The Land God Gave to Cain (5 page)

All the way out to the airport I was thinking about this and how my mother had seen him standing on his two feet and reaching out to the map of Labrador. There must be something in that message. Whether the men were dead or not, I was convinced my father hadn't imagined it. He'd known it was important. And now all his effort was wasted because I hadn't had the sense to isolate the relevant passages for the police as I had done on the train.

It was after six when I reached the airport—too late to report to the Company office. I felt sad and depressed, and instead of going to my digs, I turned in at the Airport Bar. The sight of Farrow drinking with a bunch of charter pilots made me think that perhaps there was still something I could do that would convince the authorities. Farrow was the Canadian pilot who had told me about the search for the missing geologists and, flying trans-Atlantic charters, I knew he must land sometimes at Goose Bay.

I thought about it whilst I had my drink, and in the end I went over to the group and asked him if I could have a word with him. “It's about that survey party that was lost,” I said as he moved down the bar with me.

“The search was called off over a week ago. Briffe was dead. Baird, too. Only the pilot got out.”

“Yes, I know.” I asked him what he'd have to drink.

“Fruit juice. I'm flying to-morrow.” I ordered and when I turned to him again, I saw that he was watching me. He had baby blue eyes in a round, friendly face. But the eyes were shrewd. “What's biting you?”

“Do you ever land at Goose Bay?”

“Sure. Every time we do the west-bound flight—unless it clamps down.”

“Do you know a radio operator called Simon Ledder?”

“Ledder?” He shook his head. “Where's he work—Control?”

“I don't know exactly. His address is care of D.O.T. Communications.”

“That's the civilian radio station. D.O.T. stands for Department of Transport. They're over on the American side.”

The drinks came and I paid, conscious that he was watching me as he sipped his fruit juice, waiting for me to tell him what it was all about. And now that I had him here alone with me, I didn't know quite how to put it to him. I didn't want to tell him what it was all about. And now that I had him here alone with me, I didn't know quite how to put it to him. I didn't want to tell him more than I had to. I didn't want to risk the look of disbelief that it would inevitably produce. “You're flying to-morrow, you say. Will you be landing at Goose?”

“Yes. Around twenty-one hundred hours our time.”

“Will you have a word with Ledder for me—telephone him perhaps?”

“What about?”

“Well …” It was so damned difficult. “He's a ham operator,” I explained, “and he was in touch with a British ham on three occasions—Station G2STO. There's a report, too. Could you ask him to let you have a copy of it?”

“What's the report about?”

I hesitated. But he had to know, of course. “It's about Briffe and his party. Ledder was the radio link between the survey party and the mining company they were working for. The authorities have asked him for a report of all his radio contacts with Briffe and also the contacts with G2STO.”

“How do you know they've asked him for a report?” His voice was suddenly different, the softness gone out of it.

“Somebody told me,” I said vaguely. But he was curious now and it made me nervous. “I'm sorry to bother you with this, but when I saw you in here I thought perhaps if you could have a word with Ledder …”

“You could write to him,” he said. And then, when I didn't say anything, he added, “Hadn't you better tell me a little more—why you're so interested in this report, for instance?”

He was still watching me curiously, waiting for me to explain. And suddenly I knew it was no good. I'd have to tell him the whole story. “G2STO was my father,” I said. And I told him about the wire I had received from my mother and how I'd gone home to find my father dead. I told it all exactly as it had happened to me, but when I came to my discovery of the message from Briffe, he said, “From Briffe? But Briffe was dead days before.”

“I know.” My voice sounded suddenly weary. “That's what the police told me.” And then I got out the notes I'd made in the train and handed them to him. “But if Briffe was dead, how do you explain that?”

He smoothed the sheet of paper out on the bar top and read it through slowly and carefully.

“They're all references from my father's radio log,” I said.

He nodded, frowning as he read.

I watched him turn the sheet over. He had reached the final message now. “Does it sound as though he was mad?” I said.

