Chain Reaction Read online

  ‘Well, we fit, too. We’re the young couple who nobody knows from Adam.’

  ‘Dick, why do we talk such absolute rubbish?’

  ‘Because it’s fun. Look at poor Gatt. He never talks rubbish. And he’s absolutely miserable.’

  They danced on for a few bars without speaking. Kate’s brow, normally unfurrowed and therefore lending her rather a dead-pan expression, pinched into a tiny frown. One of her larger freckles, situated just above her nose, disappeared into the little trough that was formed.

  ‘You’re thinking,’ said Dick.

  ‘I was wondering what Manson was saying to Gatt a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh, you noticed them talking too! I’ve no idea what was going on, but I didn’t like the way Angela suddenly walked away.’

  Kate’s eyes were focused searchingly on to his. ‘Everybody’s watching everybody else,’ she observed. ‘I’m glad we’re only “mouses”; the cats are frightened.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘Are you going to take me home?’ She wanted him to.

  ‘I think that might be arranged. We’ll drop off old Heatherfield first. Will your mother mind?’

  ‘I think she’d be rather surprised if you didn’t! I expect the coffee will be bubbling in the percolator.’

  They danced close together, she smiling up at him, he wondering exactly what his own feelings were.

  He didn’t think they were the same as hers.

  *

  It was towards the end of the party that Angela wandered over to Ed’s built-in bar to join Gatt. He stood there alone, his glass empty in his hand. Angela sat on one of the stools beside him. She said nothing for a while, just letting the dance music from the record-player swirl around them. For a long time she sat there, watching Gatt, till the noise of the party was forgotten and only the empty glass seemed important. ‘Let me fix you another drink,’ she said at last.

  Arlen spoke without looking at her. ‘No, thanks.’

  She smiled and got up from the stool. ‘Well, I’m going to have one, anyway.’ Arlen watched her silently as she poured herself a long one. ‘What have you been thinking about,’ she asked him, dispensing some ice with a large pair of silver tongs, ‘all hunched up by the bar?’

  ‘You really want to know?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘No, I guess not.’ She drank thoughtfully. ‘The trouble with you is you’re too civilised. You never really flip, do you? You’d feel much better if you let yourself really get high once in a while.’

  Gatt blew a smoke-ring and idly watched its course across the bar until it disintegrated. ‘I tried that once. I spent an evening with a bottle of Cognac and got “good and high” — as you would call it. And when I recovered, rather late the next day, I asked myself where it had got me. The only result, you see, was a broken decanter and some rather horrified friends.’

  ‘They couldn’t have known you very well.’

  ‘Not that well, no.’

  She said: ‘Back in Canada I saw a man get like that once. Like your friends, I was pretty horrified. It was only long afterwards that I discovered why he was like that.’

  ‘What was his problem?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter very much what it was, does it? The point is, he had one.’

  ‘Quite.’ Gatt gave her a funny sort of smile. ‘I’ll have that drink now, Angela.’

  ‘Good.’ She knew he was more relaxed now. He waited till she had poured it out in the proportions he liked. Then they clinked glasses.

  ‘Angela, about Jack.’ Her eyes registered caution. Arlen reassured her. ‘It’s all right; I don’t listen to Alec. He’s never said anything about anyone in his life without having some angle of his own.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Gatt spoke thoughtfully. ‘If I can persuade Jack to go up to Marsdowne for a thorough check-over, will you go with him?’

  ‘You mean, to keep him out of trouble?’

  ‘If you have to put it like that, yes.’

  ‘Sure I’ll go. If he will have me. The trouble is, he’ll know why I’m going. I haven’t spent much time up there lately.’ The words spoke for themselves. ‘Still, it would be the lesser of two evils even if he gets wise to it.’ She looked at him very directly. ‘You’re not going to strip down that Project 3 thing, are you?’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t think it would be possible. I wish to hell I could.’

  ‘But you said —’

  ‘My dear Angela, don’t jump to conclusions all the time!’

  She stared at him.

