Glide Path (Arthur C. Clarke Collection) Read online

  He was still worrying about this when the hypnotic rhythm of the rails, and the peaceful seclusion of the empty first-class carriage, lulled him into a slumber from which he did not wake until the train stopped at Exeter. For once his luck was in; there was a connection in less than an hour, so he would be able to finish the journey in daylight and thus avoid the dismal boredom of rail travel by night in a blacked-out, inadequately heated carriage.

  And so it was still daytime when the gray waters of the Bristol Channel came in sight, and the ancient locomotive gasped and clanked to rest. He refused any help from the woman porter who opened the carriage door, not merely because he objected to wasting money—though that was a consideration—but because he would feel both a fool and a cad to let a lady old enough to be his mother carry his luggage. It was not at all clear whether she appreciated or respected his scruples.

  Nor did he take a taxi; it was only a couple of hundred yards to the house, and the brief walk through familiar surroundings would help him reorientate himself. He was just in time for tea, and if he knew Miss Hadley, she would already be preparing it, now that she had heard the train pulling in to the station.

  The narrow, gabled house with its two bay windows, its diminutive lawn, and its air of genteel neglect was exactly as he had always known it to be. Simultaneously, it depressed him with its tawdriness and warmed his heart with its comforting familiarity. He tried to put aside the fear that a message recalling him to the station would be lying in ambush in the hall.

  As he had guessed, Miss Hadley was waiting for him; she must have been watching through the lace curtains as he bounded up the steps. Before she could greet him with her usual “Welcome home, Alan!” he had kissed her on her wrinkled cheeks; then he held her gently at arm’s length and said smilingly, “You look fine. How’s the Captain?”

  Her eyes opened in surprise, and her hand flew to her lips.

  “Oh,” she gasped, the words coming out before she had time to think. “So you never got my telegram.”

  Even before she finished speaking, Alan knew why the guard had tried to intercept him at the main gate. And he knew that all his worries about his father were ended.

  ***

  In all the world, there is no sound more devastatingly final than the thud of earth upon a coffin lid. Yet it would be hypocrisy to pretend that he knew much grief, as the solemn farce in the graveyard drew to its end. If Alan felt any emotion in his present state of numbed shock, it was resentment that society insisted upon this final insult to the defenseless dead. Did old Parson Williams, who had not exchanged a civil word with the Captain for the last twenty years, really believe what he had just said about “this fine, upstanding citizen whom we can ill afford to lose in the prime of life”? And these lugubrious uncles and aunts and cousins, half of them totally unknown to him—were their expressions of regret more than skin deep? In the final analysis, there were only two people who would miss Captain Bishop, and none who would weep for him. Nor was there cause for tears, Alan told himself. His father had escaped from a life that had no purpose for him; all he had lost was a difficult and unhappy old age.

  The mourners were drifting away. After their brief reunion in the face of death, few would meet again before the next tolling of the bell. The family was scattering once more to the ends of England. Presently the last handshake had been given, the last whispered condolence delivered. Alan and Miss Hadley stood close beneath the worn sandstone arch of St. Matthews, still suspended in the timeless void between life and death.

  It was Miss Hadley who moved first, the ferrule of her stick rapping briskly on the flagstones as she walked toward the waiting car. “Come along, Alan,” she said. “It’s all over; let’s go home.”

  Suddenly, that was the last thing Alan wanted to do. He had to get away from the house, with all its associations of failure, its memories of past scenes and crises, its reminders of problems still to be faced. In that moment, he saw Miss Hadley as she really was—the eternal governess, good-hearted and well-intentioned, deriving her only satisfaction from molding the lives of others. Since his boyhood he had looked up to her with awe and admiration, wondering at her knowledge of the world and its peoples; but now he knew a world far wider than hers.

  He loved and respected Miss Hadley, but he saw her now with pity in the lonely evening of her life, one of her wards already gone and the other fast slipping beyond her reach. A wave of tenderness swept over him as he helped her into the car and realized how old and frail she had become.

