The World Set Free, H. G. Wells [ereader for textbooks .txt] 📗

Left to himself, the king could worry his moustache without stint; he leant his elbows forward on the balcony and gave both of his long white hands to the work, so that he looked like a pale dog gnawing a bone. Suppose they caught his men, what should he do? Suppose they caught his men?

The clocks in the light gold-capped belfries of the town below presently intimated the half-hour after midday.

Of course, he and Pestovitch had thought it out. Even if they had caught those men, they were pledged to secrecy.⁠ ⁠… Probably they would be killed in the catching.⁠ ⁠… One could deny anyhow, deny and deny.

And then he became aware of half a dozen little shining specks very high in the blue.⁠ ⁠… Pestovitch came out to him presently. “The government messages, sire, have all dropped into cipher,” he said. “I have set a man⁠—”

“Look!” interrupted the king, and pointed upward with a long, lean finger.

Pestovitch followed that indication and then glanced for one questioning moment at the white face before him.

“We have to face it out, Sire,” he said.

For some moments they watched the steep spirals of the descending messengers, and then they began a hasty consultation.⁠ ⁠…

They decided that to be holding a council upon the details of an ultimate surrender to Brissago was as innocent-looking a thing as the king could well be doing, and so, when at last the ex-king Egbert, whom the council had sent as its envoy, arrived upon the scene, he discovered the king almost theatrically posed at the head of his councillors in the midst of his court. The door upon the wireless operators was shut.

The ex-king from Brissago came like a draught through the curtains and attendants that gave a wide margin to King Ferdinand’s state, and the familiar confidence of his manner belied a certain hardness in his eye. Firmin trotted behind him, and no one else was with him. And as Ferdinand Charles rose to greet him, there came into the heart of the Balkan king again that same chilly feeling that he had felt upon the balcony⁠—and it passed at the careless gestures of his guest. For surely anyone might outwit this foolish talker who, for a mere idea and at the command of a little French rationalist in spectacles, had thrown away the most ancient crown in all the world.

One must deny, deny.⁠ ⁠…

And then slowly and quite tiresomely he realised that there was nothing to deny. His visitor, with an amiable ease, went on talking about everything in debate between himself and Brissago except⁠—.

Could it be that they had been delayed? Could it be that they had had to drop for repairs and were still uncaptured? Could it be that even now while this fool babbled, they were over there among the mountains heaving their deadly charge over the side of the aeroplane?

Strange hopes began to lift the tail of the Slavic fox again.

What was the man saying? One must talk to him anyhow until one knew. At any moment the little brass door behind him might open with the news of Brissago blown to atoms. Then it would be a delightful relief to the present tension to arrest this chatterer forthwith. He might be killed perhaps. What?

The king was repeating his observation. “They have a ridiculous fancy that your confidence is based on the possession of atomic bombs.”

King Ferdinand Charles pulled himself together. He protested.

“Oh, quite so,” said the ex-king, “quite so.”

“What grounds?”

The ex-king permitted himself a gesture and the ghost of a chuckle⁠—why the devil should he chuckle? “Practically none,” he said. “But of course with these things one has to be so careful.”

And then again for an instant something⁠—like the faintest shadow of derision⁠—gleamed out of the envoy’s eyes and recalled that chilly feeling to King Ferdinand’s spine.

Some kindred depression had come to Pestovitch, who had been watching the drawn intensity of Firmin’s face. He came to the help of his master, who, he feared, might protest too much.

“A search!” cried the king. “An embargo on our aeroplanes.”

“Only a temporary expedient,” said the ex-king Egbert, “while the search is going on.”

The king appealed to his council.

“The people will never permit it, Sire,” said a bustling little man in a gorgeous uniform.

“You’ll have to make ’em,” said the ex-king, genially addressing all the councillors.

King Ferdinand glanced at the closed brass door through which no news would come.

“When would you want to have this search?”

The ex-king was radiant. “We couldn’t possibly do it until the day after tomorrow,” he said.

“Just the capital?”

“Where else?” asked the ex-king, still more cheerfully.

“For my own part,” said the ex-king, confidentially, “I think the whole business ridiculous. Who would be such a fool as to hide atomic bombs? Nobody. Certain hanging if he’s caught⁠—certain, and almost certain blowing up if he isn’t. But nowadays I have to take orders like the rest of the world. And here I am.”

The king thought he had never met such detestable geniality. He glanced at Pestovitch, who nodded almost imperceptibly. It was well, anyhow, to have a fool to deal with. They might have sent a diplomatist. “Of course,” said the king, “I recognise the overpowering force⁠—and a kind of logic⁠—in these orders from Brissago.”

“I knew you would,” said the ex-king, with an air of relief, “and so let us arrange⁠—”

They arranged with a certain informality. No Balkan aeroplane was to adventure into the air until the search was concluded, and meanwhile the fleets of the world government would soar and circle in the sky. The towns were to be placarded with offers of reward to anyone who would help in the discovery of atomic bombs.⁠ ⁠…

“You will sign that,” said the ex-king.

“Why?”

“To show that we aren’t in any way hostile to you.”

Pestovitch nodded “yes” to his master.

“And then, you see,” said the ex-king in that easy way of his, “we’ll have a lot of men here, borrow help from your police, and run through all your things.