  III. THE SECOND DAY

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT was no secret in the Department that Alec Manson was jealous of Jack Seff.

  Whereas it was probably true that Manson was the only person in the entire Department who considered that he was of comparable ability, Alec had among his allies those who felt that he made up for his inferior attributes as a scientist by his more reliable qualities as a man.

  Admittedly, to put it charitably, he was rather anxious to please; but then, surely, it was right to give all he’d got in a manner that was palatable to the Director? Seff, he considered, was too much of an individual, too independent, too purely scientific. Well, everybody knew that politics were just as important as the job itself. What was the good of carrying out experiments, however exciting and important, if you couldn’t sell the ideas that emerged from them? Seff, in his view, was more out for himself and his own nebulous dreams than he was for the Department.

  Sir Robert, as it happened, saw things a little differently. He would no more have dreamed of putting Alec in charge of Marsdowne than he would young Simmel. Manson was useful enough, with supervision. But his attitude to research was unimaginative. He would discover one way of doing something, and think it the only way. He ignored digressions, forgetting that sometimes an unexpected result could lead to an important discovery. And if he was carrying out experiments for some specific purpose, he was inclined to force the evidence to point towards the required result, instead of waiting to see what really happened. He had knowledge and ability, but no flair.

  With Seff, the faults were all on the other side. As a pure research scientist he was unquestionably brilliant, and his very brilliance rendered him a bit of a question-mark when matters of simple common sense and routine came up. The humdrum things bored him; he couldn’t be bothered with them. Yet the nature of his responsibilities demanded that he saw them through.

  Moreover, Sir Robert was well aware, without any prompting from Gatt, of Seff’s drinking habits, and had become increasingly worried about them. But it seemed that Seff had pulled himself together of late. All the same, it had been his intention to promote Selgate, step by step, so that eventually he would take over all administrative control of Marsdowne, leaving Seff free to concentrate entirely on research. This was the logical and sensible thing to do, and had Frank Gresham’s full approval — and, after all, it was Frank’s function in life to look after all administration. In this event, Selgate would become directly responsible to London for all dangerous materials issued or lent to private industry. But such changes took time. Now he wished that he had put the new system into operation a lot sooner.

  Something that needed watching, thought Hargreaves, was the personal situation developing between Manson and Seff — even if it was entirely on one side. For, oddly enough, Seff hadn’t even noticed that Manson was after his job. He was too blinded by the situation over Angela to see the obvious …

  *

  Simmel was not required to attend all sessions of the meeting. In his capacity as P.A., there were other things to do. The special catering requirements were in his hands. So, too, were all arrangements for transport, official entertainment and press conferences — and the press could neither be held at bay nor pushed on to the A.E.A. for ever. A press conference was therefore arranged to take place in the afternoon. There was also the matter of liaison with the services and the Ministry to organize for Gresham, so that he could spend the maximum t
ime at the meeting and the minimum hanging on the end of telephone lines. All this on top of the Director’s own personal and semi-personal affairs.

  Such matters kept him away from the building until after eleven, where he eventually arrived, on the second day of the meeting, in the Director’s official car, and received the usual uncertain treatment from the commissionaire, who never could quite decide whether he should benefit from deferential treatment or not. He thought probably not; but it was better to be on the safe side. Simmel, who rather enjoyed keeping him guessing, had never clarified the situation.

  The man opened the door for him. ‘Good morning, Mr Simmel,’ he said.

  ‘Morning, Sergeant Drake,’ said Dick. ‘Hallo, you’ve got a new medal! What’s that one for?’

  ‘We call that the Strand Medal.’

  ‘What’s it mean? That you’ve been a good boy?’

  The commissionaire smiled slightly. ‘You’ve got to be a “good boy” for ten years to wear this one.’

  ‘How on earth do you do it?’

  ‘It’s a matter of moderation, sir.’

  Simmel stepped into the lift. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very moderate about anything, Drake! I either do it or I don’t do it. If you follow.’

  The lift doors met exactly at the centre of Sergeant Drake’s broad grin.

