Scorpion [Scorpions 01] (12 page)

    ‘What about the sting?’ asked one of the radio reporters.

    ‘In their adopted home they have ceased to use the sting. The fight for survival would have been less, food easier to come by. As the sting became of less importance, through successive generations, it lost its potency. The poison-sac dried up and the tail became a useless appendage.’

    The newspaper reporter, Bill York, pointed his pen at the boxed scorpions. ‘Those stings look real enough to me,’ he said.

    ‘I’ll show you,’ Camperly said. He placed the box on his desk and opened the lid. He reached in and picked up one of the scorpions, holding it between thumb and forefinger. He held it out. The scorpion’s legs flailed at the air, its body squirming in Camperly’s grasp.

    ‘Be careful!’York gasped.

    ‘I’m perfectly safe,’ Camperly said. He placed the scorpion on the back of his hand. It squatted there, motionless. Camperly poked it with his finger. The scorpion stirred restlessly. Again Camperly prodded its body, pressing down hard. The scorpion made a vain attempt to get from under his finger. When it failed it ceased struggling. It was only after a little time had gone by that it began to move its curving tail.

    ‘You see, gentlemen,’ Camperly said, ‘it’s forgotten how to defend itself.’ He jabbed his finger down again. ‘It may strike out of a simple reflex action.’ As he spoke the scorpion looped its tail over its flat head, the tip pointing down towards Camperly’s hand. The curved sting at the end of the tail sank briefly into the back of Camperly’s hand and out again. ‘You see!’ Camperly said triumphantly. He scooped the scorpion off his hand and dropped it back in the box, sliding the lid in place. He held out his hand for the reporters to see. The sting had left only a small puncture mark. ‘No worse than a pin prick.’

    ‘How do you know there isn’t any poison in there?’ someone asked.

    ‘If there was,’ Camperly said, ‘I’d be reacting to it by now. I can assure you, gentlemen, that I feel fine. But to convince you, please stay for as long as you wish.’

    ‘If it wasn’t a scorpion that stung the man yesterday, Doctor Camperly, what was it?’ Bill York asked.

    ‘I’ll be honest and say that right now we don’t know - as we don’t know yet just what caused the other stingings. Which brings me back to my earlier point. I refuse to issue statements until a definite and fully conclusive investigation has been carried out. Wild speculation has no place in scientific research.’

    ‘But what about the men who said it was a scorpion that they killed?’

    ‘How many people in this country have ever seen a live scorpion? And how many, given the opportunity, enjoy exaggerating something that has happened to them?’

    ‘Are you saying those men were wrong?’

    ‘I’m saying they could have been mistaken. In a moment of panic a man could look at a large bee and get a disproportionate image of that very insect.’

    ‘And do you think bees were responsible for the other attacks?’

    ‘Our investigations will eventually give us the answers we are seeking. Gentlemen, if you will give me one moment, I will take you round our little establishment and show you exactly how we function.’

    Camperly crossed the office and confronted Allan. There was a smug expression on his face.

    ‘I think the word, Doctor Brady, is checkmate,’ he said.

    ‘I would have said bluff, Doctor Camperly. Right now it’s working for you - but I think you’re in for a surprise before too long.’

    ‘We’ll see,’ Camperly said. ‘That’s all for now, Doctor Brady.’

    Allan left the office just ahead of the others. As they moved by him Bill York held back. He glanced at Allan.

    ‘I think that performance was aimed more at you than us,’ he said.

    Allan smiled. ‘He knocks my legs from under me so often I just don’t notice any more.’

    ‘I reckon he’s convinced the others.’

    ‘And you?’ Allan asked.

    York shrugged. ‘He talks a lot of sense,’ he said and walked on.

    Allan stood for a time, deep in thought, and then carried on back to the lab. The only thing he was fully convinced about was the fact that he had got much nearer the truth than Camperly would ever accept. All he had to do now was prove it.

