The name of the country goes back to the twelfth century. 5 страница

Burdick said suddenly, “Hey, with the city departments on to this, we’ll have the press at any time.” He tapped his teeth with a fat forefinger, appalled at the possibilities. “This will be the worst thing that ever happened to Maple Leaf,” he went on quickly. “Imagine it — it’ll be front page everywhere. Plane-load of people, many of them sick. No pilot. Maybe civilian evacuation from those houses out towards the bridge. Not to mention—”

The controller cut in, “You’d better let PR handle it from the start. Get Howard here, at the double. The board will know his home number.” Burdick nodded to the switchboard operator, who ran his finger down an emergency list and then began to dial. “We can’t duck the press on a thing like this, Harry. It’s much too big. Cliff will know how to play it. Tell him to keep the papers off our backs. We’ve got work to do.”

“What a night,” Burdick groaned, picking up a telephone impatiently. “What happened to Dr. Davidson?” he demanded of the operator.

“Out on a night call and can’t be reached. He’s due back pretty soon. I’ve left a message.”

“Wouldn’t you know it? Everything has to happen tonight. If he doesn’t check in in ten minutes, get the hospital. That doctor in 714 is maybe in need of advice. Come on, come on,” Burdick breathed irritably into his telephone. “Wake up, Cliff, for Pete’s sake. There’s no reason why any one should sleep through this.”

On the outskirts of the town another telephone was ringing incessantly, splitting the peacefulness of a small, neat house with its shrill clamor. A smooth white arm emerged from bedclothes, rested motionless across a pillow, then stirred again and groped slowly in the darkness for the switch of a bedside lamp. The lamp clicked on. With her eyes screwed up against the bright light, an attractive red-head in a white embroidered nightdress reached painfully for the telephone, then brought it to her ear and turned on her side. Peering at the hands of the little bedside clock, she mumbled, “Yes?”

“Is this Mrs. Treleaven?” demanded a crisp voice.

“Yes,” she said, practically in a whisper. “Who is it?”

“Mrs. Treleaven, may I speak to your husband?”

“He’s not here.”

“Not there? Where can I find him, please? This is urgent.”

She propped herself up on her pillow, trying to blink herself awake. The thought occurred to her that she was dreaming.

“Are you there?” asked the voice at the other end. “Mrs. Treleaven, we’ve been trying to reach you for several minutes.”

“I took a sleeping pill,” she said. “Look, who’s calling at this time of night?”

“I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s imperative that we contact Captain Treleaven without delay. This is Cross-Canada, at the airport.”

“Oh.” She gathered herself together. “He’s at his mother’s place. His father is ill and my husband is helping to sit with him.”

“Is it in town?”

“Yes, not far from here.” She gave the telephone number.

“Thank you. We’ll ring him there.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m sorry — there isn’t time to explain. Thank you again.”

The line was dead. She replaced the receiver and swung her legs out of bed. As the wife of a senior pilot of an airline she was accustomed to unexpected duty calls on her husband, but although she had grown to accept them as an unavoidable part of his life, part of her still resented them. Was Paul the only pilot they ever thought of when they were in a fix? Well, if he was having to take over a plane in a hurry, he would need to call home first for his uniform and gear. There would be time to make up a flask of coffee and some sandwiches. She drew on a robe and stumbled sleepily out of the bedroom and down the stairs towards the kitchen.

Two miles away, Paul Treleaven slept deeply, his large frame stretched along the chesterfield in his mother’s parlor. That determined and vigorous old lady had insisted on taking a spell by the side of her sick husband, ordering her son firmly to rest for a couple of hours while he could. The news from the family doctor the previous evening had been encouraging: the old man had passed the dangerous corner of his pneumonic fever and now it was a matter of careful nursing and attention. Treleaven had been thankful for the chance to sleep. Only thirty-six hours previously he had completed a flight from Tokyo, bringing back a parliamentary mission en route for Ottawa, and since then, with the crisis of his father’s illness, there had been scant opportunity for more than an uneasy doze.

He was aroused by his arm being shaken. Immediately awake, he looked up to find his mother bending over him.

“All right, Mother,” he said heavily, “I’ll take over now.”

“No, son, it isn’t that. Dad’s sleeping like a baby. It’s the airport on the telephone. I told them you were trying to snatch some rest, but they insisted. I think it’s disgraceful — just as if they can’t wait until a respectable hour in the morning.”

