gns.theplutopact-第6部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　
　　
　　　Chapter　3
　　
　　Coyle　experienced　an　acute　sense　of　uneasiness　as　he　eased　his　foot　off　the　Avenger's　accelerator　some　twenty　yards　from　the　huge　twenty…foot…high　steel…barred　barrier。　An　elevated　enclosed　platform　was　strategically　positioned　above　the　entrance　to　the　nuclear　waste　disposal　and　recycling　centre。　He　noticed　a　face　behind　a　small　aperture；　eyes　that　watched　him　unwaveringly。　Without　a　doubt　the　man　was　holding　a　rifle；　possibly　a　submachine…gun；　with　his　thumb　positioned　on　the　safety…catch。
　　
　　The　Avenger　rolled　forward　until　it　was　barely　five　yards　from　the　checkpoint。　A　sentry…box　stood　to　the　right；　outside　the　barbed…wire　fencing。
　　
　　Coyle　wound　the　window　down　and　held　up　the　green　card　so　that　it　was　visible　to　the　man　on　checkpoint。　The　newspaperman　cursed　beneath　his　breath；　more　to　boost　his　own　morale　than　from　anger。　All　part　of　the　process；　he　decided。　Another　Berlin　Wall。　Playing　on　my　nerves…or　trying　to。　He　pitied　the　workers　who　had　to　pass　to　and　fro　daily。　Just　like　a　Siberian　labour　camp。
　　
　　Perhaps　both　these　guys　watching　him　from　their　sentry　positions　had　read　his　article　in　last　week's　Herald。　Maybe　Dyne　had　had　it　distributed　amongst　the　men。　'This　is　the　guy　who　is　starting　all　the　rumours；　using　a　legend　to　help　cause　mass　hysteria。　Give　him　the　treatment。　One　visit；　and　he　won't　want　to　e　back　again'。　No；　that　wasn't　right。　It　would　all　get　in　the　paper；　and　that　wouldn't　be　good　publicity。
　　
　　Nevertheless；　nobody　was　in　a　hurry。　Coyle　lit　a　cigarette；　carefully　and　deliberately；　nonchalantly　tossing　the　spent　match　in　the　direction　of　the　lower　checkpoint。　He　was　genuinely　angry　now；　and　felt　like　sounding　his　horn；　or　calling　out　'Hey　you！'　Instead　he　flicked　cigarette　ash　into　the　wind；　and　wished　that　a　spark　would　hit　this　gateway　dictator　in　the　eye。
　　
　　At　last　the　man　advanced　slowly　towards　him。　He　was　heavily　built；　a　tightly…buttoned　uniform　holding　back　rolls　of　fat。　Slav　features；　too；　or　was　that　his　imagination？　Just　plain　flat…faced　and　ugly。　He　carried　a　revolver　in　a　holster；　the　flap…type　which　prevented　a　fast　draw。　Coyle　guessed　that　in　the　event　of　trouble；　the　upper　man　would　do　the　shooting。
　　
　　The　guard　held　out　his　hand　for　the　pass。　Co》le　handed　it　over；　intending　to　meet　his　gaze；　but　the　other　seemed　interested　only　in　the　writing　on　the　thin　card。　He　certainly　took　his　time　over　it；　and　Coyle　considered　perhaps　the　fellow　was　illiterate；　but　again　decided　it　was　all　part　of　the　demoralising　process。　Neither　spoke；　and　there　was　no　need　to。　Everything　was　written　on　that　pass。　Name。　Date。　Reason　for　visit。　Time　of　admittance　。　。　。　The　big　man　glanced　at　his　watch。　The　card　stated　9。55。a。m。　It　was　now　9。50。　He　handed　the　card　back；　and　returned　to　his　post　without　a　word。　Everything　had　been　conducted　in　total　silence。　Not　even　a　grunt。
　　
　　Coyle　revved　up　his　engine；　expecting　the　gates　to　open　automatically。　Nothing　happened。　He　was　on　the　point　of　attracting　the　man's　attention　again；　when　he　noticed　the　hands　of　his　wristwatch：　9。54　a。m。
　　
　　At　9。55　the　gates　swung　back　smoothly；　and　he　drove　slowly　through。　A　black　tarmac　track　headed　directly　across　the　red　shale　pound　towards　the　giant　towers；　with　5　mph　speed…limit　signs　spaced　at　intervals　of　a　hundred　yards。　Several　hundred　cars　were　parked　diagonally　to　his　right；　obviously　belonging　to　the　local　labour…force。　He　kept　going　until　he　reached　the　second　barrier。
