Downtime - Marc Platt [25]
That’s bad news. No one goes there. No trade. No nothing.’
‘Why? What have you heard? Did you know there was an explosion six days ago? The place has been blown apart.’
Eric glanced at Uncle. ‘What did I say, man? Bad news.’
Cavendish was getting impatient. He scratched at the irritation on his hand. ‘We’ve reports that there was a trekker who was travelling to Det-sen via Lukla. We checked her permit in Kathmandu. Her name’s Victoria Waterfield. She’s English. Do you know anything about her?’
‘Jolly bad show, old chap,’ enunciated Eric. ‘Seen one trekker, seen ‘em all.’
‘Now look here...’ Cavendish tapered off as Londqvist came through the door.
The Swede sidled up to the counter. ‘I’ll try one of your yakburgers,’ he said to Eric and slapped five ten- yuan notes on the bar. He gave Cavendish a mocking wink.
Eric picked up the notes and sniffed them. ‘Now that you mention it, man, there was a girl here. A couple of Sherpa brought her in. She was in a bad way. Bad burns. They ferried her back to Kathmandu.’ He shrugged at Cavendish. ‘Too bad.
You missed the boat.’
Cavendish was determined not to be outdone. ‘And was it her? Had she been at Det-sen?’
At this, Uncle began to chatter away. Eric was suddenly animated, trying to calm him down. He shook the old man, who never looked him in the face, but only stared fixedly at the floor. Under his tatty brown coat there was a flash of brilliant orange.
It was incomprehensible to Cavendish, but one word kept recurring. It sounded like Travers.
‘What’s he babbling about?’ complained the second lieutenant. ‘This is a total waste of time. Come on, Londqvist.
There’s no point in staying.’
The pilot followed him out into the street. As they marched towards the airstrip, he said, ‘I think you are missing a few things.’
‘Too bad. I want to get my report in.’
‘The old man was looking for someone called Edward Travers.’
‘Travers? Means nothing to me.’ Cavendish was scratching again at his hand.
‘He said that Travers had escaped.’
‘Probably went off without paying for a hat. This whole business is a wild-goose chase. I’ve got my samples. I want to get back.’
‘The old man was a priest,’ called Londqvist. ‘And he was blind.’
Cavendish halted and did a complete about turn. ‘Do you have something to say?’ he snapped.
Londqvist shook his head. ‘It’s your mission, Lieutenant.
I’m sure it’ll be in your report.’
‘That’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Cavendish complained. ‘Good God, who in their right mind builds a monastery right on the side of a volcano? It’s asking for trouble and that’s what they got.’
The damned irritation on his hand was getting raw. He noticed that Londqvist was watching him scratch the skin.
‘What about the attack?’ the Swede asked. With a certain perverse satisfaction, Cavendish saw that he was scratching at his own wrist too.
‘Frightened monks, that’s all. They’re mystics, aren’t they?
So they’re bound to tap unusual powers.’ He would have thought that was obvious. ‘I wouldn’t be in UNIT if I didn’t believe in the paranormal,’ he snapped.
‘I thought they tried to keep an equal balance of affirmed sceptics.’ Londqvist paused, apparently no longer convinced by his own argument.
Cavendish was walking backwards towards the helicopter.
His eyes never left Londqvist: a look that allowed for no argument. ‘As for that trekker,’ he said firmly, ‘you hardly need worry about her. Sounds as if she was lucky to get away with her life.’
The pilot flexed his fingers as if something was clinging to them. He glanced up at the mountains and the sky as if the answer to something he could not remember might be hovering there. He said slowly, ‘I am sure that you have made the right decision.’
‘Good,’ said Second Lieutenant Cavendish. They marched to the Valkyrie and climbed into their seats. Cavendish pushed his assignment file back into his holdall. ‘I’m sorry, Londqvist. You never got your yakburger.’
Londqvist stared at the helicopter controls and grunted his agreement.
Cavendish clicked-in his safety harness. ‘Never