The Complete Short Stories: Volume 2. Adam Thirlwell

an Associated Press report from New Delhi,’ George Schneider, the West German attaché, came aft to tell us. ‘This time there are millions of reliable witnesses. Apparently it should have been plainly visible in the Western Hemisphere last night. Did none of you see it?’

      Paul Mathieu, our French confrere, pulled a droll face. ‘Last night I was looking at the moon, my dear George, not the Echo satellite. It sounds ominous, but if Venus now has two lamps, so much the better.’

      Involuntarily we looked out through the windows, searching above the roadside pines for any glimpse of the Echo satellite. According to the AP reports its luminosity had increased by at least ten-fold, transforming the thin pinpoint of light which had burrowed across the night sky for so many faithful years into a brilliant luminary outshone only by the moon. All over Asia, from the refugee camps on the shores of the Jordan to the crowded tenements of Shanghai, it was being observed at the very moment we were making our fifty mile drive to Maynard.

      ‘Perhaps the balloon is breaking up,’ I suggested in a lame effort to revive our spirits. ‘The fragments of aluminium paint will be highly reflective and form a local cloud like a gigantic mirror. It’s probably nothing to do with the Hubble Effect.’

      ‘I’m sorry, James. I wish we could believe that.’ Sidney Reston, of the State Department, who was acting as our courier, interrupted his conversation with the US Army major in charge of the bus to sit down with us. ‘But it looks as if they’re very much connected. All the other satellites aloft are showing the same increased albedo, seems more and more like a case of “Hubble bubble, double trouble”.’

      This absurd jingle echoed in my ears as we neared the eastern fringes of Big Cypress Swamp. Five miles from Maynard we left the highway and turned on to a rough track which ran through the date palms towards the Opotoka River. The surface of the road had been churned by scores of tracked vehicles, and a substantial military camp had been set up among the great oaks, the lines of tents hidden by the grey festoons of the spanish moss. Large piles of collapsible metal fencing were being unloaded from the trucks, and I noticed a squad of men painting a number of huge black signs with a vivid luminous paint.

      ‘Are we going on manoeuvres, major?’ the Swedish member of our party complained as the dust filled the cabin. ‘We wished to see the forest near Maynard. Why have we left the highway?’

      ‘The highway is closed,’ the major replied evenly. ‘You’ll be taken on a tour of the site, I assure you, gentlemen. The only safe approach is by river.’

      ‘Safe approach?’ I repeated to Reston. ‘I say, what is this, Sidney?’

      ‘Just the army, James,’ he assured me. ‘You know what they’re like in emergencies. If a tree moves they declare war on it.’ With a shake of his head he peered out at the activity around us. ‘But I admit I can’t see why they have to proclaim martial law.’

      Reaching the bank of the river, where half a dozen amphibious vehicles were moored by a floating quay, we debarked from the bus and were taken into a large quonset used for briefing visitors. Here we found some fifty or sixty other notables – senior members of government laboratories, public health officials and science journalists – who had been brought by bus from Miami earlier that morning. The atmosphere of light-hearted banter barely concealed a growing uneasiness, but the elaborate precautions of the military still seemed ludicrously exaggerated. After an interval for coffee we were officially welcomed and issued with our instructions for the day. These warned us in particular to remain strictly within the marked perimeters, not to attempt to obtain any of the ‘contaminated material’, and above all never to linger at any one spot but always to remain in rapid motion.

      Needless to say, the pantomime humour of all this was lost on none of us and we were in high spirits when we set off down the river in three of the landing craft, the green walls of the forest slipping past on either side. I noticed immediately the quieter mood, by contrast, of the passenger beside me. A slimly built man of about forty, he was wearing a white tropical suit which emphasized the thin rim of dark beard framing his face. His black hair was brushed low over a bony forehead, and with the jaundiced gaze in his small liquid eyes gave him the appearance of a moody D. H. Lawrence. I made one or two attempts to talk to him, but he smiled briefly and looked away across the water. I assumed that he was one of the research chemists or biologists.

      Two miles downstream we met a small convoy of motor launches harnessed together behind a landing craft. All of them were crammed with cargo, their decks and cabin roofs loaded with household possessions of every sort, baby carriages and mattresses, washing machines and bundles of linen, so that there were only a few precarious inches of freeboard amidships. Solemn-faced children sat with suitcases on their knees above the freight, and they and their parents gazed at us stonily as we passed.

      Now it is a curious thing, but one seldom sees on the faces of Americans the expression of wan resignation all too familiar to the traveller elsewhere in the world, that sense of cowed helplessness before natural or political disaster seen in the eyes of refugees from Caporetto to Korea, and its unmistakable stamp upon the families moving past us abruptly put an end to our light-hearted mood. As the last of the craft pushed slowly through the disturbed water we all turned and watched it silently, aware that in a sense it carried ourselves.

      ‘What is going on?’ I said to the bearded man. ‘They look as if they’re evacuating the town!’

      He laughed crisply, finding an unintended irony in my remark. ‘Agreed – it’s pretty pointless! But I guess they’ll come back in due course.’

      Irritated by this elliptical comment delivered in a curt off-hand voice – he had looked away again, engrossed upon some more interesting inner topic – I turned and joined my colleagues.

      ‘But why is the Russian approach so different?’ George Schneider was asking. ‘Is the Hubble Effect the same as this Lysenko Syndrome? Perhaps it is a different phenomenon?’

      One of the Department of Agriculture biologists, a grey-haired man carrying his jacket over one arm, shook his head. ‘No, they’re almost certainly identical. Lysenko as usual is wasting the Soviets’ time. He maintains that crop yields are increased because there’s an increase in tissue weight. But the Hubble Effect is much closer to a cancer as far as we can see – and about as curable – a proliferation of the sub-atomic identity of all matter. It’s almost as if a sequence of displaced but identical images were being produced by refraction through a prism, but with the element of time replacing the role of light.’ As it transpired, these were prophetic words.

      We were rounding a bend as the river widened in its approach towards Maynard, and the water around the two landing craft ahead was touched by a curious roseate sheen, as if reflecting a distant sunset or the flames of some vast silent conflagration. The sky, however, remained a bland limpid blue, devoid of all cloud. Then we passed below a small bridge, where the river opened into a wide basin a quarter of a mile in diameter.

      With a simultaneous gasp of surprise we all craned forward, staring at the line of jungle facing the white-framed buildings of the town. Instantly I realized that the descriptions of the forest ‘crystallizing’ and ‘turning into coloured glass’ were exactly truthful. The long arc of trees hanging over the water dripped and glittered with myriads of prisms, the trunks and fronds of the date palms sheathed by bars of livid yellow and carmine light that bled away across the surface of the water, so that the whole scene seemed to be reproduced by an over-active technicolor process. The entire length of the opposite shore glittered with this blurred chiaroscuro, the overlapping bands of colour increasing the density of the vegetation, so that it was impossible to see more than a few feet between the front line of trunks.

      The sky was clear and motionless, the hot sunlight shining uninterruptedly upon this magnetic shore, but now and then a stir of wind would cross the water and the trees erupted into cascades of rippling colour that lanced away into the air around us. Then, slowly, the coruscation subsided and the images of the individual trunks, each sheathed in its brilliant armour of light, reappeared, their dipping foliage loaded with deliquescing jewels.

      Everyone