He kept away from the hotel dining room and the poolside and the bars for the next couple of days, breakfasting out in the small pavement cafes and returning to the restaurant in the evening. The white-haired woman remained out of sight after that first day, which was a relief. During the day he sat on his balcony reading, or drowsing in the heat, or sunbathing in the late afternoon warmth: quiet hours spent recuperating and building up his strength as ordered by the doctors. Sunlight gave his pale skin a hint of bronze, his hair lightened beyond its normal ash-blond and after the first night he began to sleep for hours, undisturbed by nightmares and the terror that he had forgotten something important. He went for long walks in the cool of early morning before the tourists were awake, sat on his balcony in the evenings and thought about what he was going to do on his return to England.
Although he didn't know why he was bothering sometimes. It just seemed wrong to let himself drift into idleness. He had never been someone to just waste life's opportunities. He needed to get a purpose in life, and for that he needed to be fit.
It was the fourth day before he gave serious thought to the real reason for his trip out here. Herculaneum. It had surprised him just how much he had needed to simply rest, to do nothing except sleep and read and let the hot sun warm his body and ease the ache within. The hotel ran regular escorted trips out to the local attractions, but he refused to even contemplate that option. The train was as convenient as any method, and he headed out early the next morning, picking up a freshly baked pastry for breakfast on his way and licking his fingers of the last sticky crumbs just as he arrived at the station.
It was a short wait until the train arrived, and he spent the time observing the others on the platform. A mixture of young men, harassed older women and the odd tourist, looking somewhat perplexed and loaded up with camera bags and rucksacks. He noticed, at the other end of the platform a familiar looking figure with white hair, and for one moment he had a flash of concern. But, no, there were others from the hotel here on the platform doing the same thing. After all, the train was cheap and reliable, even if it did have its disadvantages.
The white hair caught his eye again as he sat down. The carriage was scruffy and riddled with graffiti. She had obviously got on after him, and was standing further up the carriage, looking for a seat. He lowered his head as she came up and sat next to him, her hands clasped around a large shoulder bag. He could see the tension, the uncertainty in her as she looked around the compartment that was now beginning to fill up. The train moved off, jostling the passengers together like skittles and she lurched against him, shoulders bumping.
"Sorry." She glanced across at him, and straightened up and moved away so that she was perched on the edge of the seat. She had an American accent, not Boston, but he couldn't quite place it. Cultured and educated, though.
"No problem," He gave a quick smile before turning away to look out at the countryside, the rough uncultivated fields, the shabby, poor farms and the poverty everywhere. Ignoring her, putting her presence out of his immediate concern.
A group of buskers arrived, noisy and brash and colourful. He paid no heed – they would not bother him, a man dressed in smart clothes and not an obvious tourist. They worked their way down the compartment, singing, pestering, cajoling, demanding money until they reached the white-haired woman next to him.
He continued to snub them, but the woman was a different matter. He watched the blurred reflection in the dirty glass as they crowded around her, jolting her arm and leaning over her in an attempt to frighten her into giving them money, or even better, loosening her hold on her bag, so that they could snatch it and run. Straker sighed, and turned to face them. "Basta! Vada via!" he growled to them, his tone quiet but with a soft hint of anger. There was a moment's hesitation as they looked at him, as if they were unsure what to do. He sighed again and stood up, leaning over the woman as if to protect her. "Capisce?"
He reached out and with a gentle, almost tender, grip, clasped the hand that was trying to loosen the woman's hold on her bag, and squeezed, his fingers tightening as he stared. The busker paled and tried to pull away.
Straker gave one more sharp squeeze, felt something in the youth's hand give way, and then let go, pushing the sweating youth away and back into the aisle. The group hurried off, chastened and he sat down again.
"Thank you." She was pale and shaking. "I didn't know what to do. I thought they wanted my bag."
"They probably did." He turned to her. "You'd have been safer on one of the hotel tours." He turned back to the window, trying to ignore her.
"I thought you were a tourist, as well. Haven't I seen you at the hotel?" She was persistent, he had to admit. It was no use. He would have to answer her, if only to shut her up.
"Yes, I'm staying there as well." He turned away again, hoping that she would take his abruptness as an indication that he didn't want to talk. No chance.
"Are you going to Herculaneum?"
God, she was worse than Fitzpatrick with his constant questions, constant prying. Any minute now, she'd be asking his name. He nodded, still looking out of the window at the dirty, unkempt countryside and she took the hint. The rest of the journey was silent. He avoided her as they alighted from the train at their destination, and once he saw that she was in front, and he could steer clear of her if necessary, he headed down the hill towards the site of the ruins.