  Dick kissed Kate on the top of her head, and she didn’t react but said, ‘Manson wants to stage a demonstration with a geiger counter this afternoon. He wants the one from the No. 2 lab, and also a couple of Spigett’s tins, unopened — one “hot” and one innocuous. And let me see … yes: a can-opener and two dinner-plates.’

  ‘What’s he want to do — poison everybody?’

  ‘Perhaps. He could start on a man who takes a girl home and nearly falls asleep before he’s even kissed her good night.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve had rather a tough time these last few days.’

  She turned to burrow in a filing cabinet. ‘I think I’d prefer it without the excuses,’ she said.

  He gave her a pat, said ‘Don’t be an ass’ and went through to the Director’s office. Kate sat down, wondering what it all meant and knowing what it all meant and sat down at her desk again. She stared gloomily at the electric clock on the wall but wasn’t wondering what the time was.

  She must have been gazing at it like that for at least a minute when the phone rang. She snapped herself out of it and picked up the receiver.

  ‘This is Ed Springle.’ She recognized his voice from the previous evening. Are they in conference?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Springle.’

  ‘What time do they break?’

  ‘They usually have coffee round about this time. But I haven’t had word yet.’

  ‘I see. Well, something’s come up. Something important, I think.’ There came a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Look, I’d better give you the gist of it, then I suggest you write it down and take in a note to Arlen. Are you the girl who came to our party last night — with that P.A. fellow?’

  ‘Yes, we were there.’ She was at a loss. Embarrassed, she began to stumble over some words of thanks.

  He interrupted her. ‘Thought so. Glad to have you. So I’m not talking to just a voice, anyway. You got your pad ready?’

  ‘All ready.’

  ‘Now you take this down in your own way; I never could dictate. A friend of mine has just got back from a visit to the Union — he went out there to collect material for a newspaper column. Well, he remembers meeting Arlen Gatt and some of the others at a cocktail party of mine, and that’s principally why he rang me up — you see, he didn’t know where to find your outfit, and when he heard about all the panic he remembered something. His name is Ganin — get it? — Mike Ganin.

  ‘Mike used to work at a steel foundry in the Midlands — one of those independent places where they produce special steels for specific requirements. It’s called the Newlands Steel Company. Are you with me so far?’

  ‘I’ve got it, Mr Springle.’

  ‘People who come to my parties have to call me Ed. Okay. Ganin had a special job there — incidentally, he has a physics degree, and has played around with neutrons, protons and all the other trons quite a bit.

  ‘To cut a long story short, there was some trouble at Newlands. A lot of trouble. And Mike had to leave. You’ll guess what it was all about when you meet him.’ He spoke as if it angered him in some way. But he continued: ‘Mike will give you all the details when he arrives — he’s on the boat, train from Liverpool at the moment, but he should check in at the Department this afternoon; he’s going straight there.’

  Kate said: ‘Have you any more details about this?’ She couldn’t quite say ‘Ed’, so she left out the name altogether.

  ‘Yes, a lot more. But I’d rather they had it from Mike direct; and in any case it’s technical, and you’re not too technical, are you?’ He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘I can’t stand technical women, anyway — June wouldn’t know Zeta from a doughnut at a coffee-stand. If Gatt wants any more information from me, he can call me back at my office. Otherwise I suggest they wait until Mike gets there. Now, do you think you can put Arlen in the picture?’

  Kate said she thought she could. She added politely, ‘Any news about Mrs Springle?’

  *

  Simmel rejoined the meeting after lunch, and informed the Director that the arrangements were completed for a short press conference at 4.30. ‘Upstairs in the main conference room, sir.’

  ‘I hope you made it clear to the Press Office that we must get rid of them in half an hour?’