  “Please go on without me,” he answered. “I’m sorry, but I feel restless—I’ll be back later.”

  He waited until the car had gone out of sight, then started to walk slowly up the narrow, winding road that led away from the center of the town. There was no goal that he had in mind; indeed, he was almost unconscious of direction. He was driven by a blind urge to get away from people, to find some place where he could be alone with his thoughts.

  Around him now were the alleys and byways through which he had played as a child. Some of these streets were still cobbled, for this part of the town was very old and had scarcely changed in a century. The houses were low and mean; if it had not been for the war, they would have been pulled down years ago. But Alan was glad to see them; they were reassuring and familiar. Many of his friends had been born here, though Miss Hadley, with her acute awareness of class distinctions, had often objected to some of the associates he had picked up in this neighborhood, Tony Shelton, for instance—he had lived in that red-tiled cottage across the way. Tony had taught Alan how to swim, something his father had neglected to do. Other tuition had been less innocent, but that did not matter now—for the grave of Warrant Officer Shelton, DFM, was only a few yards from Captain Bishop’s.

  The Old Town was behind him; he was out in the open space of Terrace Gardens, with its coyly contrived paths zigzagging up the steep face of the hill. Once, this little park had seemed a vast wonderland where wild beasts and savage men might lurk. Indeed, it had held one terrifying menace—the blue-uniformed park attendant, whose job it was to keep small boys off the flower beds and out of the trees. At that memory, Alan came to a sudden halt—for there, spiking his ten-millionth piece of litter, was the man himself. There was no doubt of his identity, for Alan could never forget the face which had launched so many imprecations at him in the past. Yet it seemed incredible that this harmless old man could be one of his childhood ogres; it was still more incredible that he nodded affably at Alan, and continued his endless task, without a flicker of recognition.

  Above the park, standing in their own wide grounds and protected by forbidding walls, were the houses of the wealthy. This was a region through which Alan had always passed with respectful awe, never imagining the possibility of social contacts with it. For here lived the Member of Parliament for the county, the Mayor, retired officers who liked to spend their declining years beside the sea, and the greater part of the town’s doctors, lawyers, and other professional men. It was a little world in itself, keeping its distance with an air of conscious superiority, like a duchess drawing aside her skirts.

  Now the grand houses were all below him, as he continued his ascent of the hill. For a while he lost sight of the town completely as he passed through the wide belt of trees just below the summit; they were bare and cheerless in their winter garb, perfectly fitting his mood. Rain was still dripping from their branches, which strained toward the sodden clouds like skeleton arms.

  He went on tirelessly, sparing only a glance at the sinister pile of masonry that had so fascinated him as a boy—the ruined Folly that Sir Roderick Bampton had built when Lyncombe was only a tiny fishing village. If half the tales about Sir Roderick’s orgies were true, these lichen-scabbed ruins would indeed be haunted, as many people still believed. Alan laughed at such superstitions; but he would not have cared to spend a night here alone.

  At last the road leveled out on the open moor, a gently undulating expanse of gorse and heather—the land
the red deer still ruled, because man had not bothered to assert his sovereignty. Here on the border between the tame and the wild, Alan finally came to a halt, resting against an ancient iron gate which was all that was left of some forgotten attempt to fence in the moors. Hanging between its two stone pillars, its hinges frozen by rust a generation ago, it was the very symbol of futility.

  From this viewpoint, the whole town lay spread beneath him, as if in an aerial photograph. On the far right was the harbor, with the fishing boats bobbing at anchor or drawn up on the sand. It grieved him to see that the pier from which the Channel Queen had set out on her great adventures had been sliced ruthlessly in two, to make it useless to invaders. The gaudy pavilion, which had housed so many concert parties, could no longer be reached; it lay unattainably offshore, a disintegrating island of rusty steel, tattered canvas, and peeling paint. The slot machines earned no money now, the cry of the ice-cream vendor was silenced. Only the sea gulls remained.

