gns.theplutopact-第41部分
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chamber。 The range and penetration had gone along with the choke。 All that remained was a scatter…pistol； capable of inflicting a terrible wound if fired at close range。 After a lengthy search； Houston had discovered a cartridge hi the tool…box in the shed。 The paper case was damp and swollen； and he had needed to force it into the breech。 Yet the percussion cap was sound。 It would ignite。 Three…eighths of an ounce of No。 5 shot； destined for Sarah Coyle's head。 Her features would be unrecognisable afterwards。 As for himself； he did not care。 Everybody was under sentence of death； anyway。 There would not be time left for a trial。
His tense fingers closed over the handle of the church door； but it refused to yield。 He used his shoulder； restraining the panic which suddenly engulfed him。 The bastards！
They had locked the door…determined to go through with their memorial service to that useless lout； uninterrupted。
Houston stood back； knowing he could not force an entrance。 A hail of bullets would cut him down if he tried。 Instead he listened。 Above the shouting of the crowd he could hear the Reverend Mortimer's voice inside； a low monotone。 'May the blessing of God Almighty 。 。 。 Holy Ghost 。 。 。 now and always 。 。 。 ' followed by a halfhearted； almost inaudible 'Amen'。
The service was over。 Houston shook his head； and retreated slowly down the gravelled path as far as the dilapidated gates hanging precariously on rusted hinges。 His mac was undone； his right hand gripping the gun inside its spacious folds。 They would have to pass this way。
'They took their time ing out； and the crowd in the street was being even more restless； only the rifles holding them at bay。
Then the door opened slowly。 A gasp of relief from the surging watchers； two hundred or more。 Mortimer first； a black cape over his white cassock。 Jane； unseeing。 Coyle； eyes on the ground。 Sarah 。 。 。 she looked up and saw him。
Recognition and hate； but no fear。 She had no suspicions； looking away in contempt。 That was the moment when Houston's rage erupted。 A red haze before his eyes as he saw her finely moulded； almost aristocratic features。 His hate boiled； then was ice…cold in the same instant。 The home…made pistol was aligned with the striking speed of a card…sharper's derringer。 Three yards separated them。 Ample。 His finger tightened on the trigger。 Nobody would ever look upon that face again！
A shot rang out； crisp and clear。 Somebody screamed； continued to scream。 Jane。 Coyle was ashen…faced； rendered immobile by the suddenness of it all。 The crowd fell silent； staring in stunned horror。
Jane stopped screaming。 There was a faint mechanical sound； scarcely audible； as another shell replaced the spent one in the rifle held by the nearest soldier。 His features revealed a bitterness towards life itself； death meant nothing to him。 It was routine。 A two…year posting in Belfast had made him that way。 It had also taught him to shoot fast； accurately； and instinctively。 You sensed trouble before it began； and it was the first shot that counted； determining who lived and who died。 A wisp of smoke trickled upwards from the barrel of his rifle。 He looked coldly at the body of the man in the raincoat lying less than ten yards away； the gaping bloody hole in the back of the head； the unfired 。410 still clutched in the lifeless fingers。
Then Sarah began to sob。 The crowd burst forward in one human tidal wave； the scene before them a minor diversion as they fought their way into the church。
Chapter 15
Tuesday night。 Winston Dyne was still at his desk。 He ate there； and snatched the odd half hour of troubled sleep slumped across the paper…strewn surface； leaving the room only to answer the most urgent calls of nature。 He was afraid to leave the telephone…even more afraid when it jangled harshly。 But it was the dreams which frightened him most： nightmares that vanished on waking； leaving instead a fear that he could not recall。 Nevertheless； he was left with a feeling that something was dreadfully wrong 。 。 。 something he ought to know。 Then came the headache； throbbing like a distant jungle drum。 As he drew the back of his hand across his forehead； the fingers came away warm and damp。 His vision； too； was affected； as though he was standing across the room watching his own feeble actions。 As though 。 。 。 he no longer had full control of himself！ His head dropped forward； his eyelids heavy…fighting to keep awake in case the dreams came back。
At 8。35 p。m。 he was suddenly aware that he was wide awake again； with a feeling almost of being totally refreshed。 Perhaps he had reached his tiredness peak and surpassed it。 He would not need to rest again for another few hours。
He picked up some reports； and began to browse through them。 Old ones； like newsreels of past events。
This disaster had been forecast a couple of years ago； but not on this scale。 Nobody； not even the most sensation…seeking reporter； had envisaged the whole of Britain's nuclear reprocessing being carried out in one unit。 They warned of the mere possibility of people dying by tens of thousands in an area stretching six miles downwind of any particular reactor。 Mentally Dyne tried to multiply those figures to fit the current threat。 Soon he gave up…mostly because it hurt his conscience…and read on。 For apart from the immediate danger zone there could be a toll of human life for as much as one hundred and twenty miles downwind。 Thousands more would die； mostly from cancer； during the following decades。 One report stated that a radius of sixty miles from the exploded reactor would need to be kept clear of human habitation for a couple of years。 But at that period the true extent of contamination and its lasting effect was unknown。 Nowadays they knew that in fact the radioactivity would last for up to a quarter of a million years。 He shuddered at the ignorance of his predecessors； and continued reading； as though some strange pulsion had him in its hold。 Somebody had even believed that in calm weather there would possibly be no casualties outside the reactor plex。
The report concluded that 'This postulated bination of circumstances； itself very unlikely； bined with the severe and extremely unlikely accident to the reactor； would cause several thousand deaths within a few weeks of the accident'。 Dyne wondered whose the italics were。 Somebody trying to play it down？ He wished he had him here now； sitting at this very desk。 He would have put him on a direct line to Canverdale。 'Convince the rioters； mate。 Restore the country to a normality until Saturday…or else e up with a solution。'
Still more reports…sheets of them。 Mostly about a plan to turn marshland into radioactive dumps。 There were fears that thousands of acres of land surrounding Rainham Marshes in Essex could be rendered sterile as a result。 All that had been solved by making one huge dump here； in this valley！ What had Coyle called it？ 'Holocaust。' The ruddy man hadn't been far wrong。
There was one further note that future contracts were likely to include an option to return high…activity material…once it had undergone the new 'harvest process'； of course…to the country of origin。 That； most certainly； was out of the question now。 He wondered how the recycling was going。 His was the worst job of all； being chained to this desk； helpless。 God； if only they could find some way of speeding up the process： bury it all in that bed of granite； a thousand feet below ground； before danger level was reached。 That would be just one problem solved。 Even then they would still be left with what resembled a giant pyramid filled with radioactivity。 Tyler and his fellow boffins were working on a new process for solidifying it； then it； too； could go down into that granite grave with all the rest。 Untried； of course。 Everything here was untried； experimental。 There had been outcries over reactors throughout the country； so they had picked on one remote valley； and now they had something a million times worse。 This was the Plutonium Society； indeed。
He folded up all the
