The Red Dove. Derek Lambert

unimportant when you were a privileged spectator to the infinite scheme of things.

      Surely the cosmos had to be shared, the Earth-bound factions plucked from their little planet and given the freedom of the heavens. The idea was so bounteous, so joyous, that Massey laughed.

      A sonorous voice from Houston inquired: ‘You okay up there, Bob?’

      ‘Just happy,’ Massey replied.

      ‘That’s fine,’ a note of doubt in the voice.

      They were probably feeding his voice level into the computer. Petty. Massey stared beyond the Moon, beyond the Earth, into the star-dusted void of time.

      When the lunar module re-docked and the other two astronauts rejoined Massey he was still grinning.

      ‘Did we do it that well?’ the geologist asked.

      ‘You did it just fine,’ Massey said dreamily.

      ‘You okay, Bob?’

      ‘Sure I’m okay.’

      ‘I guess I’ll take over now,’ the commander said. ‘You get some rest.’

      ‘You’re the guys who should be resting.’

      ‘I’ll take over,’ the commander said more firmly.

      They completed five more orbits of the Moon before firing the SM engine to start the journey back to Earth.

      The trouble started during the descent debriefing after which they were expected to give a TV Press conference from the descending ship.

      In answer to questions from Mission Control about two possibly volcanic craters that Massey had reported seeing in orbit he replied: ‘That’s what we all need, space to live in, to breathe …’

      The controller addressed himself to the commander. ‘I’ve cut all outside transmission. What is it with Massey?’

      ‘A little stress problem,’ the commander said. ‘Nothing to worry about. But,’ he added, ‘I guess you’d better cancel that Press conference. You never know.’

      For the rest of the descent Massey remained silent, still smiling, in communion with himself. After splashdown in the Pacific he was rushed to a private clinic at River Oaks, Houston.

      It was there that he suggested sharing all America’s space knowledge with everyone, including the Russians.

      Massey lowered the dossier, stared across the bedroom, then raised it again. Rosa watched him. It was 1 a.m. and she hadn’t slept. But there were only fifty or so pages of the dossier left. She could wait.

      As he read on Massey’s breathing quickened. This section was by a psychiatrist:

       After five hours the condition of the subject (not patient, Massey noted) returned to normal and I formed the opinion that he had been suffering from temporary spatial disorientation aggravated by a vestibular – inner ear – condition. There is no reason to suppose that, if this latter condition was treated by passive methods, linear acceleration etc., the subject’s normality would not be maintained.

      So I wasn’t crazy! And yet. …

      The next passage was by Reynolds.

       In my opinion the subject may, under earlier psychiatric examination, have deliberately suppressed his desire to impart information to foreign agencies such as the Soviet Union. Such a phenomenon was not unknown among Servicemen returning from Vietnam, but whereas, in the majority of such cases, they had nothing of value to impart, Robert Massey is in possession of information – the embryonic plans for a space shuttle is a case in point – that, if divulged, could do immeasurable harm to the United States’ aerospace programme. In this context it should be remembered that any future war between superpowers will be directed from space.

       It must also be appreciated that the fact that the Press briefing was cancelled, and that the subject has subsequently been incommunicado, has caused intense speculation in the media and it is now generally accepted that Massey suffered a stress problem. In my submission we should not only support that conclusion, we should embellish it to the extent that any plausibility he might have with representatives of the Soviet Union will be totally destroyed.

      Hatred replaced relief.

      Next a report from another psychiatrist after Massey had been flown to a CIA clinic near the Agency’s headquarters at Langley, eight miles from downtown Washington.

       Acting on instructions, I decided to submit the subject to a course of hallucinogenic drugs that would simulate the required mental attitude for this operation. The appropriate drug was selected with care to minimise the risks of paranoia, chronic anxiety and other symptoms of psychosis. It was finally decided to administer lysergic acid diethylamide which has fewer detrimental effects than other hallucinogens, although the possibility of some chromosomal damage cannot be ruled out. Within two hours of the initial administration the desired hallucinations with characteristic synaesthesia – crossing of the senses, colour being heard etcetera – had manifested themselves. The principal disadvantage in the use of this drug is increased tolerance. As the treatment was to be prolonged this necessitated increased dosage.

      He had believed they were trying to cure him and all the time they had been launching him on a series of LSD trips.

      Massey remembered asking the CIA operative during a period of lucidity about the silver-haired man who was often in the background. The operative had replied: ‘That’s Reynolds, he’s in charge.’

      When he had first learned that the CIA had leaked the fact that he was crazy he had despised Reynolds. Now …

      ‘The bastard,’ he whispered. The dossier dropped from his hands on to the bed, twenty pages of conclusions unread.

      Then he wept.

      When he had finished Rosa’s arms were around him, long black hair curtaining her face, big soft breasts touching his chest. ‘I’m scared,’ she said. ‘Tell me what it’s all about, Roberto. Tell me I needn’t be scared …’

      ‘I don’t know what it’s all about. Not yet.’

      ‘That man Reynolds, he frightens me.’

      ‘Reynolds is a dedicated man.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’ She picked up the dossier. ‘What is this writing that has made you shiver, cry out and,’ her voice gentle, ‘weep?’

      He took the dossier from her and dropped it on the floor. ‘It’s a murder without a death,’ he said, and before she could question him again he drew her to him finding, to his astonishment, that despite everything, he was aroused; then he was inside her and together they found a little comfort.

      When finally she slept Massey got out of bed and went to the chest of drawers beneath the window. Reynolds had been right: he would be waiting for him in the morning.

      He opened a drawer and took out a World War II Colt .45 automatic.

      Dawn. Two figures walking on the hard sand beside the gentle waves, their presence emphasising the emptiness around them.

      Reynolds wore a camouflaged windcheater and grey trousers tucked into rubber boots. Massey, shaved for the occasion, wore sneakers and jeans and an old tweed jacket, leather-patched at the elbow, over a white, roll-neck sweater. He wore the jacket to hide the gun stuck in the belt of his jeans.

      The storm had blown itself out leaving its signature on the sand – driftwood, seaweed, cans and plastic bottles. The sea was milky calm and pink-flushed. Sanderlings pattered among the jetsam and in the sky a single, low-flying pelican kept the two men company.

      ‘I understand how much you hate me,’ Reynolds said. His hands were plunged deep in the pockets of the windcheater, his stride was measured; his voice rang with sincerity.

      ‘I don’t hate you any more,’ Massey told him. You don’t hate a doomed man. ‘I despise you,