Skyfall

22

GET 07:20- COTTENHAM NEW TOWN

What could she do, ohh, what could she do, Irene wondered despairingly. Yesterday evening Henry had settled himself at the kitchen table and written to the boarding house in Blackpool where they had stayed the last two summers. His ' holiday dates for the coming year had just been fixed and he was writing well in advance to reserve the same rooms again. He had given her the letter to post but it still sat on the mantelpiece resting against the china Blackpool Tower, fond memory of the city it was addressed to. But dare she post it? Just this morning, running short of money for the Sunday joint, she had taken the last penny out of the Post Office account. The last — she couldn't believe it. But it was all gone, every bit of it. Instead of the pounds and pounds that should have been there for the Christmas presents and next summer holiday there was nothing at all. Henry would find out, he had to find out sooner or later, and what would she do then?

Seizing her apron she pressed it to her face and sobbed, rocking back and forth in quiet agony. What could she do, what could she do?

Judy and May did not know of their mother's worries. If they had they might have cared, but not for long. Their lives contained far simpler problems: getting good enough marks in school without working too hard, getting new clothes, new shoes, things that were directly related to their new, suddenly overwhelming interest in boys — creatures considered as filthy pigs best avoided until a few short months ago.

Henry Lewis's body was tense, his toes against the hockey, his right arm raised, his left eye half-closed. With grim intensity, backed by years of practice and experience, he sighted along the steel point, drew his arm back — and let the dart fly. Bloody hell! A fraction outside the double seven that would have won the game.

“Well played, Henry!”

“At least you missed t'lav door.”

He took a long swig from his pint of mild and said nothing, outwardly unmoved by the comments. He wasn't shaken, just annoyed. Should have been in. But he would have another chance, Alf wouldn't be able to go out yet. The glass ran dry and he took it to the bar for a refill. George was polishing a glass and keeping an eye on the telly at the same time. Henry pushed the empty pint over to him.

“Rooshins got trouble with that rocket, announcer said.” George pumped in a bubbling stream, then topped it with the whitest of collars.

“Waste of money if you ask me.”

Alf had missed so he would have his chance after all. Do it this time. Henry turned back to the game, determination in his step.

“Could be dangerous, that's what paper said.”

“Nawt to do with us, nawt at all,” Henry said, putting the glass on the table and turning to do battle.

For Giles Tanner the warm evening held no attractions. He had been up since four that morning and he was bone weary. Running the farm was tiring enough at any time, but this summer it was exhausting. The days were too long, there was too much to do. Once the rains had stopped and the corn had dried he had to get it in. And his son down with the flu as well, he couldn't blame him for that, though it couldn't have come at a worse time. A whack of the stick brought the erring cow back to the path, behind the others towards the barn. Here he was doing the milking that Will should have done long since. He had to break off the reaping and do two men's work, and even with the milking machines it was a labor. Then afterwards back to the field and the waiting tractor and the reaping. It was a bastard, it really was a bastard. The stick lashed out again, with no reason this time, and the cow jumped forward with a mournful moo.

Giles looked up before he followed them into the barn. A quiet evening, the sky was clear, there didn't seem to be any rain in it. Thank God for that, at least he could get the corn in. The first star twinkled low on the western horizon. That late already. He grunted and went into the barn, closing the door behind him.

Andrew saw the star and looked at his watch. Time to go. He didn't want to get to the plant early and wait outside the entrance, nor did he want to keep Sir Richard waiting. He drained the last drops of whiskey and sighed happily. Straight malt, the very best. Then he wiped the decanter and put it away. The metal cup went into the glove compartment and, with a single turnover, the engine caught instantly. A wonderful beast, the Rolls. He engaged gear and rolled down the hill towards the plant. It was a dull life but a happy one.

Sir Richard turned off the recorder and threw the unanswered letters back into the basket. They could wait until tomorrow. He yawned and stretched, then pulled up his tie and buttoned his collar. Only after he had slipped his jacket on and had started towards the door did a little needle of doubt pierce him. Did he really have to take his briefcase home every night? Reason tonight anyway. He hadn't looked at the new estimates on their bulk chemical and they came up at the eleven o'clock meeting tomorrow morning.

He grabbed the bag, turned off the light and went to the front entrance. The night watchman, bent over his desk at the night book, stood up when he came by.

“I'll just unlock the door, Sir Richard. Lovely evening, sir.”

“The weather's been good lately, hasn't it? Good-night.”

The car was waiting and Andrew was holding the door open. It was indeed a lovely evening and he stopped a moment to savor it, looking up at the last sunset colors in the sky.