　　
　　Here　the　uniformed　Atomic　Energy　Authority　policeman　almost　smiled。　Almost。　Coyle　had　the　impression　that　the　man　nearly　forgot　his　orders；　and　then　remembered　them　just　in　time。　Again　the　revolver　was　worn　in　a　covered　holster；　but　the　flap　was　undone。
　　
　　The　man　took　the　green　card；　read　it　through　minutely；　and　then　pointed　in　the　direction　of　a　squat；　one…storied　building　standing　on　its　own　beside　what　were　obviously　offices　and　laboratories。
　　
　　'Park　over　there；　sir。　The　man　on　duty　will　escort　you　to　the　HOR's　office。'
　　
　　Coyle　did　as　directed。　The　uniformed　officer　inside　the　glass　doors　watched　him　closely　as　he　climbed　out　of　his　car；　and　with　a　touch　of　irony　Coyle　carefully　locked　the　Avenger　and　pocketed　the　keys。　Two　can　play　at　this　security　game；　he　grinned　to　himself；　as　he　ground　out　the　cigarette　with　his　heel。
　　
　　Again　a　silent　escort。　Down　one　corridor；　past　numerous　doors；　a　left　turn；　then　a　right；　then　another　left。　All　the　time　Coyle　was　conscious　of　buzzing　activity；　a　murmuring　of　voices；　whirring　machinery；　but　not　once　did　he　sight　another　human　being。　There　was　a　hushed　reverence　within　the　place　such　as　one　might　find　within　a　cathedral。　He　glanced　at　the　man　by　his　side；　but　he　was　staring　straight　ahead　without　expression。
　　
　　They　halted；　and　the　policeman　knocked　softly　upon　the　door　immediately　before　them。　From　a　highly　polished　plaque　Coyle　noted　what　the　initials　HOR　stood　for：　'Head　of　Oxide　Reprocessing…Winston　Dyne。'
　　
　　'e　in。'
　　
　　Coyle　stepped　forward　on　to　a　lush　carpet；　the　door　closed　behind　him；　and　he　was　face　to　face　with　Winston　Dyne　for　the　first　time。
　　
　　The　man　behind　the　large　mahogany　desk　was　reclining　in　a　plush；　tall…backed　chair；　and　he　made　no　effort　to　rise　or　extend　the　customary　hand。　Coyle　was　instantly　reminded　of　the　times　he　had　been　summoned　before　the　headmaster　of　his　school；　for　a　sharp　'six　of　the　best'。　You　stood　meekly　with　your　hands　clasped　behind　your　back；　repentance　and　fear　in　your　expression。　With　an　effort　he　pulled　himself　together。　He　had　hated　every　minute　of　that　public…school　life　for　which　his　parents　had　made　stupid　sacrifices。　The　system　was　the　same　here。　'e　and　have　your　arse　walloped；　you　naughty　boy；　and　promise　faithfully　that　you　will　not　err　again。'　Not　bloody　likely。
　　
　　Coyle　relaxed。　'Mind　if　I　take　a　seat？'　He　reached　out　and　drew　a　three…legged；　plastic…covered　chair　towards　him。　'My　feet　are　hurting　like　hell　after　that　route…march　down　your　maze　of　corridors。'
　　
　　'Sit　down。'　The　authoritative　tone　in　Dyne's　voice　made　it　an　order　rather　than　an　invitation。
　　
　　They　regarded　each　other　steadily　for　half　a　minute　of　silence。　Dyne　was　stroking　his　heavy　moustache；　his　aquiline　features　never　once　giving　a　hint　of　his　innermost　thoughts。
　　
　　'I　read　that　article　in　the　latest　edition　of　your　trashy　weekly。'　he　said　at　last；　the　annoyance　unveiled。　'I　would　term　it　sensational　libellousness；　the　object　being　to　instil　fear　into　the　townspeople　and　to　disrupt　something　which　is　vital　to　the　economy　of　this　country。　Your　reference　to　the　legend　of　Craiglowrie　is　preposterous；　and　many　of　your　facts　are　totally　inaccurate。'
　　
　　'Sue　me　then。'
　　
