Free Atlantic Fury by Hammond; Innes Page B

the biscuit tin.
    â€˜You made him look much younger.’
    â€˜I was just passing the time.’
    He gave me a sharp, inquiring look, nodded and went back to the desk. It was a warning. I’d have to be careful. And if Lane came north …
    Cliff Morgan was at the barograph now. He went back to his work at the desk and, watching him again, I was conscious of a tenseness. It showed in the way he paused every now and then to stare out of the window, the quick glances at the wind speed indicator. And then the phone rang. ‘All right, Mike – as soon as I’m relieved.’ He slammed the receiver down. ‘Can I give Colonel Standing a weather briefing? No interest in this office so long as the sun’s shining, but now it’s wet and blowing half a gale …’ He shrugged. ‘Have you met Colonel Standing?’ And when I told him No, he added, ‘I’ll introduce you then. Alec Robinson said something about your wanting to get to Laerg and for that you need Standing’s permission.’
    Prompt at twelve Cliff Morgan’s junior came dripping in out of the rain, a quiet, reserved man who gave me a fleeting smile as we were introduced. His name was Ted Sykes. ‘I hear Ronnie took off. What’s his ETA?’
    â€˜About twelve-thirty. Wind speed’s twenty-five knots – almost a dead-noser.’ Cliff Morgan pulled his jacket on and took a tie from the pocket.
    â€˜Rather him than me,’ Sykes said, at the desk now, rifling through the teleprint sheets. ‘Braddock with him?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Well, I hope it keeps fine for them.’ He said it sourly. It was obvious neither of them liked it. Cliff Morgan was standing at the desk, tying his tie, staring at the grey misery of the sky. Rain dribbled down the panes.
    â€˜There’s a casualty to be lifted out.’
    â€˜So I heard.’
    â€˜Keep your fingers crossed then.’ He turned abruptly and got his raincoat, and then we were out in the wind and the rain, hurrying through pools of water to the camp. ‘Better not ask for a flight out to Laerg. It means a bloody chit, you see, and they don’t like it. Landing craft’s all right. I think Standing would agree to that.’ His voice came to me, staccato fragments blown on the wind. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. But it’ll be rough. You a good sailor?’ And when I told him I’d had almost eleven years at sea, he nodded. ‘That’s all right then. At least you’ll see Laerg as it really is. Funny thing. I’ve never been there. Wanted to ever since I came up here. No time, and now it’s being evacuated …’ We had reached the Admin. block. ‘You might offer to do some sketches of the evacuation. Standing, you see, is not a man who’s very easy with strangers, but he’s artistic. Paints a bit himself and I’m told he has some interesting pictures up at his house. Nudes mostly, but not sexy – the real thing.’
    Standing was waiting for us in his office, tall and slightly stooped with a thin, serious face and glasses, a tight, unsmiling mouth. He looked a cold, moody man and his long-fingered hands were seldom still, nervously shifting the papers on his desk, toying with the slide-rule or gently tapping. Cliff Morgan introduced me as an artist who wanted to visit Laerg, but all I got was a nod and a cold stare. He had Ferguson with him and he was only interested in one thing, the weather. He listened to what Morgan had to say, his eyes on the window which was tight-shut against the wind. The view was depressing – the brown creosoted back of a hut, a grey waste of sky and the rain driving.
    â€˜Can Adams get the man out? That’s all I want to know.’ Even then he didn’t look at Cliff Morgan, but sat staring at the window, drumming with his fingers.
    â€˜Only Ronnie could tell you that,’ Cliff answered, and I sensed his