gns.theplutopact-第33部分

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　chamber。　The　range　and　penetration　had　gone　along　with　the　choke。　All　that　remained　was　a　scatter…pistol；　capable　of　inflicting　a　terrible　wound　if　fired　at　close　range。　After　a　lengthy　search；　Houston　had　discovered　a　cartridge　hi　the　tool…box　in　the　shed。　The　paper　case　was　damp　and　swollen；　and　he　had　needed　to　force　it　into　the　breech。　Yet　the　percussion　cap　was　sound。　It　would　ignite。　Three…eighths　of　an　ounce　of　No。　5　shot；　destined　for　Sarah　Coyle's　head。　Her　features　would　be　unrecognisable　afterwards。　As　for　himself；　he　did　not　care。　Everybody　was　under　sentence　of　death；　anyway。　There　would　not　be　time　left　for　a　trial。
　　
　　His　tense　fingers　closed　over　the　handle　of　the　church　door；　but　it　refused　to　yield。　He　used　his　shoulder；　restraining　the　panic　which　suddenly　engulfed　him。　The　bastards！
　　
　　They　had　locked　the　door…determined　to　go　through　with　their　memorial　service　to　that　useless　lout；　uninterrupted。
　　
　　Houston　stood　back；　knowing　he　could　not　force　an　entrance。　A　hail　of　bullets　would　cut　him　down　if　he　tried。　Instead　he　listened。　Above　the　shouting　of　the　crowd　he　could　hear　the　Reverend　Mortimer's　voice　inside；　a　low　monotone。　'May　the　blessing　of　God　Almighty　。　。　。　Holy　Ghost　。　。　。　now　and　always　。　。　。　'　followed　by　a　halfhearted；　almost　inaudible　'Amen'。
　　
　　The　service　was　over。　Houston　shook　his　head；　and　retreated　slowly　down　the　gravelled　path　as　far　as　the　dilapidated　gates　hanging　precariously　on　rusted　hinges。　His　mac　was　undone；　his　right　hand　gripping　the　gun　inside　its　spacious　folds。　They　would　have　to　pass　this　way。
　　
　　'They　took　their　time　ing　out；　and　the　crowd　in　the　street　was　being　even　more　restless；　only　the　rifles　holding　them　at　bay。
　　
　　Then　the　door　opened　slowly。　A　gasp　of　relief　from　the　surging　watchers；　two　hundred　or　more。　Mortimer　first；　a　black　cape　over　his　white　cassock。　Jane；　unseeing。　Coyle；　eyes　on　the　ground。　Sarah　。　。　。　she　looked　up　and　saw　him。
　　
　　Recognition　and　hate；　but　no　fear。　She　had　no　suspicions；　looking　away　in　contempt。　That　was　the　moment　when　Houston's　rage　erupted。　A　red　haze　before　his　eyes　as　he　saw　her　finely　moulded；　almost　aristocratic　features。　His　hate　boiled；　then　was　ice…cold　in　the　same　instant。　The　home…made　pistol　was　aligned　with　the　striking　speed　of　a　card…sharper's　derringer。　Three　yards　separated　them。　Ample。　His　finger　tightened　on　the　trigger。　Nobody　would　ever　look　upon　that　face　again！
　　
　　A　shot　rang　out；　crisp　and　clear。　Somebody　screamed；　continued　to　scream。　Jane。　Coyle　was　ashen…faced；　rendered　immobile　by　the　suddenness　of　it　all。　The　crowd　fell　silent；　staring　in　stunned　horror。
　　
　　Jane　stopped　screaming。　There　was　a　faint　mechanical　sound；　scarcely　audible；　as　another　shell　replaced　the　spent　one　in　the　rifle　held　by　the　nearest　soldier。　His　features　revealed　a　bitterness　towards　life　itself；　death　meant　nothing　to　him。　It　was　routine。　A　two…year　posting　in　Belfast　had　made　him　that　way。　It　had　also　taught　him　to　shoot　fast；　accurately；　and　instinctively。　You　sensed　trouble　before　it　began；　and　it　was　the　first　shot　that　counted；　determining　who　lived　and　who　died。　A　wisp　of　smoke　trickled　upwards　from　the　barrel　of　his　rifle。　He　looked　coldly　at　the　body　of　the　man　in　the　raincoat　lying　less　than　ten　yards　away；　the　gaping　bloody　hole　in　the　back　of　the　head；　the　unfired　。410　still　clutched　in　the　lifeless　fingers。
