, clean, well-kept kitchen cupboard?’

  ‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’

  ‘Tell you what!’ he said. ‘I’ll do them next Saturday. Today the lawn. Also I want to develop those pictures of Maureen. You do want to see them, don’t you?’