The Plague Dogs (41 page)

Accordingly, having sent for Mr. Powell, he had allowed him, upon entering, to find his superior standing beside the wallboard opposite his desk and apparently examining the progress graphs and other information pinned thereon. He continued in this occupation while talking to Mr. Powell, who stood uneasily nearby, unsure (as intended) whether he was expected to show an interest in the graphs, from which Dr. Boycott did not to begin with, deflect his eyes. In the pauses of their conversation, the east wind could be heard moaning round ; the corners of the buildings, and outside, something tapped and tapped constantly against a drainpipe, with a flat resonance like that of a cracked bell

"The Director's seen Goodner," said Dr. Boycott absently, running his finger down some figures relating to Ministry of Defence research establishments' experiments on living animals. "I wasn't there myself, of course."

"Doe, of course dot," replied Mr. Powell, snuffling and blowing his nose into his last dry handkerchief.

"131,994 experiments last year," muttered Dr. Boycott parenthetically. "Call it 132,000. But Goodner was positive that he'd said nothing to anyone."

"Oh."

"That represents—er—let's see—thirteen per cent of the total number of experiments performed by or on behalf of Government departments and related bodies," went on Dr. Boycott, in a fast, preoccupied mutter. Then, raising the volume a shade, "I had a word with Tyson myself and he was equally positive." (Tyson had, in fact, been provoked by Dr. Boycott's questions into broadest Lancashire, accounting for himself with a flow of vowels and consonants as obscure in vocabulary but plain in meaning as the barking of a dog.)

"Well, doe wud's had eddythig out of be, chief, I assure you," said Mr. Powell, clutching his sopping handkerchief and weighing the respective merits of sniffling without it or attempting another blow. "The Illinois experiments—I know I had the file somewhere, only yesterday," said Dr. Boycott.

"Never mind—d'you recall the figures off-hand—just roughly, of course?"

"I doe the reference," said Mr. Powell. "Radiation Research, 1968. Sixty-wud beagles were radiated with Cobalt 60 gamma and half of them died within three weeks. Nasty symptoms they had.

Their stomachs—"

"Oh, well, Susan'11 dig it out for me. Except for that chap who gave you a lift back from Ulpha that morning?"

"Yes, I told you about that, you'll recall."

"Would you know him if you saw him again?" asked Dr. Boycott.

"Yeah, I reckon I would. Why?"

"Is that him?" Dr. Boycott jerked his head towards a small newspaper photograph, shorn of explanatory print, J which was lying exposed on his desk. Mr. Powell went across and looked at it.

"Why, yes, that is the chap," he answered immediately.

"Where did that come from, thed?"

"It came from yesterday's London Orator," said Dr. Boycott expressionlessly. "That's their reporter Driver, who's covering this business of the dogs. He wrote the bubonic plague article, you know."

Mr. Powell ran this through his aching head while the mucus finally blocked both nostrils entirely. "If there's eddy suggested—" he began. He stopped. ''I think—could I see the Director myself?"

"You could" replied Dr. Boycott, "but I think you'd I be ill advised—I mean, to go in there and make some- thing out of it before he's decided whether to take it any further himself. Qui s'excuse s'accuse, you know."; Mr. Powell didn't know.

"Besides, you're not established yet, are you?" said Dr. Boycott. "I think, in view of that, you'd do better to sit tight and see whether it blows over, even now."

"Well, it all depends what he thinks, doesn't it? If he thinks that I've—God dabbit, I hardly dew Goodner was doing plague at all, so how could I—"

"Well, I know what he'll think if you go in to see him with that cold on you," said Dr. Boycott.

"One hundred and twenty-nine sheep last year—tests on wounds caused by—er—high-velocity bullets.

The Director's got an absolute obsession about cold and infection. Anyway, he can't see you now. He can't see anyone. He's drafting a personal letter to the Secretary of State. But you're obviously not well.

You ought to be at home. Yes, go home, Stephen—go home and drink hot whiskey in bed. Ring up on Monday morning if you're not feeling better. Er—one and thirty-five goats, let me see—[jagged shrapnel].''

"Thanks. But where are we at with this lot dow thed, chief?"

"Hard to say, really," replied Dr. Boycott. "Ministers are bothering themselves, apparently.