　　
　　Then　Sarah　began　to　sob。　The　crowd　burst　forward　in　one　human　tidal　wave；　the　scene　before　them　a　minor　diversion　as　they　fought　their　way　into　the　church。
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　15
　　
　　Tuesday　night。　Winston　Dyne　was　still　at　his　desk。　He　ate　there；　and　snatched　the　odd　half　hour　of　troubled　sleep　slumped　across　the　paper…strewn　surface；　leaving　the　room　only　to　answer　the　most　urgent　calls　of　nature。　He　was　afraid　to　leave　the　telephone…even　more　afraid　when　it　jangled　harshly。　But　it　was　the　dreams　which　frightened　him　most：　nightmares　that　vanished　on　waking；　leaving　instead　a　fear　that　he　could　not　recall。　Nevertheless；　he　was　left　with　a　feeling　that　something　was　dreadfully　wrong　。　。　。　something　he　ought　to　know。　Then　came　the　headache；　throbbing　like　a　distant　jungle　drum。　As　he　drew　the　back　of　his　hand　across　his　forehead；　the　fingers　came　away　warm　and　damp。　His　vision；　too；　was　affected；　as　though　he　was　standing　across　the　room　watching　his　own　feeble　actions。　As　though　。　。　。　he　no　longer　had　full　control　of　himself！　His　head　dropped　forward；　his　eyelids　heavy…fighting　to　keep　awake　in　case　the　dreams　came　back。
　　
　　At　8。35　p。m。　he　was　suddenly　aware　that　he　was　wide　awake　again；　with　a　feeling　almost　of　being　totally　refreshed。　Perhaps　he　had　reached　his　tiredness　peak　and　surpassed　it。　He　would　not　need　to　rest　again　for　another　few　hours。
　　
　　He　picked　up　some　reports；　and　began　to　browse　through　them。　Old　ones；　like　newsreels　of　past　events。
　　
　　This　disaster　had　been　forecast　a　couple　of　years　ago；　but　not　on　this　scale。　Nobody；　not　even　the　most　sensation…seeking　reporter；　had　envisaged　the　whole　of　Britain's　nuclear　reprocessing　being　carried　out　in　one　unit。　They　warned　of　the　mere　possibility　of　people　dying　by　tens　of　thousands　in　an　area　stretching　six　miles　downwind　of　any　particular　reactor。　Mentally　Dyne　tried　to　multiply　those　figures　to　fit　the　current　threat。　Soon　he　gave　up…mostly　because　it　hurt　his　conscience…and　read　on。　For　apart　from　the　immediate　danger　zone　there　could　be　a　toll　of　human　life　for　as　much　as　one　hundred　and　twenty　miles　downwind。　Thousands　more　would　die；　mostly　from　cancer；　during　the　following　decades。　One　report　stated　that　a　radius　of　sixty　miles　from　the　exploded　reactor　would　need　to　be　kept　clear　of　human　habitation　for　a　couple　of　years。　But　at　that　period　the　true　extent　of　contamination　and　its　lasting　effect　was　unknown。　Nowadays　they　knew　that　in　fact　the　radioactivity　would　last　for　up　to　a　quarter　of　a　million　years。　He　shuddered　at　the　ignorance　of　his　predecessors；　and　continued　reading；　as　though　some　strange　pulsion　had　him　in　its　hold。　Somebody　had　even　believed　that　in　calm　weather　there　would　possibly　be　no　casualties　outside　the　reactor　plex。
　　
　　The　report　concluded　that　'This　postulated　bination　of　circumstances；　itself　very　unlikely；　bined　with　the　severe　and　extremely　unlikely　accident　to　the　reactor；　would　cause　several　thousand　deaths　within　a　few　weeks　of　the　accident'。　Dyne　wondered　whose　the　italics　were。　Somebody　trying　to　play　it　down？　He　wished　he　had　him　here　now；　sitting　at　this　very　desk。　He　would　have　put　him　on　a　direct　line　to　Canverdale。　'Convince　the　rioters；　mate。　Restore　the　country　to　a　normality　until　Saturday…or　else　e　up　with　a　solution。'
　　