Herculaneum was, like many of the small impoverished towns, grubby, smelly, and noisy. The noise of chaotic traffic, horns, and shouts from street sellers. But once inside the relative calm of the historic site, the clamour faded into the background, and he was able to forget the world outside and concentrate on the buildings.
Free from the constraints of the tours that wove in and out of the buildings, he roamed the quieter, less popular areas. He only ventured to the ruins of what once was the shoreline after the morning tour guides, with their flags and following caterpillars of hot, sweaty holiday makers, had left. There was an ominous feel to the small cramped caves where the inhabitants had gathered in a vain attempt to save themselves from the boiling clouds of gas and ash.
He sat and contemplated those last moments. The suffocating heat, people huddled together, trying to protect themselves from what was certain agonising death. He shuddered with the thought of what they must have suffered. Gasping for breath as poisonous gases filled the caverns, the heat, the sudden rush of the pyroclastic flow. It was no way for innocent people to die. Not like that. Choking on the last scraps of air and then lying there, forgotten, unmourned. He shook his head to dismiss the dark thoughts and realised that it was later than he had reckoned and he was getting thirsty.
The small inn in the middle of the ruins catered for tourists, but was quiet in the mid-afternoon heat. The later crowds of tour groups were still slavishly following their guides, not being able to stop and look, or reflect on the last moments of the people who had once lived and died here.
He purchased a bottle of chilled water and some fresh fruit. The peach, soft and juicy, and larger than he had seen for quite some time, the orange, firm under his fingers as he rolled it to loosen the skin. He pulled out his small penknife and began to peel the delicate suede-like skin off the peach, before slicing it neatly and enjoying the intense flavour as he bit into bright flesh.
The world moved around him as he sat there in the shade of the canopy that overhung the outside tables, watching people wander around the dry, dusty ruins. He felt relaxed and at ease, and for the first time in quite a few weeks, he realised with no small measure of surprise, that he was enjoying himself. Then a darker shadow fell over the table, and he looked up and sighed with weary recognition.
"Do you mind if I join you for a few minutes? I don't feel very comfortable here by myself."
"Please, sit down. May I get you a drink?" His ingrained politeness came to the rescue. He really didn't want to be bothered, but she looked flustered and hot and worried, and he felt more than a little sympathy for her, alone here in a strange country where solitary middle-aged women were sometimes seen as fair game. He ordered chilled water and fruit for her, and they sat in silence while she seemed to calm a little and regain her confidence. She carried her heavy shoulder bag clutched close by her side, as if it contained her entire life. He grinned to himself. He had his wallet in his pocket and his small penknife. That was about it. No camera. No phone. It was not as if he needed a phone anyway. There was no-one he had to contact, and no-one who would want to contact him anyway now.
It made a pleasant change to travel light. No high level Security clearance either, no authorisation documents, but also, regretfully, no weapon. That was about the only thing he he could take care of himself. He would have to, in the future.
She finished her drink and leaned back, her breathing easier and slower. "Thank you for that. It was very kind of you. I get the distinct feeling that you don't want to be bothered by other people, so I am particularly grateful that you helped me."
He thought for a moment. "I'm recovering from a breakdown." There. He said it. He'd finally admitted it. It might be enough to dissuade her from following him anymore.
"I'm sorry." There was genuine regret and concern in her quiet voice. "And here I am pestering you. I would imagine I'm the last thing you need right now, a helpless single female asking for protection. Although you seem perfectly able to look after yourself, and anyone else, I might add." She tilted her head to one side carefully examining him. "Was it a mental breakdown?"
The blunt question shocked him. He nearly stood up and walked away, but the gentle look of sympathy and understanding in her eyes made him stop. "No. Overwork, mostly. I ended up in hospital for a couple of weeks, but I'm okay now. Just get tired easily."
It was hard to guess her age with any degree of accuracy, but she was older than he was, maybe even old enough to be his mother at a pinch and that somehow made it easy to talk to her. Easier than he had imagined it would be, especially as she was a stranger. Someone with no preconceptions and no ideas of his previous life. He hadn't spoken to anyone else about it. There hadn't been anyone else to discuss it with anyway, not after he was moved out of the SHADO unit at Mayland.