He didn't say anything. He had read through the notes now and I watched him turn the sheet over again, staring down at it, still frowning.

“That's what the authorities think,” I added. “They're not going to resume the search. I had a letter from them this morning.”

He still didn't say anything and I began to wish I hadn't told him. The men were reported dead. That alone would convince him that my father had imagined it all. And then his blue eyes were looking straight at me. “And you think the search should be resumed—is that it?” he asked.

I nodded.

He stared at me for a moment. “Have you got the log books or do the police still hold them?”

“No, I've got them.” I said it reluctantly because I didn't want him to see them. But instead of asking for them he began putting a lot of questions to me. And when he had got the whole story out of me, he fell silent again, hunched over the sheet of paper, staring at it. I thought he was reading it through again, but maybe he was just considering the situation, for he suddenly looked across at me. “And what you've told me is the absolute truth?” He was leaning slightly forward, watching my face.

“Yes,” I said.

“And the log books look crazy unless all the contacts are isolated, the way they are here?” He tapped the sheet of paper.

I nodded. “I thought if I could find out a little more about the three direct contacts my father made with Ledder … what Ledder's reaction to my father was …”

“The thing that gets me,” he muttered, “is how your father could possibly have picked up this transmission.” He was frowning and his tone was puzzled. “As I recollect it, all Briffe had was a forty-eight set. I'm sure I read that somewhere. Yes, and operated by a hand generator at that. It just doesn't seem possible.”

He was making the same point that the Flight Lieutenant had made. “But surely,” I said, “there must be certain conditions in which he could have picked it up?”

“Maybe. I wouldn't know about that. But the old forty-eight set is a transmitter of very limited range—I do know that.” He gave a slight shrug. “Still, it's just possible, I suppose. You'd have to check with somebody like this guy Ledder to make certain.”

He had picked up the sheet of paper again, and he stared at it for so long that I felt sure he wasn't going to help me and was only trying to think out how to tell me so. He was my only hope of making effective contact with Ledder. If he wouldn't help, then there was nobody else I could go to—and I felt I had to settle this thing, one way or the other. If my father had made that message up—well, all right—but I had to know. I had to be absolutely certain for my own peace of mind that those two men really were dead.

And then Farrow put the sheet of paper down and turned to me. “You know,” he said, “I think you ought to go to Goose and have a word with Ledder yourself.”

I stared at him, unable to believe that I'd heard him correctly. “Go to Goose Bay? You mean fly there—myself?”

He half smiled. “You won't get into Goose, any other way.”

It was such an incredible suggestion that for a moment I couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't be serious. “All I wanted,” I murmured, “was for you to have a word with him … find out what he thought of my father, whether he considered him sane. You can take those notes and—”

“Look,” he said. “If you're convinced your father was sane, then these notes”—he tapped the sheet of paper—“all the messages, everything—including that final message—are fact. They happened. And if that's what you believe, then you must go over there yourself. Apart from the question of whether Briffe's alive or not, you owe it to your father. If I go to this guy Ledder, he'll just answer my questions, and that will be that. You might just as well write him a letter for all the good it'll do.” And then he added, “If you're really convinced that your father did pick up a transmission from Briffe, then there's only one thing for you to do—go over there and check for yourself. It's the only way you'll get the authorities to take it seriously.”

I was appalled at the way he was putting the responsibility back on to me. “But I just haven't the money,” I murmured.

“I could help you there.” He was watching me closely all the time. “I'm checking out on a west-bound flight at O-seven hundred to-morrow morning. We'll be into Goose around four-thirty in the afternoon—their time. I might be able to fix it. You'd have about two hours there and I could radio ahead to Control for them to have Ledder meet the plane. Well?”

He meant it. That was the incredible thing. He really meant it. “But what about my job?” I was feeling suddenly scared. “I can't just walk out—”

“You'd be back on Friday.”