  ‘Very clear, Sir Robert. Also that their copy is not to be released until we give the okay.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Well, even in the period of thirty swift minutes we should be able to give them plenty to think about!’ He spoke to the room in general. ‘Now, here are some facts and figures that have come through since lunch about the actual proportion of the batch of 210,000 tins that are likely to have been affected. This morning, under the supervision of Alec here, one thousand tins selected over wide areas from various retailers and wholesalers that are thought to have been part of the batch, were put through the Railton Sorter — that is, a machine which passes objects along a moving band and separates those which are radioactive from those which are not. If there have been no errors in the batch-numbers, these figures are about the only encouraging feature of this ghastly mess — for only about twelve per cent of them appeared to be affected. This suggests that a different metal was used in the manufacture of these tins than was in the others. Mr Spigett, is it the practice of your firm to use cans with some kind of inner coating?’

  Sydney Spigett stopped doodling on the pad with a start. ‘I’m sorry! What’s that you say?’

  Sir Robert repeated the question with no sign of impatience.

  ‘Yes,’ said Spigett. ‘It prevents the food getting that tangy taste when the lid’s left open. Also it preserves some types of food longer.’

  ‘Right. So there is a definite line of investigation that we must follow up immediately. Mr Spigett, do you happen to know offhand where you purchased the metal for this particular batch of tins?’

  Spigett yawned, then hastily smothered it. ‘I haven’t a clue. Don’t forget, when I mentioned the figure of 210,000 tins I was referring to a batch actually canned. The supply of empty cans wouldn’t necessarily correspond to this. We have two standard sizes of tins, and we keep a reasonable stock of them both at the factory. And since we make our own, we also have a floating stock of sheet-metal.’

  For the first time the Director showed some irritation. ‘Well, I wish you’d said that before, Mr Spigett. Because it may mean that other batches are affected — either the one immediately before or the one after.’

  ‘I should have thought it was obvious,’ said Spigett. ‘You don’t order exactly the amount of metal you need for canning a batch of beans, and then sit around on your backside waiting for it to come in.’

  ‘
Can you find out what products were canned immediately before and after the two hundred thousand odd in question? I take it that you use your plant to cope with one lot at a time?’

  ‘That’s it. We do them in rotation — beans, then, maybe, the soups, then spaghetti and so on. Yes, I can find that out tomorrow.’

  The Director stubbed out a cigarette with deliberation. ‘Mr Spigett, I don’t think you quite realise the urgency of this matter. Human lives are at stake. Can’t you get those facts immediately?’

  ‘Are you kidding? If you don’t think I realise the urgency, I wish you knew what this business had done to my sales! Now you’re asking me to jeopardize some more of my products.’

  The Director’s voice had become dangerously quiet. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m asking. I’m asking you, at the moment, Mr Spigett.’

  Spigett stood up. He looked very different now from the jovial ex-barrow-boy who had been laughing and joking with them all the previous day. His face was puce with rage. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No. I’m not threatening you, I’m telling you. I can perfectly easily close down your entire factory today if I think it necessary. Naturally I don’t want to take such a step. But I will if I have to.’

  ‘I see,’ said Spigett. ‘I see. I give you all my co-operation, and you take that attitude. It’s all very well for you. I have over a thousand employees to think of. They depend on me to pay their rent, to keep their wives and families. Now you want to put me out of business!’ He stood there, wanting to walk out, but realising at the same time that it would not be in his interests to do so.

  The Director spoke gently. ‘Look, Spigett. Be reasonable! Tempers have been a bit frayed all round today — indeed, it is not surprising; I expected it. We are all under very considerable strain. And naturally you have the interests of your workers at heart.’ He managed to keep any suggestion of satire out of his voice when he said this, but it was an effort. ‘I’m simply appealing to you for help. Unluckily, it was your product that became infected. It probably wasn’t through any fault of yours, and you must feel very bitter about it; I know I would. But the unpleasant fact remains: the reputation of Spigett’s Canned Foods is at stake. Our only chance to restore the damage, both to your company and to public safety in general, is to pull together. A new fact has emerged. It is that the amount of sheet-metal affected may not correspond to the number in the batch. Of course, I should have realised this sooner; it was my stupidity. But now that we know this, am I not justified in asking you to find out where, if anywhere, the rest of the metal went — if there was, in fact, any remaining?’