“Okay. I’ll come.”

Getting to his feet, he wondered if he were ever going to sleep properly again. He was already half-dressed, having removed only his jacket and tie so as to lie comfortably on the chesterfield. He padded in stockinged feet to the door and out to the telephone in the hall, his mother following anxiously behind him.

“Treleaven,” he said.

“Paul, this is Jim Bryant.” The words were clipped, urgent. “I was getting really worried. We need you, Paul, but bad. Can you come over right away?”

“Why, what’s up?”

“We’re in real trouble here. There’s a Maple Leaf Charter — it’s an Empress C6, one of the refitted jobs — on its way from Winnipeg with a number of passengers and both pilots seriously ill with food poisoning.”

“What! Both pilots?”

“That’s right. It’s a top emergency. Some fellow is at the controls who hasn’t flown for years. Fortunately the ship is on autopilot. Maple Leaf hasn’t got a man here and we want you to come in and talk her down. Think you can do it?”

“Great Scott, I don’t know. It’s a tall order.” Treleaven looked at his wrist watch. “What’s the ETA?”

“05.05.”

“But that’s under two hours. We’ve got to move! Look, I’m on the south side of town—”

“What’s your address?” Treleaven gave it. “We’ll have a police car pick you up in a few minutes. When you get here, go straight on up to the control room.”

“Right. I’m on my way.”

“And good luck, Paul.”

“You’re not kidding.”

He dropped the phone and strode back to the parlor, pulling on his shoes without stopping to tie the laces. His mother held out his jacket for him.

“What is it, son?” she asked apprehensively.

“Trouble over at the airport, Mother. Bad trouble, I’m afraid. There’s a police car coming to take me there.”

“Police!”

“Now, now.” He put an arm around her for a second. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. But they need my help. I’ll have to leave you for the rest of the night.” He looked round for his pipe and tobacco and put them in his pocket. “Just a minute,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “How did they know I was here?”

“I couldn’t say. Perhaps they rang Dulcie first.”

“Yes, that must be it. Would you give her a ring, Mother, and let her know everything is all right?”

“Of course I will. But what is the trouble about, Paul?”

“A pilot is sick on an aircraft due here soon. They want me to talk it down, if I can.”

His mother looked puzzled. “What do you mean — talk it down?” she repeated. “If the pilot’s sick, who’s going to fly it?”

“I am, Mother — from the ground. Or I’m going to try to, anyway.”

“I don’t understand.”

Maybe I don’t either, Treleaven thought to himself five minutes later, seated in the back of a police car as it pulled away from the sidewalk and slammed viciously into top gear. Street lights flashed past them in ever quickening succession; the speedometer crept steadily round to seventy, five as the siren sliced into the night.

“Looks like a big night over at the field,” remarked the police sergeant beside the driver, talking over his shoulder.

“So I gather,” said Treleaven. “Can you fill me in on exactly what’s happening?”

“Search me.” The sergeant spat out of the window. “All I know is that every available car has been sent over to the airport to work from there in case the bridge estate has to be cleared. We were on our way there too until they stopped us and sent us back for you. I’d say they’re expecting a hell of a bang.”

“You know what?” interjected the young driver. “It’s my guess there’s a busted-up Stratojet coming in with a nuclear bombload.”

“Do me a favor,” said the sergeant with heavy scorn. “Your trouble is you read too many comics.”

Never, Treleaven reflected grimly to himself, had he reached the airport so quickly. In no time, or so it seemed, they had reached Marpole and crossed Oak Bridge to Lulu Island. Then, bearing right, they crossed the river estuary again to Sea Island and past occasional police cruisers whose crews were already talking to bewildered house owners in doorways, until they were speeding along the last stretch of Airport Road, the lights of the long, low airport buildings beckoning them on. They braked suddenly, with a protesting screech of tires, to avoid a fire truck which was making a leisurely U-turn ahead of them. The sergeant swore, briefly but with feeling.

At the main reception building, Treleaven was out of the car, through the doors and had crossed the concourse before the wail of the siren died. Waving aside the commissionaire who hurried across to meet him, he made his way directly to the control room in the administration block. He could move remarkably fast for a man of his size. It was probably that loose-limbed agility which combined with a solidly built physique, lank fair hair and hard lean features, to make him an object of interest to many women. His features, angular and crooked, looked as if they had been inexpertly carved from a chunk of wood. Treleaven had a considerable reputation as a disciplinarian and more than one erring crew member had had cause to fear the cold light in those pale, almost watery-blue eyes.