Oh, the doctors at the private clinic had wanted him to talk about what had happened, but what could he tell them? Yes, I've been working all the hours God sent, protecting the world from alien invasion? They'd have sent him somewhere far more secure – in a straightjacket no doubt – and there had been no-one at home to talk to for many years now. Alec had always been there until recently, but not any longer. He wondered how he was coping, how FarSight was progressing, then put the thought to the back of his mind. Out of the way. Where it could not hurt him any more.
"Must be some high powered job you have. I trust you are going to take it easy when you go back." She was relaxed and comfortable now, chatting as if she had known him for years.
"I…" and he paused, unsure what to say. To admit he was now unemployed? Admit he didn't have any idea what he would do when he returned to England? "I'll be taking it very easy; no more late nights at the office or early meetings. I intend spending more time on my interests than I have managed to do in the past." Well, it wasn't a lie – bending the truth, yes, but not a real lie.
"Interests? Don't tell me – watercolours? No, I don't think you're the sort to do that. I would guess that your interests lie more in growing orchids or perhaps writing poetry." She glinted at him, her eyes amused but also inquisitive, her mouth twisted in a wry grin.
He laughed at the expression on her face. "Nothing so glamorous, I'm afraid. I play the piano, although I've got rusty in the last few months, and I enjoy astronomy. Looking at the stars and planets. Watching the moon, that sort of thing." His eyes had a far-away look as he recalled his trips to Moonbase.
Never again to go out past Earth's atmosphere and feel that wonder as zero-gravity hit you. It had never failed to delight him. And the sight of the Earth growing larger and larger as one approached it on the home journey. Never again. He shook his head in desperate regret, and then smiled at her and stood up. "Well, it's been good meeting you, but I want to be heading back now. I might see you in the hotel later." It seemed very rude to walk away, but he was genuinely getting tired, and the thought of her chatting to him any longer and dredging up the memories of his past was too much to cope with.
He walked up the hill to the station, waiting with quiet patience for the train. She didn't follow him. But later that evening, after his solitary meal at the same small restaurant, when he returned to the hotel he went down to the bar for the first time and got a fresh lemonade and took it outside to sit on the wide patio overlooking the bay. She was there, sitting under the lemon trees. He could see the pale reflection of her hair, a soft pink glow now in the reddening sunlight as dusk approached. She seemed to be writing in a book, her whole attention devoted to her task and he watched her for a while, intrigued, before he finished his drink and went upstairs to read his book on the balcony in the cool of the evening.
He would return to Herculaneum later in the week. When he was sure she would not follow him.
The excursion had tired him more than he had thought. He woke late in the morning after a restless night dreaming of caves and suffocating heat. He turned on the shower before he realised from the clatter of trolleys outside in the corridor that he would be disturbed by the staff servicing the rooms. He padded across to open the door and tell them that he didn't want the room making up, and it was while he was chatting companionably to the matronly chambermaid that the woman with the snow-white hair walked past and looked at him, one eyebrow raised.
He closed the door and showered thoughtfully. Today he would sit on the balcony and read. And find somewhere else to eat in the evening. A trattoria, perhaps. He would keep himself to himself and avoid any further contact with inquisitive strangers, however friendly and companionable they might appear.
But somehow he seemed unable to concentrate on his book. It was as if he was waiting for a flash of white among the poolside sunbathers. His eyes kept straying from Mark Herdwick's scholarly account with its well-researched details, to sweep over the railings and down to the sparkling water of the pool. Her kindness had touched him more than he had thought, and it had been a long time since anyone had shown any concern for him.
He would go back to Herculaneum the following morning. To eat peaches and oranges in the inn, to sit once again on the pavement at the shoreline that was, imagining how it must have looked all those years ago, before the pyroclastic flow, before death came in a thunderous tornado of boiling ash. To practise his schoolboy Latin on some of the old inscriptions and maybe dispel the nightmares that had haunted him. Those visions of death that had filled his mind and his dreams. And then he would come back to the hotel, pack his bags, and go home the following day. To England. To face whatever future he had.
It was as if he had rewound the earlier visit. He got on the train, she got on after him, saw him and came and sat next to him without a word, but nodding an acknowledgement. The same landscape, rough farmland, the same disturbance and feel of unease that permeated the carriage as the buskers entered. Straker stared at them and they slunk away, leaving him vindicated and the woman smiling.
They got off together at Herculaneum and walked in companionable silence down to the site and through the arched entrance. She still carried the large shoulder bag, and he wondered at that, having never seen her use a camera, or take a purse out of the deep, canvas pocket. They parted company once inside the main entrance as if by prior arrangement. But she thanked him and gave him a small, hesitant wave and he watched her walk away towards the arena, an elegant woman, slender, of that indefinable age where women, unless they were wealthy or famous became almost invisible, unimportant in the greater scheme of things. Supplanted by younger, more eye-catching females. But there was something about her that he could not quite place. As if she was playing a part here, not really interested in the history of the area, of seeing how these long dead citizens lived and died. He shook his head at his own foolish thoughts and walked away.
