“Yes,” Vanderdecker said.
“No you don’t.”
“Actually,” Vanderdecker said through a big smile. “I do. I’ve entrusted the economic future of the free world—when I was a boy, the free world was anything Philip of Spain hadn’t got his paws on yet, and precious little there was of it too; shows how things don’t change much, doesn’t it? On balance, though, I think Philip was a better bet than you, if you don’t mind me saying so. At least he had interests outside his work. I think he collected the bones of saints, or was that Louis the Ninth?—the economic future of the free world, as I was saying, and all that sort of thing, to a singularly clear-headed and conscientious person, who will be able to look after it much better than either of us. No offence intended, Professor, but you’ve got rather too much of a vested interest for my liking. And most of all you don’t have any hobbies; workaholic, I think they call it now. I never could stand workaholics. We must be nearly there by now.”
Montalban quivered slightly, and then sat back on his hard vinyl-covered seat, breathing heavily. “You’re mad,” he said.
“Sergeant Pepper to you,” Vanderdecker replied affably. “Also, nuts. Is that Suilven I can see down there? Can’t be far now. I’m really rather looking forward to this.”
Below them, the coastal mountains of Caithness ranged up into a bleak, wet sky. The first mate, who had slept soundly ever since the helicopter’s rendezvous, with the
“Nearly,” Vanderdecker said. “I can’t see the sea.”
“Big deal,” grumbled the first mate.
“True,” Vanderdecker said. “But after it’s over I’ll buy you a pint. How does that grab you?”
“Thanks, skip,” said the first mate eagerly. “What exactly is it we’re going to do?”
“We’re going to put out the fire,” Vanderdecker said.
“Oh.” The first mate frowned. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“Oh.” The first mate thought about it, and could see no objection. “And then you’ll buy me a pint?”
“If humanly possible, yes.”
“Suits me,” said the first mate. Then he went back to sleep.
∨ Flying Dutch ∧
FOURTEEN
Danny Bennett peered through the perspex window of his helicopter and wiped away the little patch of view-obscuring condensation that his breath had formed on it. A BAFTA award, certainly, but probably posthumous. It looked decidedly hairy down there.
It hadn’t exactly been easy getting here. Even after he had managed to persuade Neville, the helicopter-flying stockbroker sidekick of megalomaniac academic Professor Montalban, to pilot the spare chopper—the gun had helped, of course, but he had still had to work at it—there had been the problem of persuading the camera crew to participate in the biggest scoop since Watergate. They had been rather less easy to persuade, since they were under the impression that possession of a valid union card made them bullet-proof, and he had had to resort to bribery. In fact, he had pledged the Corporation’s credit to a quite disastrous extent—tuppence on a colour licence would only just cover it—and had Harvey not backed him up and said he would square it with the Director-General the whole thing would have fallen through. Harvey, clearly, was so overjoyed at the thought of Danny Bennett flying to certain death that he was ready to break the habit of a lifetime and agree to authorise expenditure.
Still, here they were and there was the story, unfolding itself in vivid sheets of orange flame below them. On Danny’s knee rested a quite exquisite Meissen geiger counter, borrowed from Montalban’s study, and at the moment the needle was still a millimetre or so clear of the red zone. Probably far enough. Danny communicated with the pilot, and told the cameraman to roll ‘em.
Danny peered out through the perspex once again. Vanderdecker’s helicopter had touched down about half a mile away, just outside the red zone—pity he hadn’t been able to get an interview with him, but there it was—and the small party had scrambled out of it and started to trudge towards the distinctly unfriendly-looking power station complex. Even as he wittered frenetically into his pocket tape recorder, Danny’s eyes were fixed on his targets, as he expected them at any moment to dissolve into little whiffs of gamma particles (Danny’s knowledge of nuclear physics was mainly drawn from reruns of Buck Rogers). He glanced across at the cameraman to make sure that the Aaten was pointing where it should. It was. Would the radiation cock up the film? Well, too late to worry about that now. Better by far to have filmed and lost then never to have filmed at all.