He entered Control as Burdick was speaking anxiously and deferentially on the telephone.

“… No, sir, he isn’t qualified. He flew single-engine fighters in the war; nothing since… I’ve asked them that. This doctor on board says…”

The controller stepped quickly over to greet Treleaven. “I’m certainly glad to see you, Captain,” he said.

Treleaven nodded towards Burdick. “Is that the fellow in the Empress he’s talking about?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s just got his president out of bed in Montreal. The old man sounds far from happy about it — and so am I. The call shouldn’t have come in here. Hurry it up, Harry, will you?”

“What else can we do?” pleaded Burdick into the telephone, sweating profusely. “We’ve got to talk him down. I’ve located Cross-Canada’s chief pilot, Captain Treleaven — he just walked in the door now. We’ll get on the radio with a check list and try to bring him in… We’ll do the best we can, sir… Of course it’s a terrible risk, but can you think of something better?”

Treleaven took from the dispatcher the clipboard of messages from 714 and read them carefully. With a quiet request, “Weather,” he then consulted the latest meteorological reports. This done, he laid the papers down, raised his eyebrows somberly at the controller, and produced his pipe which he proceeded to fill. Burdick was still speaking.

“… I’ve thought of that, sir. Howard will handle the press at this end — they aren’t on to it yet… Yes, yes, we’ve suspended food service on all flights ex Winnipeg. That’s all we know. I called you right away…”

“What do you think?” the controller asked Treleaven.

The pilot shrugged without answering and picked up the clipboard again. His face was set in deep lines as he read the messages again, drawing steadily on his pipe. A young man backed into the room, holding the door open with his leg as he maneuvered a tray bearing cardboard cartons of coffee. He handed a carton to the controller and set another down in front of Treleaven. The pilot ignored it.

“…ETA is 05.05 Pacific Time,” Burdick was saying with increasing exasperation. “I’ve a lot to do, sir… I’ll have to get on with it… I’ll call you… I’ll call you as soon as I know anything more… Yes, yes… G’bye.” Putting down the telephone, he blew out his cheeks with relief. Turning to Treleaven, he said, “Thank you very much for coming, Captain. Have you got it all?”

Treleaven held up the clipboard. “This is the whole story?”

“That’s everything we know. Now I want you to get on the horn and talk this guy down. You’ll have to let him get the feel of the airplane on the way, you’ll have to give him the landing check, you’ll have to talk him on to the approach, and — so help me! — you’ll have to talk him right down on to the ground. Can you do it?”

“I can’t perform a miracle,” said Treleaven evenly. “You know that the chances of a man who has only flown fighter airplanes landing a four-engine passenger ship are pretty slim, to say the least?”

“Of course I know it!” Burdick exploded. “You heard what I told Barnard. But do you have any other ideas?”

“No,” Treleaven said slowly, “I guess not. I just wanted to be sure you knew what we were getting into.”

“Listen,” shouted Burdick angrily. “There’s a ship full of people up there, some of them dying, including the pilots. The biggest air disaster in years, that’s what we’re getting into!”

“Keep your temper,” said Treleaven coldly. “We’ll get nowhere fast by shouting.” He glanced down at the clipboard and then at the wall map. “This is going to be very tough and a very long shot,” he said. “I want that fully understood.”

“All right, gentlemen,” said the controller. “You are perfectly right to emphasize the risk, Captain. We fully accept that.”

“What choice is there?” Burdick demanded.

“Very well, then,” said Treleaven. “Let’s get started.” He walked over to the radio operator. “Can you work 714 direct?”

“Yes, Captain. Reception’s good. We can call them any time.”

“Do it then.”

The operator switched to transmit. “Flight 714. This is Vancouver. Do you read? Over.”

“Yes, Vancouver,” came Spencer’s voice through the amplifier. “We hear you clearly. Go ahead, please.”

The operator handed the stand microphone to Treleaven. “Okay, Captain. It’s all yours.”

“Am I on the air?”

“Go ahead now.”

