“I understand there was an incident aboard Trikon Station yesterday,” said Sir Derek, his eyes following the bobbing tufts of bread.
“A theft of American computer files, apparently by one of the Japs. All for naught, Sir Derek. The files were protected by a bug, and the American station commander cut power to prevent the bug from entering the computer system. They never found the thief, but at least it’s been made clear that he can’t access the data without wiping out the whole station.”
Meade stole a sidelong glance at Sir Derek and searched for some hint of a reaction. There was none.
“What else?” Sir Derek snapped.
“Well, uh . . .” Meade always thought he was sufficiently prepared for these meetings. He would pace his hotel room and rehearse buzz words to jog his memory. But Sir Derek’s brusque manner always struck him speechless. His reports, as neat and as clean as one of Sir Derek’s suits, became rumpled tangles of stuttered sentences.
“There was a bit of a row,” Meade said, seizing upon an innocuous tidbit of gossip. “The American scientist and a Japanese tech in the station wardroom.”
“I am not interested in barbaric behavior,” said Sir Derek. “What about Dr. Ramsanjawi?”
“The loss of power ruined an experiment,” Meade reported, his memory jogged. “He made a great howl about having worked a month to create a microbe that could neutralize seven different toxic-waste molecules. It was completely destroyed.”
Sir Derek permitted himself a smile. This incident could not have occurred at a more propitious time. Fabio Bianco was due to address the directorate of the European arm of Trikon International at its annual meeting in Lausanne within the week. Bianco was prepared to boast of Trikon’s success. He was prepared to predict that Trikon International, with its ability to coordinate the new technologies of North America, United Europe, and Japan, could rid the world of the pollution spawned by centuries of misguided old technology. In short, he was prepared to drive the last nail into Great Britain’s economic coffin.
Now Bianco had, in the Yank vernacular, egg on his face. The incident aboard Trikon Station was worthy of headlines in tabloids from Fleet Street clear around the world to Tokyo and New York. The Nips and the Yanks were taking pokes at each other. It would be months, perhaps years before they cooperated again, if indeed they ever had since the beginning of Trikon. And to top it all, Chakra Ramsanjawi had convinced everyone that the most complex toxin-devouring microbe ever engineered by man had vanished in a power outage ordered by a Yank astronaut.
Meanwhile, a team of scientists in a Lancashire laboratory, using data gleaned by Ramsanjawi and transmitted in code directly to Sir Derek, were already testing a microbe capable of neutralizing fourteen distinct toxic-waste molecules. Britain would beat the foreigners at their own game.
No, not Britain. England. Not the Welsh nor the Gaels nor the damnable Irish nor any of the mongrels that had been allowed onto this blessed isle. England would triumph over them all.
Sir Derek excitedly patted the damp stone of the parapet. Common men, preoccupied with banal concerns, saw events as merely happening willy-nilly. The visionary could sense the stirring of distant events long before they crossed the horizon. This evening, in the soft summer mist, Sir Derek positively heard a rumble. England would no longer be the outsider, the also-ran.
“There is one more item,” said Meade. “About the shuttle.”
“Delayed by Hurricane Caroline, I know,” said Sir Derek.
“Trikon has added another scientist. An American.”
Sir Derek looked at Meade for the first time. “Who?”
“Name of Hugh O’Donnell.”
“Well, who is he, man? Out with it.”
“We don’t exactly know, Sir Derek. We haven’t had the time to investigate him thoroughly.”
“Is he there to work on the toxic-waste microbe?”
“We assume so,” said Meade. “We understand he is employed as a staff scientist for Simi Bioengineering, in California.”
“What makes this O’Donnell gentleman important? His employer is hardly on the cutting edge of genetic engineering.”
“We don’t know, Sir Derek.” Meade noticed that his boss seemed to be staring through the brown surface of the Avon. “Simi is a member corporation of the American arm of Trikon.”