'Didn't you read the inquest report on that Beacon Hill shindig?'
Gene shrugged. 'A local riot got out of hand. What's so special about that? Untypical, I'll agree. These screwy festivals of theirs are usually pretty quiet. This one happened to blow up, is all.'
'Did you
read
it, Gene?'
'Sure. Some demonstrators busted in, the nutters reacted, the party got violent, a kid was run over, somebody stuck a spear in the boss-woman and in revenge a few of the nutters blood-sacrificed a demonstrator. AH very dramatic, for a one-off story, and singularly nasty. But a freak phenomenon - could happen any time with these religious jamborees. Not
significant?
Tonia nodded. ‘I
thought so. You read the story as published, not the full PA tape.'
'So?'
'I
did
read the tape. Local riot getting out of hand, my ass. That demo was
planned,
like a military operation. And as for the "blood sacrifice" - that yarn came from two witnesses only and the coroner as good as called them liars. Which did
not
get into the papers.'
'Tonia, honey,' Gene sighed, 'you've got a good nose for telling you when something stinks. None better. And sure, you could be right. But here and now, history
's
being made - and as journalists, we've got to get our priorities right, keep a sense of proportion, you know? Any ordinary time, you could chase this wild goose of yours
and
get
some
good copy out of it. But in the context of Beehive
Amb
er
-
potentially the biggest story of our lifetime - that witch riot's nothing.
Nothing.
And you and I haven't got time for nothings.'
Tonia looked stubborn. 'I don't think it's nothing. My nose, that you're so flattering about, tells me the Beacon Hill attack was
planned.
Planned right here in Beehive -
or topside in Whitehall. Act One of a deliberate diversion. And the curtain-raiser to Act Two was that Ben Stoddart man on the "Paul Grant Hour", on BBC
'Didn't see it.'
'I
did. . .
. You talk about "the context of Beehive Amber". Know what, Gene? I think,
in
that context, this Government was up to something on Beacon Hill. And I want to know what and why.'
Gene began flipping through a pile of copy on his desk. He said casually: 'Keep an eye on it, then.'
Two years of working under Gene Macallister had taught her the danger signals, the lowering of the shutters, but she persisted. 'Topside, Gene. If I'm right, that's where the story is. Get me a Surface pass, huh?'
He did not look up. 'Sorry, honey. No.'
'Please, Gene.'
He laid his palm flat on the top sheet of copy, deliberately; danger signal number two.
'No,
Tonia. In words of one syllable — we have Beehive accreditation and I will
not
have you endangering it by stirring up mud against the Government or by letting yourself appear to champion the witches.'
'Even if what my nose tells me is right?'
'For Chrissake, even
more
so if you're right! If the Department of Dirty Tricks, for its own good reasons, wants to make a scapegoat of the witches - and
you
start throwing spanners in the works - the Department of Dirty Tricks could have us out of here in no time flat.
Persona rum
bloody
grata,
and no reasons would have to be given.
You
know that.'
'In the context of Beehive Amber,' Tonia said tonelessly.
'Or even Beehive Red, any day now! That's what it's all
about,
Tonia. AP has a job to do here and AP is you and me and no one else. If we lost our Beehive status, AP would be unrepresented in Britain, as good as.'
Tonia said nothing. Gene seemed to take her silence as acquiescence, and after a while he continued with the paternal air which always infuriated her: 'One other thing to remember. AP correspondents do not identify themselves, in either the public or the official mind, with screwballs. So if you have any private sympathies with those naked pagans and their subversive ideas, for God's sake -and
AP's-keep
'em private.'
Tonia, who had no particular feelings about the witches one way or the other, could not resist asking: 'Subversive of what?'
'Christianity, decency, Western civilization - you name it,' Gene said impatiently. 'And I'll tell you something. If they
are
being set up as scapegoats, they've asked for it.'
'Nero must have found the early Christians equally convenient'
'Now you're just being smart. Run along and let me work, there's a good girl. Go and watch "News at Ten". One of us ought to.'
Tonia went, her lips pursed. Out in the corridor she laughed to herself, suddenly: perhaps it was just as well Beehive doors didn't lend themselves to slamming.
'News at Ten', my ass.
Brenda Pavitt locked the last card-index drawer and straightened up, flexing her shoulders and stretching. It had been a long and tiring day but she was happy. As Chief
Librarian of London Beehive, she had been commuting with Surface for the past year, building up the remarkable collection of books, documents and microfilms which now surrounded her; and it had been the kind of assignment librarians dream about. A staggering budget and a virtually free hand. She had had, of course, to request, collate and cater for departmental requirements - but these had been in amplification, not restriction, of her own judgement. Realistically, she admitted to herself that being the Chief Administrator's mistress had helped a lot; Reggie Harley had cut several corners for her and smoothed several paths. But she did not feel in the least guilty about it. She had never taken advantage of their relationship for her personal gain (she considered herself too well paid to need it), but the Library was something different; for that, she would exploit God himself. And Reggie had indulged her.
