"I was taken through a lot of formalities. Medical, psychological and all that."
"Yes. That's always done. It's natural I suppose." "Did the same happen to you?"
"More or less."
"Then I went in to see the - Deputy Director I think they called him?"
"That's right. He runs this place. Very capable and a thoroughly good administrator."
"But he's not really the head of it all?"
"Oh no, there's the Director himself."
"Does one - do I - shall I see the Director?"
"Sooner or later I expect. But he doesn't often appear. He gives us an address from time to time - he's got a wonderfully stimulating personality."
There was a faint frown between Betterton's brows and Hilary thought it wise to abandon the subject. Betterton said, glancing at a watch,
"Dinner is at eight. Eight to eight-thirty, that is. We'd better be getting down, if you're ready?"
He spoke exactly as though they were staying in a hotel.
Hilary had changed into the dress she had selected. A soft shade of gray-green that made a good background for her red hair. She clasped a necklace of rather attractive costume jewellery round her neck and said she was ready. They went down the stairs and along corridors and finally into a large dining room. Miss Jennsen came forward and met them.
"I have arranged a slightly larger table for you, Tom," she said to Betterton. "A couple of your wife's fellow travellers will sit with you - and the Murchisons, of course."
They went along to the table indicated. The room contained mostly small tables seating four, eight or ten persons. Andy Peters and Ericsson were already sitting at the table and rose as Hilary and Tom approached. Hilary introduced her "husband" to the two men. They sat down, and presently they were joined by another couple. These Betterton introduced as Dr. and Mrs. Murchison.
"Simon and I work in the same lab," he said, in an explanatory fashion.
Simon Murchison was a thin, anaemic-looking young man of about twenty-six. His wife was dark and stocky. She spoke with a strong foreign accent and was, Hilary gathered, an Italian. Her Christian name was Bianca. She greeted Hilary politely but, or so it seemed to Hilary, with a certain reserve.
"Tomorrow," she said, "I will show you around the place. You are not a scientist, no?"
"I'm afraid," said Hilary, "that I have had no scientific training." She added, "I worked as a secretary before my marriage."
"Bianca has had legal training," said her husband. "She has studied economics and commercial law. Sometimes she gives lectures here but it is difficult to find enough to do to occupy one's time."
Bianca shrugged her shoulders.
"I shall manage," she said. "After all, Simon, I came here to be with you and I think that there is much here that could be better organised. I am studying conditions. Perhaps Mrs. Betterton, since she will not be engaged on scientific work, can help me with these things."
Hilary hastened to agree to this plan. Andy Peters made them all laugh by saying ruefully,
"I guess I feel rather like a homesick little boy who's just gone to boarding school. I'll be glad to get down to doing some work."
"It's a wonderful place for working," said Simon Murchison with enthusiasm. "No interruptions and all the apparatus you want."
"What's your line?" asked Andy Peters.
Presently the three men were talking a jargon of their own which Hilary found difficult to follow. She turned to Ericsson who was leaning back in his chair, his eyes abstracted.
"And you?" she asked. "Do you feel like a homesick little boy too?"
He looked at her as though from a long way away.
"I do not need a home," he said. "All these things; home, ties of affection, parents, children; all these are a great hindrance. To work one should be quite free."
"And you feel that you will be free here?"
"One cannot tell yet. One hopes so."
Bianca spoke to Hilary.
"After dinner," she said, "there is a choice of many things to do. There is a card room and you can play bridge; or there is a cinema or three nights a week theatrical performances are given and occasionally there is dancing."
Ericsson frowned disapprovingly.
"All these things are unnecessary," he said. "They dissipate energy."
"Not for us women," said Bianca. "For us women they are necessary."
He looked at her with an almost cold and impersonal dislike.
Hilary thought: "To him women are unnecessary, too."
"I shall go to bed early," said Hilary. She yawned deliberately. "I don't think I want to see a film or play bridge this evening."
"No, dear," said Tom Betterton hastily. "Much better to go to bed really early and have a good night's rest. You've had a very tiring journey, remember."
As they rose from the table, Betterton said:
"The air here is wonderful at night. We usually take a turn or two on the roof garden after dinner, before dispersing to recreations or study. We'll go up there for a little and then you'd better go to bed."
They went up in a lift manned by a magnificent-looking native in white robes. The attendants were darker-skinned and of a more massive build than the slighter Berbers - a desert type, Hilary thought. She was startled by the unexpected beauty of the roof garden, and also by the lavish expenditure that must have gone to create it. Tons of earth must have been brought and carried up here. The result was like an Arabian Nights fairy tale. There was the splash of water, tall palms, the tropical leaves of bananas and other plants and paths of beautiful colored tiles with designs of Persian flowers.
"It's unbelievable," said Hilary. "Here in the middle of the desert." She spoke out what she had felt:
"It's an Arabian Nights fairy tale."
"I agree with you, Mrs. Betterton," said Murchison. "It looks exactly as though it has come into being by conjuring up a Djin! Ah well - I suppose even in the desert there's nothing you can't do, given water and money - plenty of both of them."
"Where does the water come from?"
"Spring tapped deep in the mountain. That's the raison d'кtre of the Unit."
A fair sprinkling of people was on the roof garden, but little by little they dwindled away. The Murchisons excused themselves. They were going to watch some ballet.
There were few people left now. Betterton guided Hilary with his hand on her arm to a clear space near the parapet. The stars showed above them and the air was cold now, crisp and exhilarating. They were alone here. Hilary sat down on the low concrete, and Betterton stood in front of her.
"Now then," he said in a low nervous voice, "Who the hell are you?"