Someone's here j? now from the Department, come to see the Director and a look round. Damned snoopers—I should have thought a written report from us would have been enough for any reasonable person. It's all rubbish, anyway. I'll give you a five-pound note for every case of plague confirmed from Land's End to John O'Groats. And that includes Bedfordshire. Go there, Stephen, now. Hot whiskey."

As Mr. Powell reached the door he added, "Before you go, make sure someone else takes over that monkey in the cylinder. The Director attaches importance to that experiment. We mustn't have anything go wrong with it after all this time. How long has it done now?"

"Thirty-five days," answered Mr. Powell. "Five weeks. I wonder whether it feels worse than I do?"

"My feet are colder than the whitecoats' glass table," said Snitter. "I wish I had my dear old blanket here. Wonder what happened to it? It used to smell so nice. I bet Annie threw it away."

Rowf, half-asleep, rolled over on the stones, drew in a long, snuffling breath and released it in a steamy cloud.

"Rowf, you did promise we wouldn't stay here another night, didn't you? I couldn't face—you know—even wondering whether—whether it might come back. If I only heard it out there, I believe I'd

—"

"We'll get out before dark, don't worry. Where to, though?"

"I don't mind where. Just not here." Snitter sat up and looked out into the bitter, louring afternoon. "Funny—I was going to say I believed I'd go mad. But of course, I forgot, I am mad, so—"

"That's why you saw it. It was one of your bad turns. If I'd been there you wouldn't have seen anything at all."

"I dare say not, but it was there, all the same. I didn't imagine it. Oh, let's not talk about it any more, Rowf. My feet feel like stones in the water. It's turned much colder. Does it seem to you as though we were under some sort of surface—you know, down in some deep place, like a lake?"

"No, it certainly doesn't. And let me tell you, I've been down at the bottom of—"

"I didn't mean that. Don't get angry, Rowf. But why is the sky so heavy and sort of pressing down? And there's a funny smell, too—a kind of clean, light smell. Or is it something I'm imagining again?"

Rowf sat up suddenly, sniffed the air, ran a few yards outside and then tensed, nose turned to the slight but rising wind.

"Snitter, come out here, quick! What on earth is it?"

Snitter, following him into the open, raised his muzzle also towards the low, thick clouds. Both dogs stood silent, gazing westwards at the flat summit of Raise outlined against the bleak winter light.

As far as eye could see, a vast flurry filled the horizon; a silent, regular commotion that flickered, darkly speckled, through the space between earth and clouds. As it came moving onward towards the place where they were standing, Snitter began to whine and almost turned tail. But in the same moment it was down upon them, swift as swallows on an evening lake, feathers and ice-pins, pricking and tingling minutely in eyes, ears and open skull, innumerable, momentary sharpnesses of cold on lips and moist noses, all the fell from sky to sky blotted out under a steady, whirling drift of melting particles, smaller than leaves, larger than dust or sand.

"They're flies, Rowf! They must be—white flies! But no sound, no smell, like the—the ghost dog! Oh Rowf, don't let them get me! Don't let them—"

"Come on, Snitter, come back inside! Be sensible! Whatever they are, they're not flies. Look at the ground—they disappear the moment they touch it."

"No, they don't—they turn into water. Look at your nose—no, well, look at mine, then."

They watched as the crevices between the stones began slowly to fill with frail, dully glinting, crystalline fragments that crumbled, renewed themselves, crumbled again and grew, clinging together and gradually forming piles light as cat's fur caught on garden bushes. At last Snitter said, "Why d'you suppose they've done it?"

"To try and kill us, I suppose. We know now that for some reason or other they're afraid to come near us, don't we? So they must mean to make it too cold for us to stay alive."

"But it's not as cold as that. At least, it wouldn't be if Raise only we had food. Anyway, Rowf, it'll be dark soon. Let's go away now— anywhere—please. I can't help being dreadfully afraid. You would be too, if you'd—if you'd seen—there's a garden in my ear, you know," said Snitter, once more going outside. "Some of this stuffs falling on it. All the bushes are white."

Twenty minutes later, plodding in the direction of the pallid sunset still faintly visible through the drift, they crossed the north shoulder of Raise above Sticks Pass and looked down at the innumerable, scudding flakes disappearing as they fell upon the dark sheet of Thirlmere.

"Where are we, Rowf?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm a good throat's length away from my stomach."

"I wish the tod were here. He'd know what to do."

"The tod—it's all my fault. I'm sorry, Snitter."