The last booster was alone. Earth was far below, the men who had built it were distant — but the men who wished to control it still had contact. They had been talking to it for hours, their invisible messages picked up by the loops and lattices of the aerials. Fed into the solid state circuits of the computer, the unliving brain of this creature in space. This brain had communicated with the greater computer brain on Earth and had answered questions in exhaustive detail. And finally had received orders. The orders were simple and easy to obey. Small jets of compressed gas had puffed out from their nozzles on the metal flank, had rotated the great mass while it sped along in orbit. Moved and stopped it when the computers and their masters were satisfied.

Now it awaited the final order. The signal that would begin the final operation.

It came. A coded burst of radio waves. Picked up by the aerials, relayed through the communication circuits to the computer that issued its commands. Electric currents moved through wires and relays were thrown, switches clicked over, valves opened. Pumps whirled up to speed and hurled the hydrogen fuel through the orifices into the motors, where it met the oxygen that it needed to burn. Ignition. A spark — and the flame burst out in a tongue of fire hundreds of yards long.

One engine stuttered, of the two that were firing. The flame went off, came on again, stopped a second time, clouds of unburnt particles gushing forth. The other motor roared on for some seconds before the first one started again, firing now with its full-throated flame to match its companion. Pushing evenly together to raise the acceleration, the speed, higher and higher.

But they were not supposed to be firing now. A short burn had been programmed to start the core body in orbit downwards towards the empty Russian steppes where the engines could be fired one last time to slow it and bring it down for a soft landing.

This was not going to happen. The continuous firing brought the rocket into the atmosphere, sooner, faster, the acceleration climbing until the engines stuttered and were silent, out of fuel.

Within seconds the force of the atmosphere struck it and heated it, the molecules of air impacted by the metal rushing downwards at five miles a second. The fittings on its end, the jacks and arms, glowed red, then white, then were torn away in droplets of molten metal. The pressure was uneven and the great rocket wobbled, was buffeted by the thin atmosphere, began to turn.

It had been designed that way, to be stable nose up upon takeoff, stern down for landing. With ponderous ease it turned end for end so that the great plug nozzle of the engines came first. This was made of ablative material and intended to resist the heat of re-entry. But not this speed, not this heat. It glowed, hotter and hotter, then began to break away in burning fragments. Short moments later the entire structure of the rocket began to disintegrate.

Too late. It was going too fast. The incandescent mass of fire and metal punched a hole through the atmosphere, through the clouds.

Towards the Earth, towards the growing, expanding landscape below.

A last look at the evening sky for Sir Richard, a last breath of the evening air. The first stars on the horizon, a star above, almost directly above, a shooting star perhaps.

Not a star, a light, a flame, one moment a point, then a disc, then an unbelievable flame-shedding spear pointed directly at him, dropping to impale him.

For an instant his horrified face was bathed by the red glow, the grounds, the building, all illuminated as by the light of a terrible red dawn.

Then it struck.

Six hundred tons of rocket struck the Earth at five miles a second and turned this frightful speed into energy, heat energy that exploded outward with the force of an atomic bomb. One moment the plant, the towering flats of Cottenham New Town, the Library Gardens, the shops, the pubs, were standing there. The next instant they were not.

Buildings, bricks, bodies, trees, furniture, cars, everything was destroyed in a fraction of a second, vaporized in the heat, torn apart and wiped from existence. Half the town and all the factory went in the first explosion. The rest followed so closely behind that there was no time, no warning. Perhaps some were momentarily aware of the incredible sound of impact and the light that followed; perhaps a few knew that something impossible had happened and had the beginning of a burst of fear that was destroyed before it could be formed.

After the explosion came the shock wave. The air, compressed far beyond its capacity to absorb more energy passed on its tremendous charge an instant later, an expanding canopy of death that radiated in all directions. It passed through a flight of birds a mile away and, unmarked, they all fell dead from the sky.

On the ground it was a rolling barrage of invisible guns that lifted up the ground, the trees and hedges, the plants and animals and buildings and obliterated them, pulverized them as it passed. It ran over the Tanner farm and mixed man, cow, milk, machine into a hideous jumble, exploded the house of Giles' wife and son the same instant.

The dart was never thrown, the game never finished, the holiday plans left unfulfilled. Irene would have to worry no more about her Post Office account. There would certainly be no Blackpool this year.

There would be no life, no future, no existence for twenty thousand nine hundred and thirty-one men, women and children. Where this town and all its bustling life had been there was now only a seared wasteland, a desert of death in England's green countryside, decently concealed for the moment beneath the shroud of dust and smoke that hid the horror below.