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  The noise of the crumpling panels and propellers, a tinny, metallic, crunching noise, brought the mechanics running to the wide doors of the hangars. Marjorie Corder, going from the Reindeer to the reception and booking hall, turned at the mouth of the passage and stared aghast to see her Reindeer lying wrecked upon the tarmac. Instinctively she began to run back towards it, horrified; she met Dobson running from the machine to the Control.

  She cried, “What happened?”

  He paused for an instant. “The boffin did it,” he said furiously. “I told you that he’d put the kiss of death on it. Well, now he has.”

  5

  THAT Monday was a bad day.

  It began normally enough. I went to the office as usual. When I had left on Saturday the arrangements had been all set up that Mr. Honey was to leave for Ottawa on Sunday night by C.A.T.O., I had seen nothing of him over the week-end, and I had not expected to. I went down to the old balloon shed at about ten o’clock as soon as I had cleared my desk, however, to see that he had really got away and to see that young Simmons was getting on all right with the responsibilities of the trial on the Reindeer tail.

  The trial was running; I had heard it above the noise of my car when I was driving into the factory; it filled the whole district with its booming roar. In the old balloon shed it was as deafening as usual; Simmons was up upon the gantry taking readings of the strain gauges; he saw me and came down, and came up to me smiling, and proffered his foolscap pad showing the rough daily graph of the deflections. We could not talk in the noise; I ran my eye over the results, and they were absolutely normal. The trial was going smoothly.

  I led him into the office and shut the door; in there we could talk. “Everything all right?” I asked. “Did Mr. Honey get away all right?”

  “Oh yes, I think so, sir. He was in most of Sunday; I was here with him. He left at about four o’clock to go home and have a meal and pick up his luggage. He was catching the eight-forty up to London from Ash Vale.”

  “That’s fine.” I stayed with him for ten minutes going through the work; he was a clever, competent young man who only needed guidance now and then. I soon found that I had nothing to worry about. When I couldn’t think of anything more to ask him, I looked around the littered little office before leaving; there was a neat pile of stamped and addressed letters on his desk, ready for the post. I glanced idly at them the top one was addressed to Miss Elspeth Honey, No. 4, Copse Road, Farnham. I lifted it, and the second bore the same address, and the third, and all of them.

  Simmons said, “Don’t get them out of order, sir. I’ve got to post one each day, and they’re all dated.”

  “Dated?”

  “The letters inside are dated with consecutive days, as if he was writing to her every day. I’ve got to post one each day.”

  I stared at them in wonder. “How many are there?”

  “Twenty-one, sir. He said that he was reckoning to be away three weeks.”

  “Are all the letters different?”

  “I don’t know—I think they must be.” He picked up one of them and fingered it. “From the feel, they’ve each got two sheets of paper, too.”

  I was staggered by the magnitude of the work, because Honey had only had about three days’ notice of his journey, and these three days had been very busy ones for him. I said, “Well, I’m damned!”

  Simmons smiled and said, “He must be a very devoted father.”

  The telephone bell rang then. It was the exchange trying to locate me; Ferguson had been on the line from the Ministry, but while looking for me they had lost the connection. I said I would go back and take it from my office.

  I got through to Ferguson ten minutes later. He said, “Scott, rather an awkward thing has just come up. C.A.T.O. have had a radio signal from the Reindeer that left last night for Gander, the one with Honey on board. It seems that that machine has done over fourteen hundred hours, and Honey has been making a good deal of trouble during the flight. The pilot asks what action he should take.”

  I had an awful feeling of apprehension in my stomach, suddenly. I said, “That’s terrible. That aircraft must be grounded at once. How on earth did it get through? I thought you told me none of them had done more than three or four hundred hours.”

  He said anxiously, “I know, old man—I did tell you that. I got that from C.A.T.O. The trouble is, this aircraft wasn’t operating with them at that time.” He went on to tell me about its loan for trial operations with A.B.A.S.

  I bit my lip. It was the position that I had been anxious to avoid at any cost. “Has it landed yet at Gander?” I asked.

  “I haven’t heard that it has,” he said. “I should think it must have, by this time. Wait a minute—no—oh hell, their time’s all different of course. I don’t know exactly when it took off.”

  “Look, Ferguson,” I said. “It’s got to be stopped at Gander. It mustn’t fly one minute longer. Can you get through now to C.A.T.O. and ground it, ground it positively and for good at Gander?”

  He hesitated. “I’d have to see the Director for that.”

  I said, “I’ll have to see my own Director. But we’ve got to jump at this decision, now just you and me. We can clue up the official side later. Will you get through to C.A.T.O. and tell them that?”

  “It’s a bit awkward,” he said slowly. “I don’t know that we’re justified in taking a snap decision, quite … I mean, it might be very awkward if it turned out later there was nothing wrong with it. I think it should go through the proper channels.”

  I said bitterly, “We won’t look quite so good at the court of inquiry if that tail fails in the air while you and I are looking for our senior officers. If you won’t ring up C.A.T.O., I will.”

  He said doubtfully, “I could get through to them and say that’s what you recommend, explaining that it’s not official yet.”