  Alan knew every street and alley in the map spread before him, for once this had been his entire universe. Now it seemed very small, and its smallness was not merely physical. He had outgrown his home; the ties that bound him to it were dissolving. There was no longer any place where he really belonged.

  Yet everyone expected that he would come back after the war, and he had not had the courage to disillusion them. Mr. Morris had waved his old job in front of him, pointing out—truthfully enough—how valuable Alan’s electronics experience would be when he returned to the shop, and even hinting at an eventual partnership. Once this would have been the height of his ambitions; now the idea of spending the rest of his life repairing radios and TV sets hardly appealed to him. He had higher aspirations; but as yet he did not know what they were.

  Abruptly, his thoughts switched to another track. At the funeral he had caught several frankly appraising glances from young ladies who had been in pigtails and school uniforms when he saw them last. Even Elsie Evans had been there, looking so plump and frowsy that Alan shuddered at the narrowness of his escape. Rose Wilkins, alias Miss Droopy Drawers, had also changed, but considerably for the better. She was not a pretty girl, and never would be, but the resemblance to a camel was quite gone. It was amazing what a difference a few years could make; the idea of Rose as a wife, though not wildly attractive, was no longer utterly ridiculous…

  Alan wondered, with a certain smugness, what the solemn young ladies at the funeral would think if they knew about Lucille. He also realized that it was quite impossible to picture Lucille in any scene of wedded bliss. Alan had made the important, though hardly original, discovery that womankind may be divided into the two great categories of wives and mistresses; and never the twain must meet.

  Yes, he had certainly changed since last he stood upon this hill. Miss Hadley had noticed it when she remarked, soon after they had met: “You’re different, Alan—you seem much older.” And he had lied to her even through his smile, when he said: “You haven’t altered a bit.”

  Whatever change he was undergoing, it was not yet complete—of that he felt certain. For the strongest of his links with the past had now been snapped.

  More than his father had been buried today; the falling earth had covered his childhood. He could never escape from its influence, for it had shaped his character irrevocably, as it shapes that of all human beings. But it would no longer dominate him. For the first time in his life, he was a free man.

  22

  When Alan returned to St. Erryn, at the end of that nightmare week, he found himself in a new world. The long campaign was over; they had won. Though he would never know how much he had contributed to that victory, he could claim at least one battle as his own.

  Every Command in the Royal Air Force wanted GCD, and of course they wanted it yesterday. With this capitulation, the still-wavering U.S. Air Force had also made up its mind. Not to be outdone, the Navy had ordered a unit—to be modified for landings on the pitching, heaving deck of a carrier.

  “We started to think about its circuits,” said Pat, “but had to give up—we got too seasick. I’m afraid the Navy will have to wait; it will be tough enough producing a land-based Mark II in the time we’ve promised. But we’ll do it—and it’ll make the poor old Mark I look like a pile of homemade junk.”

  In spite of all this optimism, and the sense of achievement which now gave the entire unit a warm glow of satisfaction, it was an unsettling period. It was also a time of transition and farewell. In a couple of days, Pat, Howard, and Benny would be gone to work on the Mark II. No one could imagine the place without them, and several red-eyed WAAF operators were clearly unable to resign themselves to the prospect. Even the two girls currently at daggers drawn over Pat Connor now seemed reconciled in mutual misery.

  There were farewell parties at all levels—in the Officers’ Mess, the Sergeants’ Mess, the NAAFI. For the last time Benny coaxed the “Moonlight Sonata” from the battered piano in the anteroom; for the last time Pat recited “The Good Ship Venus” and, by popular demand, what was generally considered to be his masterpiece—the pathetic “Farewell to his Slide Rule” of Dr. Wolfgang Wunderbar, a scarred and monocled Luftwaffe scientist whom Goering had ordered to produce a death-ray by Tuesday afternoon, or else…

  The day the Americans finally left was memorable in more ways than one. Until now, “D” Flight operations had been remarkably smooth; sometimes the aircraft (like the Mark I) were not serviceable when expected, but when they did get into the sky they usually behaved themselves. In particular, there had not been a single crash. That afternoon the record was broken; and Alan had a grandstand view.