Holding the stand microphone in his hand, its cable trailing to the floor, Treleaven turned his back on the other men in the room. Legs braced apart, he stared unseeingly at a point on the wall map, his cold eyes distant in concentration. His voice, when he spoke, was steady and unhurried, easy with a confidence he did not feel. As he began, the other men visibly relaxed, as if his natural authority had temporarily relieved them of a crushing responsibility.

“Hullo, Flight 714,” he said. “This is Vancouver. My name is Paul Treleaven and I’m a Cross-Canada Airlines captain. My job is to help you fly this airplane in. We shouldn’t have too much trouble. I see that I’m talking to George Spencer. I’d like to hear a little more about your flying experience, George.”

Behind him, the flabby folds of Burdick’s honest face had begun to shake in an uncontrollable spasm of nervous reaction.

SEVEN

0325—0420

SPENCER TENSED, shooting an involuntary glance at the girl in the seat beside him. Her eyes, in the greenish glow of the instrument panel, were fixed on his face. He looked away again, listening intently.

Treleaven was saying, “For instance, how many flying hours have you had? The message here says you’ve flown single-engine fighters. Have you had any experience at all of multi-engine planes? Let’s hear from you, George.”

Spencer’s mouth was so dry when he replied that at first he could hardly speak. He cleared his throat.

“Hullo, Vancouver. 714 here. Glad to have you along, Captain. But let’s not kid each other, please. I think we both know the situation. My flying up to now has been entirely on single-engine aircraft, Spitfires and Mustangs — I’d say about a thousand hours in all. But that was thirteen years ago. I’ve touched nothing since. Do you understand that? Over.”

“Don’t worry about that, George. It’s like riding a bicycle — you never forget it. Stand by, will you?”

In the Vancouver Control, Treleaven pressed the cutout button on the arm of the microphone in his hand and looked at a slip of paper the controller held out for him to read.

“Try to get him on this course,” said the controller. “The Air Force have just sent in a radar check.” He paused. “Sounds pretty screwed up, doesn’t he?”

“Yes — who wouldn’t be, in his shoes?” Treleaven grimaced reflectively. “We’ve got to give him confidence,” he said. “Without that there isn’t a chance. Whatever happens, he mustn’t lose his nerve. Keep it down, will you?” to the controller’s assistant who was talking on the telephone. “If this guy doesn’t hear me clearly he’ll be in trouble fast and there will be nothing we can do about it.” Then, to the dispatcher, “Okay. Make damn sure you don’t lose them on the air.” He released the cutout. “714. This is Treleaven. You are still on autopilot, right?”

“Yes, that’s so, Captain,” came the reply.

“All right, George. In a minute you can disengage the autopilot and get the feel of the controls. When you’ve had a bit of practice with them you are going to change your course a little. Listen very carefully, though, before you touch them. When you start handling the airplane the controls will seem very heavy and sluggish compared with a fighter. Don’t let that worry you. It’s quite normal. You’ve got a lot of airplane up there, so take it nice and steady. Watch your air speed all the time you are flying and don’t let it fall below 120 knots while your wheels and flaps are up, otherwise you’ll stall. I’ll repeat that. Make absolutely sure at all times that your air speed doesn’t fall below 120 knots. Now, one other thing. Do you have someone up there who can work the radio and leave you free for flying?”

“Yes, Vancouver. I have the stewardess here with me and she’ll take over the radio now. It’s all yours, Janet.”

“Hullo, Vancouver. This is the stewardess, Janet Benson. Over.”

“Why, it’s you, Janet,” said Treleaven. “I’d know that voice anywhere. You’re going to talk to George for me, are you? Good. Now Janet, I want you to keep your eyes on that air-speed indicator. Remember that an airplane stays in the air because of its forward speed. If you let the speed drop too low, it stalls — and falls out of the air. Any time the ASI shows a reading near 120, you tell George instantly. Is that clear, Janet?”

“Yes, Captain. I understand.”

“Back to you, George. Take this slowly and smoothly. I want you to unlock the autopilot — it’s clearly marked on the control column — and take the airplane yourself, holding her straight and level. George, you watch the artificial horizon and keep the air speed steady. Climb and descent indicator should stay at zero. All right. Start now.”

Spencer put his right forefinger over the autopilot release button on the control column. His face was rigid. Feet on the rudder bar and both arms ready, braced, he steeled himself for what might come.