Later that morning, sitting in sunlight, tracing with his fingers some worn-thin stone carved lettering, he looked up to see her sitting across the pathway, sketching with quick confident strokes of a pencil. "Don't move. Please. Just a few more minutes, that's all I need. Do you mind?" she pleaded, her pencil moving across the page in rapid deft strokes. He waited, beads of sweat forming on his brow in the fierce heat.
"There. Done. No. You can't see." She closed the book and thrust it into her bag before he had a chance to see what she had drawn. She smiled up at him. "I might show you, one day." She slipped the book into her bag and fastened it and then it seemed quite natural for them to walk together around the ruins.
By early afternoon, they were both hot and tired and headed for the inn after the lunch-time crowds of tourists had finally gone. The waiters, jaded and weary after the hectic influx of loud sightseers, were lurking in the cool of the interior, reluctant to come out into the glare of the sun.
"Water? Juice? Or would you prefer something stronger?" Straker asked.
"Oh, water is fine, but I'd love some fruit, please, if you don't mind." They sat and discussed the buildings and the history and the lives of the long-dead inhabitants, drinking cold water, eating peaches and oranges, and watching other tourists.
It was late in the afternoon when they left the site and strolled up the hill. There was a small stall selling chilled bottles of water, and he bought a couple, knowing that she was probably as tired and thirsty as he was himself.
"Thank you. I've enjoyed today, but I've just realised I don't know your name." And she looked at him, a little shocked by her continued ignorance.
"Edward, but just Ed will do." He didn't know why he said that.
And she looked at him for a moment, slightly askance, but then she held out her hand. "Nice to meet you, Ed. I'm Helen. Just Helen will do." The name suited her, elegant and timeless. "Now we've been introduced, perhaps you'd have dinner with me tonight? I don't like eating alone." And her eyes seemed to smile as she stared at him.
***
The latest team of construction workers aroused Alec Freeman's curiosity. None of the previous teams employed to help build the FarSight base seemed to any idea of what they were helping to build. On paper it was described as an internationally funded centre, set up to develop a telescope system here on the far side of the moon, with the additional prospect of mining for Helium-3. With the imminent decommissioning of Webb 2 there was a need for an updated deep space telescope, and where better to site it than on the far side of the moon, looking out to space beyond the Earth? It was a plan that had been discussed for a while and only now did it look like coming to fruition.
Every construction group so far had been chosen to work on designated areas of the site: electronics experts, habitat and environmental experts, experienced construction men. All the groups had come, had gone through rigid safety procedures, and been allocated specific tasks, handed precise details of what needed to be done and how. Every task broken down into precise steps with outcomes and targets and completion dates.
But this latest group concerned Alec Freeman. There were none of the usual questions, none of the camaraderie that Alec Freeman had come to expect from a group of tough construction men, albeit experienced Lunar workers. These men were quiet, reticent to the point of being mute and they knew what they were doing without even being told. They rarely looked at the blueprints or the schedule of work. They simply started work with quick efficiency as if they had been trained in their tasks for months. Not that should have been much to do – the base was close to being finished: electronics up and running, all life support systems tested, sufficient supplies in hand for the first few months.
But the plans had changed again. He'd been kept informed of all the minor changes over the last months – little things, like the position of conduits and signs, specifications for the accommodation units, the lounge areas and so on – but this was different. These changes involved alterations to the air-recycling set-up and the water purification system, including the complete rebuilding of parts of the internal structure of the accommodation block so that each unit was self-contained and could be locked from outside.
When he questioned the changes he was told it was in case of emergency, or decompression, latest safety protocols. And whenever he tried contacting Straker, he was unable to get through to Earth. The satellite link, tenuous at best, was down. Each and every time. It worked fine for everyone else, transmissions were being sent on a regular basis, but contact with SHADO was impossible. There was nothing he could do except try to keep track of what was happening and report back to Ed as soon as possible. And there was only one way to do that.
Back inside his tiny room Freeman reached into the back of a drawer and pulled out the personal notebook kept hidden from prying eyes. He thought about the new cohort of workers and the things that worried him, then picked up his pen and started to write. He current entry was detailed and took a long time, but as he always said, "If it's not written down, it didn't happen." So there it was, everything recorded in black and white; his thoughts and concerns. Though what good it would do was anyone's guess.
