gns.theplutopact-第21部分

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d　hear　the　large　teeth　crunching　on　frail　bones。
　　
　　With　an　exclamation　of　disgust　he　hurried　into　the　town…hall；　and　hurried　up　the　stairs　which　led　to　his　private　office。　Those　two　letters　had　to　be　typed　at　any　cost。
　　
　　At　8。45　a。m。　he　managed　to　contact　the　refuse　department　and　spoke　to　a　junior　clerk；　giving　orders　for　the　dead　pigeons　to　be　removed　as　soon　as　possible。　After　that　he　stood　in　the　window　of　his　office　over　the　Square；　observing　the　reactions　of　people　passing　on　their　way　to　work。　Horror；　disgust；　bewilderment。　An　overall　fear　that　went　deeper　than　the　scene　of　feathered　death　all　around　them；　Many　of　them　were　still　nervous　because　of　that　silly　article　Coyle　had　written　in　the　Herald。　Damn　him。
　　
　　By　10。30　he　was　growing　angry。　There　was　still　no　sign　of　the　refuse　cart。　That　bloody　Coyle　would　be　printing　yet　another　piece　in　the　Herald　about　local　government　inefficiency。　McLellan　was　on　the　point　of　picking　up　the　telephone；　to　give　the　refuse　department　a　bollocking；　when　he　saw　two　large　yellow　vans　enter　the　Square；　and　halt　in　the　midst　of　the　carnage。　But　they　were　not　council　vehicles！　McLellan's　curiosity　was　aroused。　What　was　going　on？
　　
　　Four　men　climbed　down　from　the　rear　of　each　vehicle…all　clad　in　white　protective　clothing　made　from　some　stiff　material；　their　faces　hidden　behind　visors　in　the　square…shaped　headpieces。　Knee…length　boots　of　the　same　substance　caused　them　to　move　jerkily　and　unnaturally；　as　if　in　an　early　silent　film。　Elbow…length　gloves　also　hampered　their　movements；　and　soon　they　were　operating　huge　pairs　of　tongs　to　pick　up　the　dead　pigeons　and　deposit　them　in　rows　of　polythene　sacks。
　　
　　Throughout　the　whole　operation；　inquisitive　bystanders　were　brusquely　ordered　away；　but　a　small　crowd　gathered　at　the　far　end　of　the　Square。　The　men　worked　diligently；　ignoring　them。
　　
　　'Like　bloody　astronauts；'　McLellan　muttered　to　himself；　but　he　was　too　intrigued　by　the　bizarre　proceedings　to　make　enquiries　at　this　stage。　Perhaps　the　refuse　department　had　invested　in　new　equipment。　If　so；　he　had　not　been　informed。　He　would　oppose　the　matter　at　the　next　meeting。　Such　luxuries　could　not　be　tolerated　during　these　times　of　drastic　cuts　in　public　expenditure。
　　
　　The　full　sacks　were　stowed　in　the　vans；　and　a　series　of　aluminium　collapsible　ladders　were　produced。　The　ascent　to　the　parapets　and　gutterings　looked　exceedingly　dangerous。　McLellan　was　forced　to　look　away；　he　had　always　suffered　from　vertigo。　The　remaining　pigeons；　lodged　on　the　buildings；　were　also　collected　and　stowed　away　in　the　vans。
　　
　　Next　came　the　brooms：　long　handles；　wide　heads；　pliable　steel　bristles。　All　six　men　swept　the　feathers；　working　downwind；　driving　them　into　a　corner　where　two　walls　met。　They　seemed　determined　to　gather　every　single　one。
　　
　　By　midday　the　job　was　nearing　pletion；　and　the　groups　of　bystanders　had　drifted　away。　Road…sweeping　was　hardly　the　most　exciting　of　spectator　sports。　Except；　seemingly；　for　McLellan。
　　
　　For　nearly　two　hours　he　had　remained　in　that　window；　watching　as　though　hypnotised。　Now　the　vans　were　loaded…sacks　of　dead　pigeons　and　feathers；　ladders　and　brooms　all　stowed　away。　The　drivers　were　back　behind　their　wheels；　engines　ticking　over。
　　