But Brenda was a librarian by vocation as well as by appointment, and once the Library had come as near to comprehensive perfection as Brenda could make it, she had found herself fretting over its virgin quietness and longing for the consumm
ation of readers. Now at last
with Beehive Amber, the consummation was beginning; the coming and going of faces, the vague or precise requests, the telephoned queries, the appeals for help from less knowledgeable assistants, and Brenda felt fulfilled. She and her system had stood up well to the first rush, with very few teething troubles. Come Beehive Red, and they would be able to cope. She knew that now.
She took a last unnecessary look around, said good-bye to the night duty girl, and left the Library to walk the hundred metres of corridor to her cubicle. Another favour from Reggie; her home-cell was not in Bachelor Quarters, half a kilometre away, but was one of the privileged few
which were close to their occupants' work
places. Also, of course, easier
for Reggie to visit discreetly. Their affair was hardly secret any more, after six years, but one still went through the motions.
He was already there when
she let herself in, sprawled in
the armchair and talk
ing to someone on the phone. He
waved his free hand at her and continued his conversation. 'Very well, Professor. I
get the picture. Your admirable
tuition is turning me into
quite a knowledgeable seismolo
gist myself.' Smooth little laugh. 'I cannot stress too clearly that what we must have
at once
i
s any hint of the process
accelerating. . . . Yes, quite.
...
I very much appreciate
your daily written reports and
please
continue to phone me
with your elucidations of them - they are most enlightening. But if you notice
any
symptoms of a change in the
pattern
- even if it's merely, shal
l we say, a hunch on your part,
and your hunches, Professor,
are worth a dozen lesser men's
calculations - please don't wa
it till evening to tell me. Use
the priority number at a
ny hour of the day or night and
speak to me personally '
As she poured herself a dr
ink and renewed the one at Harle
y's elbow, Brenda reprimanded herself for her initial flash of resentment. She was only too glad for Reggie to have his own key, of course - he had had one on Surface, after all - but this leaving of her cubicle telephone number at the switchboard galled her. On Surface, Reggie's housekeeper (a friend of hers, fortunately) had come between them and urgent calls; she would simply phone the message to Brenda's flat and Reggie would ring the caller back. That arrangement had been acceptably personal. But now, she was sourly aware, anyone on the 'priority number' list could ring them up in the middle of an orgasm. . . . Still, she was also aware that Professor Arklow, for instance, might at any time be the bearer of news on which instant
decisions, even the fate of nations, depended. Beehive was not Chelsea. Don't be a spoiled child, Brenda.
She gave vent to her self-reproach by kissing him extra warmly as he laid down the phone.
'Brenda, my dear. A good day?'
'Tiring but rewarding. My Library is actually being
used.'
She did not ask about Reggie's day; she had learned very early in their relationship that any such initiative on her part was taboo. Her function was to be a good listener once
he
had decided when, and how much, to talk about his work. Her comments were expected to be sympathetic but non-committal unless he actually asked her opinion. He did sometimes ask it: she knew he did not undervalue her intelligence but he had a devious set of criteria for defining the areas in which he should avail himself of it. She could talk about her own work as much she liked - it seemed to relax him, and to begin with she had believed he had welcomed it merely as a soothing noise until she discovered how shrewd his occasional comments were.
On the whole, she found him soothing, too. She had never wanted to marry him; she had in fact refused his one proposal, years back, and neither of them had mentioned it again. Marriage, for her, would have been too total. Their present relationship, with its well-defined if unspoken agreement on the areas of intimacy or independence, seemed to suit them both. Even their sex-life was similarly subdivided. Harley, wiry and grey and well groomed as he appeared, was a surprisingly efficient lover; erotically, he could play her like a violin, as she could him; but they left each other's souls alon
e, so to speak. He had never call
ed her anything more than 'my dear', and she had confined herself to 'Reggie', in or out of bed. And that, Brenda told herself, was the way she liked it. They gratified each other
physically and they relaxed each other mentally. More than that would be a mutually unwelcome intrusion.
She was about to ask him if he had eaten, when the phone rang. Harley picked it up and said 'Yes?'
Brenda said 'Damn' but under her breath.
Harley went on: 'Of course, Chandler. Be on hand yourself, will you? You know what data he's likely to ask for. The Cabinet Office? Right.'
He rang off and stood. 'Dreadfully sorry, my dear. The Prime Minister - probably half the night. . . . The man's a fool, Brenda.'
Invitation to comment, she knew. 'It won't help your work down here, will it - being right in his pocket all the time?'
Harley smiled. 'It will be a question of who is in whose pocket. The - er - "democratic process" is a Surface plant. I doubt if it will take root in Beehive soil.
*..
Have you ever studied a real beehive, Brenda? It is a highly efficient community, unhampered by pretence.'
'And you,' Brenda risked, 'propose to be Queen Bee?'
His eyes were inscrutable and she wondered if she had overstepped the mark. But he merely asked pleasantly enough: 'Did I say that?' and laughed.
After he had gone, she shivered, unaccountably.
7
'I thought those two were going to be pinched for perjury,' Dan said, dropping the
Guardian.
'Which two?' Moira asked absently.
'Wharton and the whatsername woman - Chalmers. At the Bell Beacon inquest.'
'Oh . . .' Moira dragged her attention away from the book she was reading and asked: 'Can you be sure they haven't?'