“Tell him I’m switching over now,” he told Janet. She repeated the message. His hand wavered for a moment on the button. Then, decisively, he pressed it hard. The aircraft swung a little to port but he corrected the tendency gently and she responded well enough to his feet on the rudder bar. The vibration from the controls seemed to flow through his body like an electric current.

“Tell him okay,” he gasped, his nerves taut as cables.

“714 here. We’re flying straight and level.” Janet’s voice sounded miraculously sweet and calm to him.

“Well done, George. As soon as you’ve got the feel of her, try some very gentle turns, not more than two or three degrees. Can you see the turn indicator? It’s almost directly in front of your eyes and slightly to the right, just by the panel-light shield. Over.” Treleaven’s eyes were closed with the effort of visualizing the cockpit layout. He opened them and spoke to the dispatcher. “Listen. I’ve got a lot of work to do with this man in the air, but we ought to start planning the approach and landing while there’s plenty of time. Get the chief radar operator up here, will you, and let me talk to him.”

Very gingerly Spencer extended his left leg and eased the control column over. This time it seemed an age before the aircraft responded to his touch and he saw the horizon indicator tilt. Gratified, he tried the other way; but now the movement was alarming. He looked down at the ASI and was shocked to see that it had dropped to 180 knots. Quickly he eased the control column forward. Then he breathed again as the speed rose slowly to 210. He would have to treat the controls with the utmost respect until he really understood the time lag; that was evident. Again he tried a shallow turn and pushed at the resisting weight of the rudder to hold it steady. Gradually he felt the ship answer. Then he straightened up, so as to keep approximately on the course they had been steering before.

Janet had lifted her eyes momentarily from the instrument panel to ask in a small voice, “How is it?”

Spencer tried to grin, without much success. The thought passed through his mind that this was rather like his days on the Link trainer all over again, only then nearly sixty lives did not hang in the balance and the instructor was not more than a few feet away in the same room. “Tell him I’m on manual and doing gentle turns, coming back on course each time,” he said.

Janet gave the message.

“I should have asked you this before,” came Treleaven’s voice. “What kind of weather are you in up there?”

“It’s clear where we are right now,” answered Janet. “Except below us, of course.”

“Uh-huh. You’d better keep me informed. Now, George, we have to press on. You may hit some cloud layer at any time, with a little turbulence. If you do, I want you to be ready for it. How does she handle?”

Spencer looked across to Janet. “Tell him — sluggish as hell, like a wet sponge,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Hullo, Vancouver. As sluggish as a wet sponge,” repeated Janet.

For a few brief seconds the tension at Vancouver Control eased and the group standing round the radio panel exchanged smiles.

“That’s a natural feeling, George,” said Treleaven, serious again, “because you were used to smaller airplanes. You’ll have to expect it to feel even worse when you really throw her around up there, but you’ll soon get used to it.”

The dispatcher cut in, “I’ve the radar chief here.”

“He’ll have to wait,” said Treleaven. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I get a break.”

“Right.”

“Hullo, George,” called Treleaven. “You must avoid any violent movements of the controls, such as you used to make in your fighter airplanes. If you do move the controls violently, you will over-correct and be in trouble. Is that understood? Over.”

“Yes, Vancouver, we understand. Over.”

“Now, George, I want you to try the effect of fore-and-aft control on your air speed. To start with, adjust your throttle setting so as to reduce speed to 160 and cruise straight and level. But watch the air speed closely. Keep it over 120. The elevator trim is just to your right on the control pedestal and the aileron trim is below the throttles, near the floor. Got it? Over.”

Spencer checked with his hand, holding the plane steady with the other and with braced legs. “Right. Tell him I’m reducing speed.”

“Okay, Vancouver, we’re doing as you say.” Time ticked away as the speed slowly dropped. At 160 George adjusted the trim tabs and held up his thumb to Janet.

“714 here, Vancouver. 160 knots on the indicator.”

Treleaven waited until he had struggled out of his jacket before speaking. “Right, George. Try a little up and down movement. Use the control column as carefully as if it were full of eggs and watch the speed. Keep it at 160. Get the feel of the thing as you go along. Over.” He put the microphone down. “Where’s the radar chief?”

“Here.”

“At what range will this aircraft show on your scope?” queried Treleaven.