  “Will you tell them that I insist on grounding that machine?” I said. “That’s what I’m telling you. And that’s what I should tell a court of inquiry.”

  “You’re taking a great deal of responsibility upon yourself,” he said resentfully.

  “I am.”

  “Have you got any evidence at all upon this tailplane yet?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing to call evidence.”

  “But you insist that I ring up C.A.T.O. and have that aircraft grounded here and now, before consulting anyone?”

  “I do.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll get through to them now.”

  I put down the telephone, sick and angry at the position that we had been forced into. I picked it up again and asked for the Director’s office. The operator said, “I’ve got an outside call for you, Dr. Scott.”

  “Hold it,” I said. “Put me through to the Director’s office now. I’ll take that outside call immediately I’ve finished.”

  The Director’s girl told me he was up in London for a meeting of the Aeronautical Research Committee. I swore; I should have thought of that. I could not now shelve my responsibility. I asked for the waiting call, thinking it was C.A.T.O., but it was Shirley.

  She said urgently, “Dennis, please, can you come and help me? I’m speaking from the call-box at the end of Copse Road. It’s Elspeth Honey. I found her lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs in their house; she’s quite unconscious and she’s awfully cold. Please, do come at once.”

  I hesitated. I could not take in properly the substance of what she was saying; my mind was full of the blazing row that I had landed myself in by grounding a C.A.T.O. aircraft at a place like Gander, without any previous notice and without any real evidence that there was anything the matter with it at all. I knew that it was only a question of minutes now before the storm burst; Ferguson must be already speaking to Carnegie, the Technical Superintendent. I forced my mind back to what Shirley was saying. “Is she ill?” I asked foolishly. “Couldn’t you ring up the doctor—Dr. Martin? His number’s in the book.”

  She said desp
erately, “I’ve rung up Dr. Martin—he’s out on his rounds—I can’t get hold of him till lunch time. I can’t remember the name of anyone else. I’ve got her lying down and covered up with rugs—she’s on the floor. There’s nowhere else to put her downstairs—there’s no couch or anything. I couldn’t carry her up those stairs by myself. The old woman next door is boiling kettles up for hot-water bottles, but Dennis—she’s looking awful—she’s so blue. I’m frightened that she might be going to pass out. Do please come, Dennis.”

  I could not leave her in the lurch; moreover, this was Honey’s daughter. If the child Elspeth was really dangerously ill it would react straight back upon the grounding of the Reindeer. I should have to send Honey a cable, and he would obviously want to come home on the first available plane. It he did that, it would mean that the first Reindeer crash in Labrador would remain an enigma; we should not secure the evidence that we required to justify grounding the one at Gander. All this was running through my mind while I was listening to Shirley, and coupled with it was the thought that I had counted on two quiet days for finally rehearsing the paper that I was to read before the Royal Aeronautical Society on Thursday night upon the “Performance Analysis of Aircraft Flying at High Mach Numbers.”

  It was a blazing mess—just one thing after another, I said, “All right, darling, I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Keep her warm. I’ll come right away, in the car.”

  I put down the receiver and rang the bell for Miss Learoyd. But before she came, the telephone bell rang again, and it was Carnegie.

  He said, “Is that Dr. Scott? Look, Dr. Scott, I’ve had the most extraordinary request from Ferguson. He says you want to ground one of our Reindeers and ground it at Gander. Is that right?”

  I said, “That’s right. We’re getting rather concerned about the possibility of fatigue trouble in the tailplane. We’ve got people working on it on the highest priority now, and we’ve sent a member of the staff to Canada to have another look at the prototype Reindeer structure that crashed in Labrador. We’ve come to the conclusion that until this matter is cleared up no Reindeer ought to fly more than 700 hours. It was rather a shock when I heard this morning that one of your machines had done 1,400.”

  “Well, it’s very disconcerting having this sprung upon us at a moment’s notice,” he said. “I can’t think what the Ministry are up to. They haven’t said a word to us about it and the A.R.B. don’t know a thing about it, either.”

  “It’s not the Ministry,” I said. “It hasn’t got as far as them yet, on an official level, that is to say. Ferguson knows all about it, of course. It’s all come up very recently, very recently indeed.”

  He asked, “The firm—Rutlands—do they know anything about it?”

  I said, “Not yet.”

  “The only people who know anything about it, then, are your department down at Farnborough?” He was becoming hostile.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Everything starts down here. As a matter of fact, we thought we had plenty of time to get the whole thing sorted out before any question of grounding your existing machines arose. We were told that none of your Reindeers had done more than 400 hours. Then we sent one of our staff across last night by C.A.T.O., and he seems to have discovered in the air that the machine that he was flying in had done over 1,400, which just about coincides with our theoretical estimate of the time to failure of the tailplane in fatigue.”

  He broke in, “Who told you that? Who told you that none of our machines had done more than 400 hours?”

  I hesitated. “Ferguson,” I said at last. Obviously everything was going to come out now. “We put the inquiry through him.”

