gns.theplutopact-第26部分
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d hear the large teeth crunching on frail bones。
With an exclamation of disgust he hurried into the town…hall； and hurried up the stairs which led to his private office。 Those two letters had to be typed at any cost。
At 8。45 a。m。 he managed to contact the refuse department and spoke to a junior clerk； giving orders for the dead pigeons to be removed as soon as possible。 After that he stood in the window of his office over the Square； observing the reactions of people passing on their way to work。 Horror； disgust； bewilderment。 An overall fear that went deeper than the scene of feathered death all around them； Many of them were still nervous because of that silly article Coyle had written in the Herald。 Damn him。
By 10。30 he was growing angry。 There was still no sign of the refuse cart。 That bloody Coyle would be printing yet another piece in the Herald about local government inefficiency。 McLellan was on the point of picking up the telephone； to give the refuse department a bollocking； when he saw two large yellow vans enter the Square； and halt in the midst of the carnage。 But they were not council vehicles！ McLellan's curiosity was aroused。 What was going on？
Four men climbed down from the rear of each vehicle…all clad in white protective clothing made from some stiff material； their faces hidden behind visors in the square…shaped headpieces。 Knee…length boots of the same substance caused them to move jerkily and unnaturally； as if in an early silent film。 Elbow…length gloves also hampered their movements； and soon they were operating huge pairs of tongs to pick up the dead pigeons and deposit them in rows of polythene sacks。
Throughout the whole operation； inquisitive bystanders were brusquely ordered away； but a small crowd gathered at the far end of the Square。 The men worked diligently； ignoring them。
'Like bloody astronauts；' McLellan muttered to himself； but he was too intrigued by the bizarre proceedings to make enquiries at this stage。 Perhaps the refuse department had invested in new equipment。 If so； he had not been informed。 He would oppose the matter at the next meeting。 Such luxuries could not be tolerated during these times of drastic cuts in public expenditure。
The full sacks were stowed in the vans； and a series of aluminium collapsible ladders were produced。 The ascent to the parapets and gutterings looked exceedingly dangerous。 McLellan was forced to look away； he had always suffered from vertigo。 The remaining pigeons； lodged on the buildings； were also collected and stowed away in the vans。
Next came the brooms： long handles； wide heads； pliable steel bristles。 All six men swept the feathers； working downwind； driving them into a corner where two walls met。 They seemed determined to gather every single one。
By midday the job was nearing pletion； and the groups of bystanders had drifted away。 Road…sweeping was hardly the most exciting of spectator sports。 Except； seemingly； for McLellan。
For nearly two hours he had remained in that window； watching as though hypnotised。 Now the vans were loaded…sacks of dead pigeons and feathers； ladders and brooms all stowed away。 The drivers were back behind their wheels； engines ticking over。
Two of the strangely clad men walked slowly； purposefully； towards that alleyway opposite。 This time McLellan was wearing his bifocals and could see everything plainly。
They stooped and lifted something of considerable weight； then began to lug it towards the nearer van。
A shiver ran down McLellan's spine and he moistened his dry lips as the men below him slung their load into the vehicle。 Even in death its form was only too recognisable…the Alsatian dog！
The vans drove slowly away； and only then did McLellan move from the window。 It was ten minutes to one； by his wristwatch。 He picked up the telephone； and dialled the number of the refuse department。 No reply。 After a couple of minutes he slammed the receiver down angrily。 The fact that they were clearly taking an extended lunch…hour would not go unnoticed。
He rang again at 2。15； but the line was engaged…permanently； it seemed。 He tried a variety of other departments…Highways； Transport and Vehicles…but none could assist him in his enquiries。
At four o'clock the refuse department's line was still engaged。
McLellan experienced a peculiar sense of foreboding。
Coyle and Kent approached the checkpoint at 1。50 p。m。 in the latter's Mercedes。 The same stolid sentry emerged from his box。 From the passenger seat； Coyle could see the face of the man in the upper box； peering down at them through the small aperture。
This time the entry was much easier； almost as though they were wele。 Coyle was sure they weren't； but there was no delay in the raising of the barriers once their passes had been scrutinised。 Kent noticed three cars following them。 The Press was certainly here in force。
Beyond the second checkpoint； Coyle noticed an array of cars parked outside the administrative offices； and counted them。 There were twenty…four； including two Rolls…Royces； three Mercedes； four Jags。 Maybe the Secretary of State for Energy had not yet left。 Possibly the crisis meeting was still in progress。 In that case the press conference would be late starting。 What the hell。
'I want to know what all that business in the Square was about this morning；' he said to Kent。
'That's just one of a hell of a lot of questions I want to ask；' the other replied。 'Dead pigeons； dead whores； dead vagrants； details of your lad's death in Brum officially withheld 。 。 。 and it's all going to e out this afternoon！ No half…truths。 The whole story。 Remember one thing； pal； it's these boffins who are doing the sweating。 The advantage is ours。 We've got the easy part。 We've only got to ask the questions。 They've got to answer them。'
After parking the Mercedes； they made their way to the main entrance。 The same guard was on duty； and Coyle wondered idly what shifts they worked。 'Holocaust' had a kind of permanency about it； and a dedication shown by its servants。
Again Coyle was struck by the number of intersecting corridors； the closed doors on either side； the ceaseless murmur of voices； the distant hum of machinery。 This time they took a different route…or at least he thought so。 It was difficult to be certain。 The Atomic Energy Authority's armed private policeman marched stoically ahead of them。 Indeed； they had to increase their pace to keep up with him。
Reaching an unmarked door on their right； they were ushered inside。 A large room with no windows； lit solely by fluorescent strips。 It was crowded： some twenty men of varying ages occupied the available seats。 Others stood。
'Hi there； Kent。 Wondered when you'd be turning up。'
Kent nodded to several； but there was no hint of friendship； even towards those whom he had known for years。 They were the Fleet Street army； with some provincial journalists and reporters； too。 Ruthless newshounds with one single quest in mind。 Later all the lines to London would be jammed。
Coyle felt strangely insignificant； a sensation akin to that of a student at a senior debate。 It annoyed him。 Damn it； he'd started all this。 Without his initial perseverance none of them would be crowded into this waiting…room now。
Nobody was smoking。 Even the might of the Press had conceded to the rules。 Kent toyed with his pipe in his pocket； but left it there。 He only ever contested major issues。
'Seems like this crisis meeting is continuing longer than they anticipated；' Kent said to Coyle。 It was already 2。25。
Other reporters fidgeted。 Only Kent appeared to be entirely at ease。 He had played the waiting game too often through his career。 Some of the others were already making anticipatory notes on their pads。 Kent smiled softly to himself。 Impetuosity。 But there would be no jumping to conclusions on his part。 He would make very few notes； anyway。 Yet his story would be the first and the best to hit the country。 No sensationalism…just