    

    

    A week passed without a single stinging. There were no reports of anyone seeing anything out of the ordinary. A number of factors contributed to this situation. The weather had gradually changed; the late summer heat wave finally broke, temperatures dropped, rain and wind became an almost daily occurrence. The visitors to the area parallel with the coast road dwindled; the sun seekers and the picnickers, the hikers and the lovers, sought their diversions elsewhere and left the stretch of wild green countryside to the elements.

    Allan Brady accepted the situation with grim reluctance. He still held on to the theory that scorpions had been responsible for the attacks. He had no way of explaining their existence or the reason behind it, so he kept his thoughts to himself - only ever voicing them to Chris.

    For Chris, matters had taken a turn for the better in one respect. Jack Webster’s anonymous telephone call to the Department of Nuclear Energy in London had produced startling results. Chris and Jack Webster received an invitation to attend a meeting with Meacham at the plant.

    As they approached the gates Chris peered through the rain-spattered windscreen. Vic Condon stepped forward as she rolled to a halt.

    ‘You sure you want to go in there?’ Condon asked as Chris wound down her window. ‘We might not let you out again.’

    ‘We’ll risk it,’ Chris said. ‘Now, if you’ll open the gates, please, I’m sure Professor Meacham doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

    Condon glared at her, his face like carved stone. Abruptly he lifted a hand and the security man inside the gatehouse pressed the button that activated the electric gates.

    Chris drove in and followed the signs indicating the administration building. Parking the car she climbed out, Jack Webster following. Inside, they were met by a prim receptionist who hid from the world behind a pair of huge, ugly glasses.

    ‘Mr. Webster is it? And Miss Lane?’ She gestured towards a long corridor leading off from the foyer. ‘This way please.’

    At the far end of the corridor the receptionist tapped on a door and opened it.

    ‘Your visitors are here, Professor Meacham.’

    Meacham came to meet them. He was a tall, spare man, with a high forehead that was exaggerated by the fact that his hair was receding. He was dressed in an ill-fitting tweedy suit.

    ‘Please come in and sit down,’ he said, attempting a friendliness that failed to convince either Chris or Jack Webster.

    Meacham retreated behind his desk.

    ‘I’m glad you were able to accept my invitation.’

    ‘Did you really expect us to refuse?’ Webster asked, his tone brittle.

    ‘I wasn’t sure how you might react.’

    ‘Professor Meacham, we must face the fact that our past relationship has been far from agreeable,’ Chris said.

    ‘True,’ Meacham admitted. ‘It’s one of the reasons why I have asked you here today.’

    ‘What’s the other?’ Webster inquired.

    ‘From noon tomorrow we will be shutting down the auxiliary fast-breeder reactor and the plant will then function on the main reactor only.’

    Jack Webster glanced quickly across at Chris, his face expressionless, giving no indication of his thoughts. Not that Chris needed it putting into words. We’ve done it! she thought.

    Meacham was addressing her.

    ‘Contrary to your opinion of me, Miss Lane, I am not without sympathy for your movement or its aims.’

    ‘I find that a little hard to believe,’ Chris said. ‘Especially after what took place at our last demonstration.’

    ‘Er… yes… an unfortunate episode for all concerned. The way the affair was - shall we say - conducted did not impress Whitehall in the slightest. It is because of that, and also because the Government wants to keep the public faith, that the order has been issued to run down the auxiliary reactor. There will be press releases and an interview with the Minister in charge of Nuclear Development on both the BBC and ITV news this evening.’

    ‘This is rather an abrupt reversal of government thinking isn’t it, Professor Meacham?’ asked Jack Webster.

    ‘It has been known for governments to change their minds.’

    A slow smile played over Chris’s face as a thought came to her. ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that the opposition has been trying to get a no-confidence motion passed? The possible threat of an election?’

    Meacham shrugged. ‘I am not a political animal, Miss Lane. The intrigue of government is above my head. But I would be a fool if I tried to ignore your suggestion. It is possible that the Government is using the opportunity to gain themselves breathing space - to catch public sympathy in the event of an election. Even so, it is still a victory for you and your movement.’

    ‘Let’s say I’d have an easier time swallowing a live chicken - feathers and all!’Webster retorted. He stirred restlessly in his seat.

