The Fog - James Herbert [84]
They were lied to because the government thought it best; large-scale panic would only increase the danger to lives. The truth could be told – or at least some of it – when the threat had passed.
Those responsible would pay the penalty – but not publicly.
Steps would be taken so that a disaster of this nature and magnitude could never happen again.
Holman had discussed with Ryker the fact that the mutated mycoplasma had been trapped inside the cathedral. Or had it taken shelter? Was it feasible, was it remotely possible, that the mutation had some sort of driving force? Could it have – Holman had hesitated to say it – could it have intelligence? After all it was a parasite that fed on the brain.
Professor Ryker had laughed, but it was without humour. ‘Every living thing has some driving force, Mr Holman. Even plant life has some intelligence, it’s a matter of degree. But to suggest this organism has a will, a brain? It has a motivation for survival perhaps, just as a flower reaches towards the sun, but a mind of its own? No, Mr Holman, don’t let your harrowing experience this morning send you into the realms of fantasy. The mycoplasma does not control the fog; when the wind took the protective cloud away, the mycoplasma had to go too, trapped in its centre, caged by its own protection. It exercised no power over its cloak of fog, it gives no direction. It is a mindless, organic thing, incapable of action by thought.’
‘But action by instinct?’ Holman had interrupted.
‘Yes, perhaps.’
‘Maybe it amounts to the same thing.’
Ryker spent the rest of the journey in silence, deep in thought, occasionally shaking his head as though to dismiss a theory, then his forehead wrinkling in concentration as a new thought was processed and again rejected.
Barrow had accompanied Holman to the Research Centre after Holman had given his report to the Home Secretary in person, promising he would attempt to procure some of the mycoplasma as soon as conditions were favourable. They would be in constant radio contact until that moment arrived and when it did, he would be flown to the spot immediately. It was suggested that he be positioned in a place directly in line with the fog’s centre so that it would pass right over him, but Holman had rejected the idea vehemently. If there was no other way, then he would do it, but he was damned if he would confront the mutation when it was moving swiftly, giving him little chance to manoeuvre around it.
At another time, he would probably have taken the risk, but at that moment, his nerves were somewhat taut, and he was in no mood to repeat that morning’s performance. He was also anxious to see Casey, to find out whether the experiment had worked, to know if she would become a vegetable or return to her normal self.
The Home Secretary wisely but reluctantly refrained from ordering him to carry out his request knowing the man would be more useful in a better condition. In the meantime, gadgets could be set up in the fog’s path, containers that could be operated by remote control to close when sensors relayed the message that the source was in the vicinity. It was a hit and miss method, but the only one available at that time.
The rising trepidation Holman felt reached its peak when he turned the handle of the door marked ‘3’. Through its glass upper portion he could see the pale figure lying still in the bed. A nurse sat at her bedside ready to call in Janet Halstead at the first signs of consciousness. She smiled as Holman entered.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘She’s been sleeping peacefully enough,’ the nurse replied, ‘but she had to be heavily drugged for the radiology and the blood transfusion. I’m afraid she was a bit violent.’
‘Can I stay with her for a while?’
‘Yes, of course.’ The nurse rose from her seat, still smiling at him. ‘I’ll leave you for a little while but if she wakes, press this button. I can promise you, this room will be full of people in a flash. We’re all rather anxious to find out the result of the radiology.’
‘Are the signs good?’