Space Minister?” M’Kay was a short, bald man with a massive red moustache.
He looked at Carlsen from under raised eyebrows. “I recognise you. You’re the chap who started all the trouble, aren’t you?” When Carlsen smiled embarrassedly, M’Kay clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out.” Carlsen wished he shared his conviction.
Inside, a middle-aged but attractive secretary said: “The Prime Minister won’t keep you a moment. He’s on the telephone.”
“No, I’m not. Bring them up.” The bulky figure of Everard Jamieson appeared at the top of the stairs. “We’ll use the Cabinet Room.”
Jamieson was even taller than Carlsen. A journalist had once said he had the face of Abraham Lincoln, the voice of Winston Churchill, and the cunning of Lloyd George. When he shook hands, his grip was so powerful that it made Carlsen wince.
“Good of you to come, gentlemen. Please sit down.” He placed a hand on Fallada’s shoulder. “And unless I’m mistaken, you are the ingenious Dr Fallada, the man they call the Sherlock Holmes of pathology?” Fallada nodded without smiling, but the compliment obviously pleased him.
There was a tray with whisky and glasses in the centre of the Cabinet table. Without waiting to be asked, M’Kay helped himself.
Jamieson sat down at the head of the table. He lowered his head, frowning at the tabletop as if in deep meditation. There was an involuntary silence, broken only by the hiss of the soda syphon. A moment later, the secretary came in and placed a sheet of paper in front of each of them. Carlsen studied it closely, decided it was upside down, and turned it round. It appeared to be a map, and the outline was vaguely familiar. But the writing was in a script he had never seen.
“No sign of Bukovsky?” As Jamieson spoke, the door opened, and Bukovsky came in, followed by a fat man in rimless glasses. “Ah, there you are, Bukovsky. And that, unless I am mistaken, is Professor Schliermacher? How kind of you to come, Professor.”
Schliermacher blushed, made a rumbling noise in his throat, then said nervously: “It’s an honour, Prime Minister.”
Bukovsky sat down and began to clean his glasses. He saw the map. “Ah, you’ve got this already?”
“I had it sent from moonbase. Would you hand Dr Schliermacher a copy? Thank you.” He looked round the table and coughed to attract M’Kay’s attention; the Space Minister was mopping his brown with a handkerchief and staring out of the window. “Now, gentlemen, I think we’re all here. We can begin.” He turned to Carlsen. “So let me start with you, Commander. Do you know what that is?” He tapped the sheet of paper in front of him.
Carlsen said: “Is it a map of Greece?”
Jamieson turned to Schliermacher. “Well, is it, Professor?”
Schliermacher looked puzzled. “Yes, of course.”
“Do you know where it came from?” He was speaking to Carlsen again. Carlsen shook his head. Jamieson surveyed the faces around the table, looking for someone to answer the question. He reminded Carlsen of a headmaster with a class of sixth formers. When the silence became uncomfortable, Jamieson said: “It came from the control room of the Stranger .”
There were exclamations of astonishment; Jamieson smiled around at them, evidently pleased at the effect he had created. “The details are poor, of course. The original should tell us a great deal more.”
Rawlinson said: “That’s simply incredible.”
“But nevertheless true, as Dr Bukovsky will confirm.”
Bukovsky nodded, without looking up from the map. Schliermacher had produced a magnifying glass from his pocket and was studying the map intently. Jamieson said: “You realise what this means, of course?”
Rawlinson said: “That they know the earth pretty well.”
Jamieson’s face showed a flicker of irritation at being anticipated. He slapped the table. “Precisely, gentlemen. It means that these creatures have almost
He looked at Carlsen from under raised eyebrows. “I recognise you. You’re the chap who started all the trouble, aren’t you?” When Carlsen smiled embarrassedly, M’Kay clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out.” Carlsen wished he shared his conviction.
Inside, a middle-aged but attractive secretary said: “The Prime Minister won’t keep you a moment. He’s on the telephone.”
“No, I’m not. Bring them up.” The bulky figure of Everard Jamieson appeared at the top of the stairs. “We’ll use the Cabinet Room.”
Jamieson was even taller than Carlsen. A journalist had once said he had the face of Abraham Lincoln, the voice of Winston Churchill, and the cunning of Lloyd George. When he shook hands, his grip was so powerful that it made Carlsen wince.
“Good of you to come, gentlemen. Please sit down.” He placed a hand on Fallada’s shoulder. “And unless I’m mistaken, you are the ingenious Dr Fallada, the man they call the Sherlock Holmes of pathology?” Fallada nodded without smiling, but the compliment obviously pleased him.
There was a tray with whisky and glasses in the centre of the Cabinet table. Without waiting to be asked, M’Kay helped himself.
Jamieson sat down at the head of the table. He lowered his head, frowning at the tabletop as if in deep meditation. There was an involuntary silence, broken only by the hiss of the soda syphon. A moment later, the secretary came in and placed a sheet of paper in front of each of them. Carlsen studied it closely, decided it was upside down, and turned it round. It appeared to be a map, and the outline was vaguely familiar. But the writing was in a script he had never seen.
“No sign of Bukovsky?” As Jamieson spoke, the door opened, and Bukovsky came in, followed by a fat man in rimless glasses. “Ah, there you are, Bukovsky. And that, unless I am mistaken, is Professor Schliermacher? How kind of you to come, Professor.”
Schliermacher blushed, made a rumbling noise in his throat, then said nervously: “It’s an honour, Prime Minister.”
Bukovsky sat down and began to clean his glasses. He saw the map. “Ah, you’ve got this already?”
“I had it sent from moonbase. Would you hand Dr Schliermacher a copy? Thank you.” He looked round the table and coughed to attract M’Kay’s attention; the Space Minister was mopping his brown with a handkerchief and staring out of the window. “Now, gentlemen, I think we’re all here. We can begin.” He turned to Carlsen. “So let me start with you, Commander. Do you know what that is?” He tapped the sheet of paper in front of him.
Carlsen said: “Is it a map of Greece?”
Jamieson turned to Schliermacher. “Well, is it, Professor?”
Schliermacher looked puzzled. “Yes, of course.”
“Do you know where it came from?” He was speaking to Carlsen again. Carlsen shook his head. Jamieson surveyed the faces around the table, looking for someone to answer the question. He reminded Carlsen of a headmaster with a class of sixth formers. When the silence became uncomfortable, Jamieson said: “It came from the control room of the Stranger .”
There were exclamations of astonishment; Jamieson smiled around at them, evidently pleased at the effect he had created. “The details are poor, of course. The original should tell us a great deal more.”
Rawlinson said: “That’s simply incredible.”
“But nevertheless true, as Dr Bukovsky will confirm.”
Bukovsky nodded, without looking up from the map. Schliermacher had produced a magnifying glass from his pocket and was studying the map intently. Jamieson said: “You realise what this means, of course?”
Rawlinson said: “That they know the earth pretty well.”
Jamieson’s face showed a flicker of irritation at being anticipated. He slapped the table. “Precisely, gentlemen. It means that these creatures have almost
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