the latest on Mabel?’
‘Who? Oh – Mabel! We’ve got the latest shots from Tiros; they came in half an hour ago.’
‘Shoot them across to me.’
‘Sorry, we can’t,’ said the tinny voice. ‘All the messengers are tied up in this exercise.’
‘I’ll come across myself,’ said Wyatt, and slammed down the phone, fuming at the delay. He drove to the clearing office, picked up the photographs and drove back, then settled down at his desk to examine them.
After nearly an hour he had come to no firm conclusion. Mabel was moving along a little faster – eleven miles an hour – and was on her predicted course. She would approach San Fernandez no nearer than to give the island a flick of her tail – a few hours of strong breezes and heavy rain. That was what theory said.
He pondered what to do next. He had no great faith in the theory that Schelling swore by. He had seen too many hurricanes swerve on unpredictable courses, too many islands swept bare when theory said the hurricane should pass them by. And he was West Indian – just as much West Indian as the old black man up near St Michel who was guarding his house against the big wind. They had a common feeling about this hurricane; a distrust which evidenced itself in deep uneasiness. Wyatt’s people had been in the Islands a mere four hundred years, but the black man had Carib Indian in his ancestry who had worshipped at the shrine of Hunraken, the Storm God. He had enough faith in his feelings to take positive steps, and Wyatt felt he could do no less, despite the fact that he could not prove this thing in the way he had been trained.
He felt despondent as he went to see Schelling.
Schelling was apparently busy, but then, he always was apparently busy. He raised his head as Wyatt entered his office, and said, ‘I thought you had a free afternoon.’
‘I came back to check on Mabel,’ said Wyatt. ‘She’s speeded up.’
‘Oh!’ said Schelling. He put down his pen and pushed the form-pad away. ‘What’s her speed now?’
‘She’s covered a hundred miles in the last nine hours – about eleven miles an hour. She started at eight – remember?’ Wyatt thought this was the way to get at Schelling – to communicate some unease to him, to make him remember that his prediction sent to the Weather Bureau was now at variance with the facts. He said deliberately, ‘At her present speed she’ll hit the Atlantic Coast in about six days; but I think she’ll speed up even more. Her present speed is still under the average.’
Schelling looked down at the desk-top thoughtfully. ‘And how’s her course?’
This was the tricky one. ‘As predicted,’ said Wyatt carefully. ‘She could change, of course – many have.’
‘We’d better cover ourselves,’ said Schelling. ‘I’ll send a signal to the Weather Bureau; they’ll sit on it for a couple of days and then announce the Hurricane Watch in the South-Eastern States. Of course, a lot will depend on what she does in the next two days, but they’ll know we’re on the ball down here.’
Wyatt sat down uninvited. He said, ‘What about the Islands?’
‘They’ll get the warning,’ said Schelling. ‘Just as usual. Where exactly is Mabel now?’
‘She slipped in between Grenada and Tobago,’ said Wyatt. ‘She gave them a bad time according to the reports I’ve just been reading, but nothing too serious. She’s just north of Los Testigos right now.’ He paused. ‘If she keeps on her present course she’ll go across Yucatan and into Mexico and Texas just like Janet and Hilda did in 1955.’
‘She won’t do that,’ said Schelling irritably. ‘She’ll curve to the north.’
‘Janet and Hilda didn’t,’ pointed out Wyatt. ‘And supposing she does curve to the north as she’s supposed to do. She only has to swing a little more than theory predicts and we’ll have her right on our doorstep.’
Schelling looked up. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that Mabel might hit San Fernandez?’
‘That’s right,’ said Wyatt. ‘Have you issued a local warning?’
Schelling’s eyes flickered. ‘No, I haven’t. I don’t think it necessary.’
‘You don’t think it necessary? I would have thought the example of 1910 would have made it very necessary.’
Schelling snorted. ‘You know what the government of this comic opera island is like. We tell them – they do precisely nothing. They’ve never found it necessary to establish a hurricane warning system – that would be money right out of Serrurier’s own pocket. Can you see him doing it? If I warn them, what difference would it make?’
‘You’d get it on record,’ said Wyatt, playing on Schelling’s weakness.
‘There is that,’ said Schelling thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. ‘It’s always been difficult to know whom to report to. We have told Descaix, the Minister for Island Affairs, in the past, but Serrurier has now taken that job on himself – and telling Serrurier anything is never easy, you know that.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘He fired Descaix yesterday – you know what that means. Descaix is either dead or in Rambeau Castle wishing he were dead.’
Wyatt frowned. So Descaix, the chief of the Security Force, was gone – swept away in one of Serrurier’s sudden passions of house-cleaning. But Descaix had been his right arm; something very serious must have happened for him to have fallen from power. Favel is coming dawn from the mountains. Wyatt shook the thought from him – what had this to do with the violence of hurricanes?
‘You’d better tell Serrurier, then,’ he said.
Schelling smiled thinly. ‘I doubt if Serrurier is in any mood to listen to anything he doesn’t want to hear right now.’ He tapped on the desk. ‘But I’ll tell someone in the Palace – just for the record.’
‘You’ve told Commodore Brooks, of course,’ said Wyatt idly.
‘Er … he knows about Mabel… yes.’
‘He knows all about Mabel?’ asked Wyatt sharply. ‘The type of hurricane she is?’
‘I’ve given him the usual routine reports,’ said Schelling stiffly. He leaned forward. ‘Look here, Wyatt, you seem to have an obsession about this particular hurricane. Now, if you have anything to say about it – and I want facts – lay it on the line right now. If you haven’t any concrete evidence, then for God’s sake shut up and get on with your job.’
‘You’ve given Brooks “routine” reports,’ repeated Wyatt softly. ‘Schelling, I want to see the Commodore.’
‘Commodore Brooks – like Serrurier – has no time at the present to listen to weather forecasts.’
Wyatt stood up. ‘I’m going to see Commodore Brooks,’ he said obstinately.
Schelling was shocked. ‘You mean you’d go over my head?’
