Whitehall.
"It would appear, sir," said one of the handful of men scattered around the table in Under-secretary Ingram's office, "that we've lost him. We haven't the details yet, but someone got to Wells before we did."
"Mm." The Under-secretary leaned back from the table, dropping his head in a slight nod.
"What d'you want us to do about it, sir?"
"Hm?" Ingram looked up, eyes going- as they'd done ever since the meeting started- to the empty chair where Drayson used to sit. "How do you mean?"
"He's left a trail, sir. He's not trying to hide it. We can still track him down."
"I don't think," said Ingram slowly, "that that will be necessary."
The other men (younger, grimmer, more used to shadows and darkened rooms than he) said nothing. Their expressions said it all for them. Ingram sighed.
"My predecessor-" His eyes flicked to Drayson's chair again. "-had his policies regarding the remnants of the Special Weapons programme, and I am well aware of all of them. I've been aware for some time, and I have to say, I don't like them one bit. However." He raised a hand, forestalling the grim men's questions. "I will concede that yes, there are threats beyond the common run for which this country is simply not prepared. Gruinard is gone, gentlemen, and we cannot return. Not to the island, and not to its legacy. Do it again, and we will fail."
"What, then?" said the most senior of the others at his table. "Where do we go from here?"
Ingram smiled, though his heart was heavy. It came of learning things- many things- beyond merely what had arrived in his office that day. . . God, it seemed so long ago. But then, he'd been introduced to the sort of things that made everything ordinary seem long ago and far away.
"England goes forward," he said. "The topics are worthy of study. The methods of Gruinard are not. For this, we will need men who know what they are doing- insofar as any of them can know, of course; it's not as if we can exactly brief them in full when our libraries've been decimated, now, is it." A mutter of agreement ran up and down the table. "But we will do this properly, even though we do it in secret, and we will not fail."
"Speaking of men who know what they're doing," said one of the others, "are you sure we can't tap Wells? Of all the men out there-"
"No," said Ingram. "Not just yet. I've spoken to him myself, and I think to call on him now would only backfire. The time will come when his country needs him, and then he will be willing to answer. Not just yet- but it will come."
The other man nodded, but the most senior spoke up again, this time with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "What about the other survivor?" he said. "Private Cooper?"
"Ah, him?" Ingram smiled again, and this time it was for real. "Him, we need now."
"Mm." The Under-secretary leaned back from the table, dropping his head in a slight nod.
"What d'you want us to do about it, sir?"
"Hm?" Ingram looked up, eyes going- as they'd done ever since the meeting started- to the empty chair where Drayson used to sit. "How do you mean?"
"He's left a trail, sir. He's not trying to hide it. We can still track him down."
"I don't think," said Ingram slowly, "that that will be necessary."
The other men (younger, grimmer, more used to shadows and darkened rooms than he) said nothing. Their expressions said it all for them. Ingram sighed.
"My predecessor-" His eyes flicked to Drayson's chair again. "-had his policies regarding the remnants of the Special Weapons programme, and I am well aware of all of them. I've been aware for some time, and I have to say, I don't like them one bit. However." He raised a hand, forestalling the grim men's questions. "I will concede that yes, there are threats beyond the common run for which this country is simply not prepared. Gruinard is gone, gentlemen, and we cannot return. Not to the island, and not to its legacy. Do it again, and we will fail."
"What, then?" said the most senior of the others at his table. "Where do we go from here?"
Ingram smiled, though his heart was heavy. It came of learning things- many things- beyond merely what had arrived in his office that day. . . God, it seemed so long ago. But then, he'd been introduced to the sort of things that made everything ordinary seem long ago and far away.
"England goes forward," he said. "The topics are worthy of study. The methods of Gruinard are not. For this, we will need men who know what they are doing- insofar as any of them can know, of course; it's not as if we can exactly brief them in full when our libraries've been decimated, now, is it." A mutter of agreement ran up and down the table. "But we will do this properly, even though we do it in secret, and we will not fail."
"Speaking of men who know what they're doing," said one of the others, "are you sure we can't tap Wells? Of all the men out there-"
"No," said Ingram. "Not just yet. I've spoken to him myself, and I think to call on him now would only backfire. The time will come when his country needs him, and then he will be willing to answer. Not just yet- but it will come."
The other man nodded, but the most senior spoke up again, this time with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "What about the other survivor?" he said. "Private Cooper?"
"Ah, him?" Ingram smiled again, and this time it was for real. "Him, we need now."