  “It didn’t come to me,” he retorted. “I must say I would rather like to know why that was. Who did Ferguson get his information from—the office boy? If you people would only have the courtesy to come to the right person when you want to know anything, you might get the right answer.”

  It would not do to tell him at this stage that I had asked Ferguson to get the information without calling too much attention to the inquiry. I said, “Look, Mr. Carnegie, let’s settle on the action now and we can have the inquest and the slanging match later. I understand the Reindeer that our Mr. Honey is travelling in is at or near Gander at this moment. We say it must be grounded right away, wherever it is. You must take my word for it that the machine is in a dangerous condition.”

  There was a long silence. I said at last, “Are you there, Carnegie?”

  “I was just thinking,” he replied. “I know nothing whatever about this, because you haven’t thought fit to take me into your confidence. But at the same time I am responsible for the technical state of the aircraft of this organisation. What you suggest that I should do is to tell the Traffic side that this Reindeer is no longer airworthy, when I myself know of no technical reason why it shouldn’t go on flying. Is that what you want?”

  Put in that way it sounded very awkward. “Yes I suppose so,” I said. “I’m sorry to put you in that position, but we’re all in a difficulty together over this.”

  He said evenly, “I’m sorry, too. And what’s more, I won’t do it. If you want that aircraft grounded without giving us more technical reasons than we have had up to date, you’ll have to do it on a higher level.”

  “Look, Mr. Carnegie” I said. “I’ll give you all the technical reasons that you want as soon as we can get together, but we can’t do that over the phone. I’ll come to you, or you come to me, and we’ll have a session on it, this evening, if you like. But we’ve got to stop that Reindeer flying now, this minute.”

  He said, “All right. Get your Director to ring up my Chairman—Sir David’s in his office. If you’re making it a question of confidence because of the time element, then that’s the way to do it.”

  I bit my lip. “I can’t do that,” I said. “The Director’s in London, at a meeting of the Aeronautical Research Committee.”

  He was on that one like a knife. “Does he know anything about this?”

  “He knows of our suspicions about fatigue trouble,” I said. “He doesn’t know that one of the machines has done 1,400 hours.”

  “Well, don’t you think you’d better take him into your confidence first of all, even if you don’t take us?”

  I became angry. “Look, Mr. Carnegie,” I said. “All that can be settled later. I’m telling you now that in the view of this Establishment that Reindeer is in a grossly unsafe condition and should not fly one moment longer. The time is now eleven-fifteen, when I have told you that. If there’s an accident, that will be my evidence at the court of inquiry. Whether you ground it now is entirely up to you, but you’ll get a letter grounding it in the post tomorrow. That’s all I’ve got to say to you.”

  He said evenly, “Well, Dr. Scott, I hear what you say. And I will think it over and discuss it with my Chairman. The only thing I have to say now is that it’s most difficult for us to do our job and keep the airline running if you people are allowed to carry on like this.”

  I put down the receiver, breathing rather quickly, and glanced at my watch. We had been talking for ten minutes, and I had told Shirley that I would be with her by that time. I rang for Miss Learoyd again, and when she came I was at the door with my hat on. “Miss Learoyd,” I said, “I’ve got to go out for an hour, but I’m expecting several rather urgent calls. Will you sit in here and take them, and tell everyone that I’ll ring them—oh, say at two o’clock.” I left her, and hurried away down to my car.

  I stepped on it on my way to Farnham, because I was anxious to get Shirley settled up and get back to my office and my row. I could not imagine what had happened to Elspeth Honey, and I had an unpleasant feeling that whatever had happened to her was partly my fault, for having sent her father off to the other side of the world at such short notice that he hadn’t had time to make proper arrangements for her.

  The door of the house was ajar; I parked the car and went in. I heard Shirley’s voice upstairs, and went up. Elspeth
was lying in her bed, which was tumbled and slept in; she was an unpleasant greyish colour with a huge bruise on her forehead close up to the hair; she seemed to be unconscious. Shirley was there with an elderly woman, Mrs. Stevens from next door.

  Shirley and I withdrew on to the landing. “What happened?” I asked.

  She said, “I really don’t know, but I think she must have fallen downstairs some time in the night. I was just a bit worried, Dennis, because she didn’t turn up at school this morning, and you know I never thought much of this charwoman arrangement. So I came round here at break, but the front door was locked, of course, and I couldn’t get in. Well then I looked through the window in the door, and, darling—there she was, lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs, in her pyjamas. I couldn’t make her hear, or anything, so I went round to the back and broke the kitchen window and got in, and there she was.”

  I said, “I’m frightfully sorry. But wasn’t the charwoman here last night?”

  “I don’t think she can have been. But I don’t know. I don’t even know who she is.”

  “How is she now?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Very much the same. I think she’s warmer than she was—she was terribly cold. Mrs. Stevens helped me to carry her upstairs to bed, and we’ve got three hot bottles in bed with her. I do wish the doctor would come.”

  I stood by the door looking in. The little dark-haired girl lay in bed with eyes half open but immobile, like a dead rabbit; she looked very like her father. My wife said softly, “Poor little brat. It is a shame.”