“But …” It was all so appallingly sudden, and Canada was like another world to me. I'd never been out of England, except once to Belgium. “But what about the regulations and—and wouldn't the extra weight …” I found I was desperately searching for some sort of excuse.

He asked me then whether I had a British passport. I had, of course, for I'd needed one for my holiday in Bruges and Ghent the previous year, and it was at my lodgings, with the rest of my things. And when he told me that my weight wouldn't make any difference to the safety margin and that he was good friends with the Customs and Immigration people both here and at Goose, all I could think of to say was, “I'll have to think it over.”

He gripped my arm then, and those baby blue eyes of his were suddenly hard. “Either you believe what your father wrote, or you don't. Which is it?”

The way he put it was almost offensive and I answered hotly, “Don't you understand—that message was the cause of my father's death.”

“Okay,” he said tersely. “Then it's time you faced up to the implications of that message.”

“How do you mean?”

He relaxed his grip on my arm. “See here, boy,” he said gently, “if Briffe really did transmit on September twenty-ninth, then either there's been some ghastly error or—well, the alternative doesn't bear thinking about.” His words reminded me of the shocked expression on the Flight Lieutenant's face when I had suggested the pilot might have made a mistake. “Now do you see why you've got to go over and talk to Ledder yourself? What that message says”—and he jabbed his finger at the sheet of paper he had laid on the bar counter—“is that Laroche was wrong when he said Briffe and the other guy were dead. And I'm warning you, it's going to take a lot to persuade the authorities of that.” He patted my arm gently and the blue eyes were no longer hard, but looked at me sympathetically. “Well, it's up to you now. You're the only man who's going to be really convinced about that message—unless they find somebody else picked it up. If you've the courage of your convictions …” And then he added, “I just thought you'd better be clear in your mind about what you're up against.”

It was odd, but now that he'd put it to me so bluntly, I no longer felt out of my depth. I was suddenly sure of myself and what I should do, and without any hesitation I heard myself say, “If you can fix it, I'd like to come with you tomorrow.”

“Okay, boy. If that's what you'd like.” He hesitated. “You really are sure about this?”

In a sudden mental flash I saw my father as he had been last Christmas when I had been home, sitting up there in his room with the headphones on and his long, thin fingers with the burn marks playing so sensitively over the tuning dials. “Yes,” I said. “I'm quite sure about it.”

He nodded his head slowly. “Queer business,” he murmured. A perplexed look had come over his face and I wondered whether, now that I had agreed to go—wanted to go—he was going to back down on his offer. But all he said was, “Meet me down at our freight office—that's the end of the block, next to Number One hangar—say, about a quarter before six to-morrow morning. Have your passport with you and an overnight bag. Better pack some warm clothes. You may be cold back in the fuselage. Okay?”

I nodded. “But what about the other end?” I murmured. “Surely it isn't as easy as that to fly somebody into another country?” It was an automatic reaction. Now that I'd said I'd go the difficulties seemed insuperable.

He laughed and patted my shoulder. “Canada isn't the States, you know. It's still a Dominion—no fingerprints, no visa. I'll just have to clear you with Immigration and Customs, that's all.” He stared at me a moment as though weighing me up and then he said, “Don't forget about the warm clothes.” He turned then with a quick nod and walked slowly back to join his group at the other end of the bar.

I stood there, the drink I hadn't even started clutched in my hand, and a feeling of intense loneliness crept over me.

III

I didn't sleep much that night and I was down at the Charter Company's freight office by five-thirty. Farrow wasn't there, of course, and I walked up and down in the grey morning light, feeling cold and empty inside. The office was locked, the tarmac deserted. I lit a cigarette and wondered, as I had done all night, whether I was making a fool of myself. A plane took off with a thunderous roar and I watched it disappear into the low overcast, thinking that in little more than an hour, if Farrow kept his word, I should be up there, headed west out into the Atlantic. I was shivering slightly. Nerves!