“Sixty miles, thereabouts, Captain.”

“That’s no good for a while, then. Well,” said Treleaven, partly to himself, partly to Burdick, “you can’t have everything at once. I’ve had to assume that he’s still heading in a general westerly direction. Next call, though, we’ll check his heading.”

“Yeah,” said Burdick. He offered a cigarette, which the pilot refused.

“If he’s stayed on the same heading,” continued Treleaven, looking at the wall map, “he can’t be that much off course, and we can straighten him up when he gets in our radar range. That Air Force check is a help.”

“Can’t he come in on the beam?” asked Burdick.

“Right now he’s got enough to worry about. If I try to get him on the beam, he’ll have to mess around with the radio, changing frequencies and a lot of other stuff. I’d sooner take a chance, Harry, and let him go a few miles off course.”

“That makes sense,” Burdick conceded.

“Here’s how we’ll handle it,” said the pilot. He turned to the radar chief. “I’ll do the talking. He’s getting used to me now.”

“Right, sir.”

“As soon as he shows up on your scope, you can feed me the information and I’ll relay it. Can you fix up a closed circuit between me and the radar room?”

“We can take care of that,” said the dispatcher.

“How about the final approach?” asked the radar chief.

“We’ll handle that the same way,” said Treleaven. “Directly we’ve got him on the scope and he’s steady on course, we’ll move to the tower. You report up there and we’ll decide on the runway and plan the approach.”

“Yes, sir.”

Treleaven picked up the microphone but waited, his eye catching that of the controller, who was replacing a telephone in its cradle.

“Dr. Davidson is downstairs,” the controller told him.

“What does he have to say?”

“From the information we’ve got he agrees with the diagnosis of the doctor in the plane. Seemed to wonder at first if it could be an outbreak of botulism.”

“What’s that, for Pete’s sake?”

“Some very serious kind of food poisoning, apparently. Shall we get the doctor up here and put him on the air?”

“No, Mr. Grimsell. It’s more important right now to fly this airplane. We’ll leave it to them to call for medical advice if they want it. I don’t want Spencer’s mind distracted from the job if I can possibly help it. I should have Davidson stand by in case he’s needed.” Treleaven spoke into the microphone. “Hullo, George Spencer. Don’t forget that lag in the controls. Just take it steadily. Do you understand that?”

There was a pause. Then, “He understands, Vancouver. Over.”

To Spencer it seemed as if the airline captain must have read his thoughts. He had moved the column slowly forward, and then back again, but there had been no response from the aircraft. Now he tried again, easing the stick away from him. Imperceptibly at first, the nose of the aircraft began to dip. Then, so suddenly that he was momentarily paralyzed with shock, it plunged downwards. Janet bit hard on her lip to avoid screaming. The ASI needle began to swing round… 180… 190… 200… 220. Putting all his weight on the column, Spencer fought to bring the aircraft back. In front of him the instrument panel seemed alive. The climb-and-descent indicator quivered against the bottom of the glass. The little facsimile of a plane on the artificial horizon had depressed its port wing and remained in that position, frighteningly. On the face of the altimeter the 100-foot hand whirred backwards; the 1,000-foot hand less quickly but still terrifyingly fast; while the 10,000-foot needle had already stopped, jammed at its nadir.

“Come on, you slug, come on!” he shouted as the nose at last responded. He watched the three altimeter needles begin with agonizing slowness to wind up again, registering gradually increasing height. “Made it!” he said in relief to Janet, forgetting that he was overcorrecting.

“Watch it — watch the speed,” she exclaimed.

His eyes flicked back to the dial, now rapidly falling again. 160… 150… 140. Then he had it. With a sigh the aircraft settled down on to an even keel once more and he brought it into straight and level flight.

“Jeeze, that was nasty,” he muttered.

Janet was still checking the ASI. “160. That’s all right now.”

The door to the flight deck opened behind them and Dr. Baird’s voice called, “What’s wrong?”

Spencer answered loudly, not removing his eyes from the panel, “Sorry, Doc. I’m trying to get the feel of her.”

“Well, take it as easy as you can, will you? Things are bad enough back here. How are you doing?”

“Fine, just fine, Doc,” said Spencer, licking his lips. The door closed again and Treleaven’s voice came on the air. “Hullo, George Spencer. Everything okay? Over.”