"Never mind, old Rowf. It can't be helped now. Oh, Rowf! Oh, my dam! Look— look! Thafs why they've done it! Oh, they're clever, aren't they? If they're so clever, why can't they just come and kill us and be done with it?"

Behind them, up the slope of the shoulder they had climbed, their tracks showed clearly, black paw-marks impressed on the lightly covered, white ground; two lines stretching back and down until they were lost in the blotted-out waste of Stang.

"Everywhere we go!" breathed Snitter. "They can see where we've been and everywhere we go!"

"No, they can't," said Rowf after a few moments' thought. "They've been too clever this time.

Don't you see, as long as this stuff goes on falling, it blots out the marks we make in it?"

"But when it's finished falling? They're just not ready for us yet, that's all."

"I know a trick worth two of that. The tod's got nothing on me. We're not beat yet, Snitter. It doesn't lie in the becks—look. The water melts it. So down that beck we go, come on. There you are—

not a print to be seen. Are you all right?"

"My feet are cold," gasped Snitter, splashing and shivering.

House of Commons,

Westminster, swl.

Dear Basil,

It was a great pleasure for Cecily and Sic, thought the Under Secretary, reading to see Molly and yourself once again at the Guildhall dinner last week, and I trust that it may not be long before your many engagements permit you to pay the visit to my constituency of which we" spoke in general terms on that occasion. I think there are quite a few floating votes which might well be picked up by a judicious appearance on your part in key places, when you can spare the time.

As you will, of course, be aware, a good deal of uneasiness is felt throughout this constituency area at the moment on account of the trouble given rise to by the dogs which have escaped from Lawson Park. I know that Bill Harbottle and yourself take the view that dogs can't carry bubonic plague, but if I may say so, it is one thing to affirm from Westminster and quite another to persuade constituents—some of whom are not scientifically minded—after they have had the full benefit of the kind of stuff which the London Orator has been disseminating lately. I'm afraid I need convincing that there are no firm grounds for anxiety. Shouldn't things be put right sooner rather than later?

In my view, reassurance needs to be accompanied by action!

Sorry to bother you on top of all your other preoccupations, but I would welcome a line to say what advice I should give my constituents. Perhaps we might profitably have a word in the House at some convenient moment?

Ever yours,

Jack

Immediate. Private Secretary's Office. For Advice, Please, and Draught Reply as soon as possible.

"Oh, bother!" said the Under Secretary, wrinkling his nose and staring at the red slip stapled across the green folder. "I suppose Michael has departed for Lawson Park, has he?"

"Oh, yes, he's been gone some time. I phoned to make sure," answered his personal assistant, raising one hand to pat her hair as she cleared the OUT tray with the other.

"Well, I suppose we'll just have to,do it ourselves," said the Under Secretary. "No time like the present. Could you take dictation, please, Jean—one plus—er—two, draught, double-space? Er—h'm

—yes—'I am replying at once to your letter of 18th November, in which you speak Vof local anxiety caused by the recent escape of two dogs from the Animal Research Station at Lawson Park.

" 'While I fully understand and sympathise with your very natural feelings in this matter, I should, I think, make .... it clear that the Secretary of State is strongly of the view: that this, which is essentially a local problem, should re,; main one for tackling, at all events in the first place, by r, the local authorities concerned. The Medical Officers of Health in the area (whose Association are in full agreement with my Chief Medical Officer as to the extreme unlikelihood of these dogs being able to carry bubonic % plague) will no doubt wish to take immediate steps to allay local anxiety—' "

Two starlings alighted outside, strutted, tussled and let their liquid siftings fall to stain the Under Secretary's A stiff, dishonoured window-sill.

Saturday the 20th November

PLAGUE DOG "DANGEROUS BRUTE"

Former Master's Sifter Tells Why: She Sold It to Research Station Office executive Mrs. Aon Moss, of Dalton-in-Furness, got a shock yesterday. The reason? She learned that "Snifter," the fox terrier formerly belonging to her solicitor brother before his tragic death a traffic accident, was none other than one of the escapees from "Animal Research (Scientific and Experimental), Lawson Park, Cumberland, better known to millions as the "Plague Dogs." The two dogs, which are widely believed to be infected with bubonic plague contracted in the course of their nocturnal escape, have fanugurated a reign of terror throughout the Lakeland, indiscriminately killing sheep, ducks and hens and terrifying farmers and their wives by their ruthless attacks on lonely homesteads.