　　Two　of　the　strangely　clad　men　walked　slowly；　purposefully；　towards　that　alleyway　opposite。　This　time　McLellan　was　wearing　his　bifocals　and　could　see　everything　plainly。
　　
　　They　stooped　and　lifted　something　of　considerable　weight；　then　began　to　lug　it　towards　the　nearer　van。
　　
　　A　shiver　ran　down　McLellan's　spine　and　he　moistened　his　dry　lips　as　the　men　below　him　slung　their　load　into　the　vehicle。　Even　in　death　its　form　was　only　too　recognisable…the　Alsatian　dog！
　　
　　The　vans　drove　slowly　away；　and　only　then　did　McLellan　move　from　the　window。　It　was　ten　minutes　to　one；　by　his　wristwatch。　He　picked　up　the　telephone；　and　dialled　the　number　of　the　refuse　department。　No　reply。　After　a　couple　of　minutes　he　slammed　the　receiver　down　angrily。　The　fact　that　they　were　clearly　taking　an　extended　lunch…hour　would　not　go　unnoticed。
　　
　　He　rang　again　at　2。15；　but　the　line　was　engaged…permanently；　it　seemed。　He　tried　a　variety　of　other　departments…Highways；　Transport　and　Vehicles…but　none　could　assist　him　in　his　enquiries。
　　
　　At　four　o'clock　the　refuse　department's　line　was　still　engaged。
　　
　　McLellan　experienced　a　peculiar　sense　of　foreboding。
　　
　　Coyle　and　Kent　approached　the　checkpoint　at　1。50　p。m。　in　the　latter's　Mercedes。　The　same　stolid　sentry　emerged　from　his　box。　From　the　passenger　seat；　Coyle　could　see　the　face　of　the　man　in　the　upper　box；　peering　down　at　them　through　the　small　aperture。
　　
　　This　time　the　entry　was　much　easier；　almost　as　though　they　were　wele。　Coyle　was　sure　they　weren't；　but　there　was　no　delay　in　the　raising　of　the　barriers　once　their　passes　had　been　scrutinised。　Kent　noticed　three　cars　following　them。　The　Press　was　certainly　here　in　force。
　　
　　Beyond　the　second　checkpoint；　Coyle　noticed　an　array　of　cars　parked　outside　the　administrative　offices；　and　counted　them。　There　were　twenty…four；　including　two　Rolls…Royces；　three　Mercedes；　four　Jags。　Maybe　the　Secretary　of　State　for　Energy　had　not　yet　left。　Possibly　the　crisis　meeting　was　still　in　progress。　In　that　case　the　press　conference　would　be　late　starting。　What　the　hell。
　　
　　'I　want　to　know　what　all　that　business　in　the　Square　was　about　this　morning；'　he　said　to　Kent。
　　
　　'That's　just　one　of　a　hell　of　a　lot　of　questions　I　want　to　ask；'　the　other　replied。　'Dead　pigeons；　dead　whores；　dead　vagrants；　details　of　your　lad's　death　in　Brum　officially　withheld　。　。　。　and　it's　all　going　to　e　out　this　afternoon！　No　half…truths。　The　whole　story。　Remember　one　thing；　pal；　it's　these　boffins　who　are　doing　the　sweating。　The　advantage　is　ours。　We've　got　the　easy　part。　We've　only　got　to　ask　the　questions。　They've　got　to　answer　them。'
　　
　　After　parking　the　Mercedes；　they　made　their　way　to　the　main　entrance。　The　same　guard　was　on　duty；　and　Coyle　wondered　idly　what　shifts　they　worked。　'Holocaust'　had　a　kind　of　permanency　about　it；　and　a　dedication　shown　by　its　servants。
　　
　　Again　Coyle　was　struck　by　the　number　of　intersecting　corridors；　the　closed　doors　on　either　side；　the　ceaseless　murmur　of　voices；　the　distant　hum　of　machinery。　This　time　they　took　a　different　route…or　at　least　he　thought　so。　It　was　difficult　to　be　certain。　The　Atomic　Energy　Authority's　armed　private　policeman　marched　stoically　ahead　of　them。　Indeed；　they　had　to　increase　their　pace　to　keep　up　with　him。
　　
　　Reaching　an　unmarked　door　on　their　right；　they　were　ushered　inside。　A　large　room　with　no　windows；　lit　solely　by　fluorescent　strips。　It　was　crowded：　some　twenty　men　of　varying　ages　occupied　the　available　seats。　Others　stood。