　　Still　more　reports…sheets　of　them。　Mostly　about　a　plan　to　turn　marshland　into　radioactive　dumps。　There　were　fears　that　thousands　of　acres　of　land　surrounding　Rainham　Marshes　in　Essex　could　be　rendered　sterile　as　a　result。　All　that　had　been　solved　by　making　one　huge　dump　here；　in　this　valley！　What　had　Coyle　called　it？　'Holocaust。'　The　ruddy　man　hadn't　been　far　wrong。
　　
　　There　was　one　further　note　that　future　contracts　were　likely　to　include　an　option　to　return　high…activity　material…once　it　had　undergone　the　new　'harvest　process'；　of　course…to　the　country　of　origin。　That；　most　certainly；　was　out　of　the　question　now。　He　wondered　how　the　recycling　was　going。　His　was　the　worst　job　of　all；　being　chained　to　this　desk；　helpless。　God；　if　only　they　could　find　some　way　of　speeding　up　the　process：　bury　it　all　in　that　bed　of　granite；　a　thousand　feet　below　ground；　before　danger　level　was　reached。　That　would　be　just　one　problem　solved。　Even　then　they　would　still　be　left　with　what　resembled　a　giant　pyramid　filled　with　radioactivity。　Tyler　and　his　fellow　boffins　were　working　on　a　new　process　for　solidifying　it；　then　it；　too；　could　go　down　into　that　granite　grave　with　all　the　rest。　Untried；　of　course。　Everything　here　was　untried；　experimental。　There　had　been　outcries　over　reactors　throughout　the　country；　so　they　had　picked　on　one　remote　valley；　and　now　they　had　something　a　million　times　worse。　This　was　the　Plutonium　Society；　indeed。
　　
　　He　folded　up　all　the　reports　and　dropped　them　back　into　the　file。　He　referred　to　it　as　the　'dead　file'…the　understatement　of　the　century。
　　
　　Just　then　the　telephone　rang。　Dyne　recognised　Tyler's　voice　at　once。　The　gravity　of　the　other's　tone　warned　him　to　expect　the　worst。　They　had　tolerated　the　usual　one…degree　daily　rise。　It　was　too　much　to　hope　for　even　a　steadying…certainly　not　a　drop；　until　the　new　solidifying　system　was　tried。
　　
　　'Two　degrees；'　Tyler　said。
　　

　　Dyne　sighed　as　he　replaced　the　receiver。　Doomsday　was　one　day　nearer…Friday！
　　
　　He　phoned　Canverdale　at　once。
　　
　　When　he　replaced　the　receiver　for　the　second　time；　that　earlier　sensation　of　drowsiness　crept　back　over　him。　Only　this　time　it　was　different；　a　kind　of　numbing　of　his　brain；　a　slowing　down　of　his　movements。　And　something　else　。　。　。　a　strange　sort　of　smug　satisfaction　that　brought　a　slow　smile　to　his　thick　lips；　freezing　them　into　a　grimace　like　a　child's　halloween　mask。
　　
　　There　was　not　even　shock　when　full　realisation　filtered　through　to　him；　just　sitting　there　at　his　desk　with　that　same　glib　expression　。　。　。　knowing　that　which　he　had　failed　to　recognise　earlier。　And　he　remembered　the　dreams；　too。　Understood　them！
　　
　　Winston　Dyne　laughed　softly；　a　harsh　sound　like　the　croaking　of　a　distant　raven。　He　knew　why　Section　Eight　was　going　to　explode　in　a　very　short　time。　Only　he　could　stop　the　imminent　holocaust。　But　he　wasn't　going　to！
　　
　　At　10。30　p。m；　Canverdale　again　spoke　to　the　nation；　this　time　from　his　secret　headquarters　in　Hertfordshire。　His　speech　was　the　frankest　he　had　ever　made　in　his　whole　political　career。　He　did　not；　however；　confess　to　the　people　about　his　former　omission　concerning　the　advance　of　D…Day　from　Monday　to　Friday。　He　simply　stated　that　because　of　an　increased　rate　of　escaping　radioactivity…assuring　them　at　the　same　time　that　it　was　being　contained…Friday　would　be　crisis　day。　His　cabinet　would　meet　tomorrow；　and　on　Thursday　night　a　decision　would　be　announced。
　　
　　'Ob