    Chris began to get nervous. She knew Jack Webster’s short temper. Right now he was sitting there slowly coming to the boil. If he got mad enough he was liable to point the finger at Meacham and openly accuse him of being nothing more than a hypocritical, oily-tongued conman. While Chris agreed, she couldn’t allow it to happen. Now they had proof of the hushed-up radiation leak. Meacham’s flimsy explanation for the Government’s shutdown was nothing more than a gesture intended to placate the Long Point Protestors; Whitehall would be having a few sleepless nights over the fact that someone had learned about the leak - their immediate concern would be making sure that the story got no further until they could work something out. Chris realized that Whitehall, despite the long-standing image of bumbling inefficiency, could be credited with a self-perpetuating capability for survival. Given enough time, the keen brains that lurked about inside the cocoon of grey buildings would devise a means of getting out of the line of fire. They would probably even announce the facts about the leak themselves - but packaged in such a way that they would end up
with
public sympathy. Chris wanted to present those facts to the public in her way - the plain, unvarnished truth as she had heard it. So she couldn’t allow Jack Webster the satisfaction of pointing the finger at Professor Meacham.

    ‘I think given time we’ll be able to view the matter in a more realistic light, Professor Meacham,’ she said.

    ‘And I hope we can receive some consideration in respect of the not-ungenerous concession,’ Meacham suggested gently.

    Oh you’ll get your consideration all right, Chris thought.

    ‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ she told him.

    ‘Fine,’ Meacham said. ‘Now if you will give me a few more minutes I’ll explain the shut-down procedure in detail…’

    

    

    That evening she went round to Allan’s flat for a meal.

    ‘So what’s your next step?’ Allan asked.

    Chris helped herself to another slice of pizza.

    ‘First I have to get the article finished, then show it to Harry Farnum.’

    ‘There’ll be one hell of a stink when it comes out,’ Allan said.

    Chris shrugged. ‘I hope there is. Too much time has gone by while that radiation leak has been hushed up. It has to be exposed!’

    Allan smiled, leaning across the low coffee table. He reached out and gently slid the thin caftan she was wearing down off one shoulder, baring her rounded, firm breast.

    ‘And talking about exposure… ‘he murmured, fingers tenderly tracing the outline of her rising nipple.

    ‘Next time you’re in that lab of yours,’ Chris suggested as they sprawled across the rug in front of the fire, ‘why not do an analysis on that thing you call a brain. I’m damn sure you’ll find it’s one track.’

    ‘You talk too much!’

    ‘Do I? So what are you going to do about it?’

    Allan bent over her, his mouth sliding across hers, while his free hand searched between the loose folds of the caftan, bringing a sharp and pleased sigh from her lips…

    

    

    The inclement weather continued. It took away the hot, muggy climate in which the scorpions had found something close to contentment. They disliked the cold… it made them restless, unsettled… it made them irritable…

    

    

    

    

    ‘Honey, come on - breakfast is on the table!’

    Larry Murcheson checked the percolator and satisfied himself that the coffee was brewing correctly. He peered out through the side window of the expansive, luxury motor home.

    Another goddamn rainy day! He sighed, shaking his head - the only consistent thing in the damn country was rain! It was beginning to spoil the Murchesons’ tour of the UK, and for once there wasn’t a thing even he, Larry Murcheson, could do about it - not even with his limitless wealth. The Murcheson Millions - as his fortune was known back in the States - came from a vast combine that had been created by Larry’s father back in the thirties. Hubbel Murcheson, an ambitious man, had possessed the knack of being able to foresee business trends and technological breakthroughs. When he died in 1971 his various enterprises covered the spectrum from publishing to manufacturing to electronics. He had oil interests, a movie and TV production company - in short if it could be invested in and made money, then Murcheson Inc would be involved somewhere along the line. Larry Murcheson, at thirty-nine, became the head of the family empire - but he was not molded in his father’s image; Larry preferred spending money; he left the making of it to others. From the day he fell heir to the Murcheson Millions, Larry set out to prove that money
could
buy happiness. He did everything and went everywhere, managing to gain and lose three wives along the way.