　　
　　'Hi　there；　Kent。　Wondered　when　you'd　be　turning　up。'
　　
　　Kent　nodded　to　several；　but　there　was　no　hint　of　friendship；　even　towards　those　whom　he　had　known　for　years。　They　were　the　Fleet　Street　army；　with　some　provincial　journalists　and　reporters；　too。　Ruthless　newshounds　with　one　single　quest　in　mind。　Later　all　the　lines　to　London　would　be　jammed。
　　
　　Coyle　felt　strangely　insignificant；　a　sensation　akin　to　that　of　a　student　at　a　senior　debate。　It　annoyed　him。　Damn　it；　he'd　started　all　this。　Without　his　initial　perseverance　none　of　them　would　be　crowded　into　this　waiting…room　now。
　　
　　Nobody　was　smoking。　Even　the　might　of　the　Press　had　conceded　to　the　rules。　Kent　toyed　with　his　pipe　in　his　pocket；　but　left　it　there。　He　only　ever　contested　major　issues。
　　
　　'Seems　like　this　crisis　meeting　is　continuing　longer　than　they　anticipated；'　Kent　said　to　Coyle。　It　was　already　2。25。
　　
　　Other　reporters　fidgeted。　Only　Kent　appeared　to　be　entirely　at　ease。　He　had　played　the　waiting　game　too　often　through　his　career。　Some　of　the　others　were　already　making　anticipatory　notes　on　their　pads。　Kent　smiled　softly　to　himself。　Impetuosity。　But　there　would　be　no　jumping　to　conclusions　on　his　part。　He　would　make　very　few　notes；　anyway。　Yet　his　story　would　be　the　first　and　the　best　to　hit　the　country。　No　sensationalism…just　the　facts；　and　the　way　he　interpreted　them。
　　
　　Suddenly　the　door　was　thrown　open。　Kent　was　already　moving　towards　it；　Coyle　at　his　side。　It　was　2。45。
　　
　　'This　way；　gentlemen；　please。'
　　
　　Only　as　they　re…emerged　into　the　featureless　corridor　did　Coyle　realise　just　how　tense　he　really　was。　Soon　they　would　know　the　truth。　Soon　the　entire　country　would　know。　That　was　what　worried　him　most　of　all。　Balzur　hadn't　just　cursed　Craiglowrie　and　its　inhabitants；　his　evil　was　now　stretching　out　to　embrace　the　whole　world。
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　9
　　
　　The　large　room　was　again　windowless　and　illuminated　by　strip…lighting。　Rows　of　seats　facing　a　raised　platform…a　psychological　advantage　for　the　men　seated　at　the　long　curved　table　above。　It　might　have　been　a　television　quiz　programme；　in　which　petitors　would　be　made　to　feel　nervous；　a　sensation　of　confronting　superior　knowledge。
　　
　　Well；　that　was　what　it　was；　Coyle　reminded　himself。　Those　men　up　there　were　the　ones　who　knew。　But　there　was　one　important　difference：　they　were　the　ones　who　had　to　supply　the　answers。
　　
　　Kent　noted　immediately　that　the　Secretary　of　State　for　Energy　was　not　present。　There　was　one　empty　seat；　so　he　had　already　made　his　departure。　A　tactical　move；　or　more　pressing　business　back　in　the　capital？　It　could　have　been　either。　The　journalist　reserved　his　judgement。　He　counted　'the　panel'。　Eight　in　all。
　　
　　Coyle's　gaze　focused　on　each　of　them　in　turn。　Winston　Dyne　sat　in　the　centre；　still　outwardly　confident；　but　a　man　like　that　would　be　capable　of　maintaining　a　bluff　exterior　at　all　times'；　no　matter　how　grave　the　situation。　Stafford；　representative　of　British　Nuclear　Fuels；　kept　his　eyes　fixed　on　some　papers　in　front　of　him；　expressionless。　Tyler；　representative　of　Britain's　Hazardous　Materials　Group；　seemed　decidedly　nervous；　he　drummed　incessantly　with　his　fingers　on　the　table　top。　Chief　Superintendent　Rollason　was　stolid；　as　usual；　but　without　the　eternal　cigarette。　There　were　four　others；　all　bearing