　　'It　would　not　be　worthwhile。　Your　bankruptcy　would　hardly　benefit　the　Plutonium　Economy。　If　I　had　my　way；　Coyle；　every　known　munist　would　be　deported　back　to　the　country　where　his　sympathies　lie。　Your　place　is　in　the　salt…mines　of　Siberia；　along　with　a　good　many　other　traitors。　Today　the　value　of　the　pound　dropped　again。　Overseas　confidence　is　waning　faster　than　ever　before；　and　even　the　oil　flowing　from　the　North　Sea　seems　incapable　of　restoring　it。　Plutonium　is　Britain's　last　hope…our　very　last　hope。　Extracts　from　your　article　appeared　in　certain　national　dailies。　I　would　even　assume　you　personally　sent　them　the　copy。　You　are　a　saboteur；　Coyle；　and　I　wish　you　could　be　arrested　and　put　on　trial　as　such。'
　　
　　'And　since　I　can't；'　Coyle　smiled；　'just　how　do　you　intend　to　shut　me　up？　Have　me　murdered　inside　this　place　and　dispose　of　my　body　in　a　bath　of　sulphuric　acid？'
　　
　　A　flicker　of　unease　appeared　in　Dyne's　expression；　but　was　instantly　replaced　by　a　wan　smile。
　　
　　'You　could　make　your　fortune　writing　science…fiction　thrillers；　Coyle；'　he　said。　'And　your　energy　and　talents　would　be　far　better　spent　in　that　field。　However；　my　motive　in　summoning　you　。　。　。　'
　　
　　Inviting　me；'　Coyle　interrupted。
　　
　　'As　you　wish；'　Dyne's　features　hardened。　'My　motive　is　to　explain　to　you　the　whole　process　of　the　disposal　and　recycling　of　nuclear　waste。　The　plete　facts　will　be　put　before　you；　and　you　may　take　notes　if　you　wish。　It　is　my　hope　that　the　lead　article　in　the　next　edition　of　your　newspaper　will　convey　the　true　facts　to　the　public；　and　thereby　dispel　any　alarm　you　have　generated　by　the　balderdash　already　printed。　And　another　thing；　neither　myself　nor　my　colleagues　appreciate　the　nickname　you　have　given　to　this　place。　It　seems　to　have　caught　on；　as　nicknames　so　very　often　do…and　was　even　mentioned　on　the　national　news　on　both　television　channels　last　night。　Holocaust　is　a　word　that　sums　up　unholy　terror；　fire；　wholesale　death　and　destruction…and　is　therefore　entirely　inappropriate　here。　This　is　an　entirely　civilised　concern。'
　　
　　'Judging　by　the　way　your　guards　received　me　at　both　checkpoints；　I'm　not　so　sure　about　that　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'Let's　dispense　with　this　flippancy。'　With　supreme　effort　Dyne　controlled　his　rising　anger。　'Now；　firstly　I'd　like　to　explain　to　you　the　reprocessing　of　spent　nuclear　fuel　in　power…stations　such　as　this。　There　is　no　doubt　that　plutonium　is　the　fuel　of　the　future；　and　as　such　we　have　no　right　to　ignore　its　potential。　Those　who　actually　work　on　it　are　in　plete　agreement。　There　have　been　dangers　in　the　past；　certainly；　but　we　are　fully　confident　that　these　have　now　been　overe。　Greater　national　prosperity　is　assured。　In　this　valley；　alone；　over　five　thousand　jobs　have　been　created；　and　in　a　few　years'　time　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'We　know　all　this　crap；'　Coyle　broke　in　harshly。　'We've　had　it　shoved　down　our　throats　since　they　first　started　to　build　this　place。　Just　give　me　the　true　scientific　facts　concerning　plutonium　and　oxide；　Dyne；　otherwise　I've　work　to　do　back　at　my　office。'
　　
　　'Very　well。　Most　of　the　basic　facts　have　been　revealed　on　television　or　in　the　newspapers；　many　inaccurately；　so　for　your　benefit　I　will　begin　with　the　elementary　stages。　This　nuclear　waste　disposal　and　recycling　centre　has　been　built　in　this　valley　because　a　twofold　purpose　can　be　served。　With　planning　permission　granted　for　an　extension　over　another　few　hundred　acres　。　。　。　It