That night he dreamed of aliens landing on Earth, thousands of them, marching through the streets of London and New York and Moscow, while above the buildings, UFO's fired on SHADO aircraft and interceptors and the skies were dark with smoke. He woke with a shudder and lay there, sweat-soaked and shivering with fear until it was time to get up again. A quick shower did little to ease his sense of dread and he dressed in the obligatory overalls, hating the feel of the material and the way it clung to his skin. It was a necessary evil though – in the event of an incident the overalls were fire and flame retardant as well as protecting against electrical discharges. He fastened the tabs and headed out for his solitary breakfast.
One of the construction workers, queuing for breakfast, called over to him "Freeman? Call for you. Take it in the comms room. Sounded urgent so you'd best hurry."
He forgot about coffee and instead made his way to the comms area, trying not to run. A couple of workers were inside, fiddling with dials; even after two weeks of working together, they still treated him as an outsider. "There's a call for me. Freeman."
"Hold on." The comms unit crackled. "It's a recording. Got it a few minutes ago." One of them flicked a switch. "Ready?"
'Freeman, this is General Peter Fitzpatrick, calling from SHADO HQ. You are recalled to base as a matter of urgency. The shuttle leaves FarSight for Earth at zero seven hours. Be on board. Any refusal or delay will result in your immediate dismissal. Leave your things where they are – all being well you should be back in the base by tomorrow.' The message ended with a click.
He stood up, unsure what to do next, where to go. "I don't…"
"You'd better hurry, hadn't you? You've got about three minutes. Pilot's waiting to go as soon as you get there, engines warmed up, everything ready."
No time to pack his belongings, even less to get back to his tiny compartment. He would just have to hope no one decided to take a closer look.
It was not until two hours later, when the Shuttle exited the communications blackspot on the far side and he could get a satellite link on his mobile, that Keith Ford informed him that Ed Straker was no longer the SHADO Commander and the covert organisation was now under the control of General Peter Anthony Fitzpatrick.
"For God's sake, Keith, what happened? Where's Straker now?"
"I don't have that information, Colonel. Perhaps you should go home first before coming to the Studio. I'm sure you want to check up on things there?"
Freeman's mind was still razor-sharp, despite months spent away from SHADO. "Good idea, Keith. Please tell the General I'll be in as soon I've showered and changed clothes."
Keith was waiting for him outside Freeman's flat when he arrived four hours later. "It's bad, Colonel. Straker was forced to resign on medical grounds, and Fitzpatrick stepped in and took over. He's being ratified as SHADO Commander today, and rumour is he has a hidden agenda"
"Where's Straker now?' Alec was appalled to hear the news. Ed would never resign, never leave SHADO. It was his life, his whole reason for existence.
"We don't know. No-one's seen him since he was moved from Mayland after a couple of days and I've no idea who organised that or where he went. I know he's been home, but he's not there now. I could find out, but if he wanted anyone to know where he was he'd have informed them and I don't have the right to access his personal details. It's not good, Colonel." Ford would not say more.
"Why the hell did no-one tell me?" Alec was tight-lipped with anger.
"We were prohibited from having any contact with FarSight, Colonel. Fitzpatrick himself set up the satellite links and he had control over all communications to and from FarSight during the last four months. Even Commander Straker couldn't get through to you, despite all attempts. If you'd been here, he probably wouldn't have fallen ill; it was overwork more than anything. Fitzpatrick simply would not leave him alone." Keith Ford detailed the events of the last few weeks to his senior officer before hurrying back to the underground headquarters.
***
"Freeman." A subdued voice, no humour or hint of pleasure at being back on Earth. It seemed to take longer than usual for the room to descend, but he put that down to his anxiety rather than a flaw in the machinery. The room came to a halt, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if remembering other times he had been here, then straightened his shoulders and made his way through into the Control area.
All was quiet. It was ironic. He'd read through the brief reports Keith Ford had brought with him when they met, none of which made any sense. Within hours of Straker's collapse, the UFOs had stopped their constant assaults and since then – nothing: no attacks, no threats, not a sign of anything coming Earth's way from the outer reaches of the galaxy.
And as for Straker? Freeman had called at Ed's house on the way to HQ hoping against hope he might be at home, but there had been no signs of life and no reply when he tried Ed's personal phone. The house was empty. There was little he could do now except hope his friend was safe and well, and worry about what was going to happen next.