  He was standing with Howard beside T6, drinking some coffee that the operators had just brewed; at least they claimed it was coffee, and it was certainly not tea. S Sugar had just overflown the runway on a practice approach, and had begun to climb away into the west. As it was passing over the perimeter track, barely clear of the airfield, the starboard engine cut out.

  Thereafter, everything seemed to happen with incredible slowness. The Anson should have been able to maintain height on the port engine alone, but that also appeared to be giving trouble. The pilot had no hope of getting back to the airfield; the aircraft’s nose went down, and it started to swing to the right like a crippled bird.

  Alan watched in frozen horror as S Sugar slid down the sky. It could not have taken more than thirty seconds to reach the ground, but it seemed an eternity. Even when it disappeared below the trees, the aircraft was still under partial control; the pilot was fighting to the last as he spiraled back to earth.

  Though Alan was quite unaware that Howard had moved, he was already in the cab of T6, starting the motor.

  “Snap out of it, Alan!” Howard shouted. “Let’s get moving!” People were pouring out of the two trucks, but Howard did not wait to pick any of them up; he was already tearing down the runway. From the other side of the airfield there came the clanging of bells as ambulances and fire-fighting equipment headed for the main gate.

  “Did you see where he came down?” asked Howard as they shot past the Guardroom.

  “I’d say take the first right, down that lane,” said Alan. “He must be near that farm where the Mess buys its eggs.”

  “That’s what I thought. By the way, who’s flying S Sugar?”

  Alan took so long to reply that Howard looked at him sharply and was about to repeat the question.

  “I’ve just remembered,” Alan said. “It’s Dennis Collins.”

  He had paused because he was thoroughly ashamed of himself. Clear and vivid into his mind had flashed an undeniably attractive picture—of himself gently breaking the sad news to Lucille…

  The discreditable fantasy vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving a brief afterglow of guilt. The guilt might have lasted a little longer had Alan not spotted S Sugar at that same instant.

  So had Howard. He turned the truck off the road, and swung it skillfully through the huge gap in the barbed-wire fence. They bumpe
d across a pasture—the ambulance, Alan noted with admiration, had already got here—and braked to a halt at a respectful distance from the downed aircraft. A very respectful distance.

  It was the biggest mess he had ever seen, but not at all the sort of mess he had expected. S Sugar appeared practically undamaged—what one could see of it. Dennis Collins was still inside, not having yet figured out a safe way of emerging. All around him, distributed impartially over much of the surrounding landscape, were the remains of what must have been a really enormous dunghill.

  Howard gazed at the spectacle in awe. Then he remarked solemnly: “I’d no idea, Alan, that mechanized farming had reached such an advanced stage in your country.”

  Those were almost the last words—apart from a tender farewell message to Elise—that they exchanged before Howard boarded the Liberator that would take the now-depleted team back to the States. As the thin white wings dwindled into the sky, Alan felt not only a sense of personal loss, but a sense of mild panic.

  They were on their own now; when things went wrong—as they would—there’d be no Prof or Doc or Howard or Pat or Benny to whom they could run for help. It was the end of an era, in more ways than one. The sales campaign, as it had often been sarcastically called, was over; now they had to deliver the goods.

  The changes started to take place almost at once. The first, received with mixed feelings, was the move to permanent quarters. For months all the officers of the unit had been living in the same large wooden hut. It was a comfortable hut, and the only hardship involved was the lack of privacy. But now they would live behind bricks and mortar, two to a room, in the Officers’ Quarters of the Mess.