She looked up at him for a moment or two without answering. Before she replied to his question there was something that she herself had got to know.
"Why did you recognise me as your wife?" she asked.
They looked at each other. Neither of them wished to be the first to answer the other's question. It was a duel of wills between them, but Hilary knew that whatever Tom Betterton had been like when he left England, his will was now inferior to her own. She had arrived here fresh in the self-confidence of organising her own life - Tom Betterton had been living a planned existence. She was the stronger.
He looked away from her at last, and muttered sullenly:
"It was - just an impulse. I was probably a damned fool. I fancied that you might have been sent - to get me out of here."
"You want to get out of here, then?"
"My God, can you ask?"
"How did you get here from Paris?"
Tom Betterton gave a short unhappy laugh.
"I wasn't kidnapped or anything like that, if that's what you mean. I came of my own free will under my own steam. I came keenly and enthusiastically."
"You knew that you were coming here?"
"I'd no idea I was coming to Africa, if that's what you mean. I was caught by the usual lure. Peace on earth, free sharing of scientific secrets amongst the scientists of the world; suppression of capitalists and warmongers - all the usual jargon! That fellow Peters who came with you is the same, he's swallowed the same bait."
"And when you got here - it wasn't like that?"
Again he gave that short bitter laugh.
"You'll see for yourself. Oh, perhaps it is that, more or less! But it's not the way you thought it would be. It's not - freedom."
He sat down beside her frowning to himself.
"That's what got me down at home, you know. The feeling of being watched and spied upon. All the security precautions. Having to account for one's actions, for one's friends... All necessary, I dare say, but it gets you down in the end... And so when someone comes along with a proposition - well, you listen... It all sounds fine..." He gave a short laugh. "And one ends up - here!"
Hilary said slowly:
"You mean you've come to exactly the same circumstances as those from which you tried to escape? You're being watched and spied upon in just the same way - or worse?"
Betterton pushed his hair back nervously from his forehead.
"I don't know," he said. "Honestly. I don't know. I can't be sure. It may be all going on in my own mind. I don't know that I'm being watched at all. Why should I be? Why should they bother? They've got me here - in prison."
"It isn't in the least as you imagined it?"
"That's the odd thing. I suppose it is in a way. The working conditions are perfect. You've every facility, every kind of apparatus. You can work for as long a time as you like or as short a time. You've got every comfort and accessory. Food, clothes, living quarters, but you're conscious all the time that you're in prison."
"I know. When the gates clanged behind us today as we came in it was a horrible feeling." Hilary shuddered.
"Well," Betterton seemed to pull himself together. "I've answered your question. Now answer mine. What are you doing here pretending to be Olive?"
"Olive -" she stopped, feeling for words.
"Yes? What about Olive? What's happened to her? What are you trying to say?"
She looked with pity at his haggard nervous face.
"I've been dreading having to tell you."
"You mean - something's happened to her?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, terribly sorry... Your wife's dead... She was coming to join you and the plane crashed. She was taken to hospital and died two days later."
He stared straight ahead of him. It was as though he was determined to show no emotion of any kind. He said quietly:
"So Olive's dead? I see..."
There was a long silence. Then he turned to her.
"All right. I can go on from there. You took her place and came here, why?"
This time Hilary was ready with her response. Tom Betterton had believed that she had been sent "to get him out of here" as he had put it. That was not the case. Hilary's position was that of a spy. She had been sent to gain information not to plan the escape of a man who had placed himself willingly in the position he now was. Moreover she could command no means of deliverance, she was a prisoner as much as he was.
To confide in him fully would, she felt, be dangerous. Betterton was very near a breakdown. At any moment he might go completely to pieces. In those circumstances it would be madness to expect him to keep a secret.
She said,
"I was in the hospital with your wife when she died. I offered to take her place and try and reach you. She wanted to get a message to you very badly."
He frowned.
"But surely -"
She hurried on - before he could realise the weakness of the tale.
"It's not so incredible as it sounds. You see I had a lot of sympathy with all these ideas - the ideas you've just been talking about. Scientific secrets shared with all nations - a new World Order. I was enthusiastic about it all. And then my hair - if what they expected was a red-haired woman of the right age, I thought I'd get through. It seemed worth trying anyway."
"Yes," he said. His eyes swept over her head. "Your hair's exactly like Olive's."
"And then, you see, your wife was so insistent - about the message she wanted me to give to you."
"Oh yes, the message. What message?"
"To tell you to be careful - very careful - that you were in danger - from someone called Boris?"
"Boris? Boris Glydr, do you mean?"
"Yes, do you know him?"
He shook his head.
"I've never met him. But I know him by name. He's a relation of my first wife's. I know about him."
"Why should he be dangerous?"
"What?"
He spoke absently.
Hilary repeated her question.
"Oh, that." He seemed to come back from far away. "I don't know why he should be dangerous to me, but it's true that by all accounts he's a dangerous sort of chap."
"In what way?"
"Well, he's one of those half balmy idealists who would quite happily kill off half humanity if they thought for some reason it would be a good thing."
"I know the sort of person you mean."
She felt she did know - vividly. (But why?)
"Had Olive seen him? What did he say to her?"
"I can't tell you. That's all she said. About danger - oh yes, she said she couldn't believe it."
"Believe what?"
"I don't know." She hesitated a minute and then said, "You see - she was dying..."
A spasm of pain convulsed his face.
"I know... I know... I shall get used to it in time. At the moment I can't realise it. But I'm puzzled about Boris. How could he be dangerous to me here? If he'd seen Olive he was in London, I suppose?"
