Under 1 hour later he was driving through the streets of Trois Fourches heading towards the dock area where Cubbins had his home and his office. The streets were unusually quiet in the fading light and the market, usually a brawl of activity, was closed. There were no soldiers about, but many police moved about in compact squads of four. Not that they had much to do, for the whole town seemed to have gone into hiding behind locked doors and bolted shutters.
Cubbins's place was also locked up tight as a drum and was only distinguishable from the others by the limp Union Jack which someone had hung from an upper window. Riley hammered on the door and it was a long time before a tentative voice said, "Who's there?"
"Martin, sir. Riley Martin---I'm English. Let me in."
Bolts slid aside and the door opened 1 crack, then swung wider. "Get the bloody hell in here, man! This is no time to be on the streets."
Riley had met Cubbins once when he visited the Base. He was a short, stout man who could have been typecast as Pickwick, and was one of the two English merchants on Esperance. His official duties as British Consul gave him the minimum of trouble since there was just a scattering of British subjects on the island, and his principal consular efforts were directed to bailing the occasional drunken sailor out of jail and half-assed attempts to distribute the literature on Cotswold villages and Morris dancing which was sent to him by the British Council in an effort to promote the British way of life.
He now put his head on one side and peered at Riley in the gloom of the narrow entrance. "Do I know you?"
"We met at Rivière de la Paix," said Riley. "I work there."
"Yes! By Jove, you're the weatherman on loan from U.K.MET---I remember."
"I've got a letter from Commodore Rodriguez." Riley produced the envelope.
"My office is this way," said Cubbins, and led him into a musty Dickensian room dark with 19th-century furniture. A portrait of Queen Elizabeth II gazed across as the Duke of Edinburgh hung on the opposite wall. Cubbins slit open the envelope and said, "I wonder why Commodore Rodriguez didn't ring me like he usually does."
Riley smiled crookedly. "He trusts the security of the Base but not that of the outside telephone lines."
"I don't blame him," said Cubbins, and peered at the letter. After a while he said, "That's most handsome of the Commodore to offer us the hospitality of the Base---not that there are that many of us." He tapped the letter. "He tells me that you have qualms about a hurricane. My dear sir, we haven't had a hurricane here since 1911."
"So everyone insists on telling me," said Riley bitterly. "Mr. Cubbins, have you ever broken your arm?"
Cubbins was taken aback. He sputtered a little, then said, "Well, yes, I have---when I was a boy."
"That was a long time ago."
"Fifty years, to be precise---but I don't see...."
Riley said, "Does the fact that it is nearly 50 years since you broke your arm mean that you couldn't break it again tomorrow?"
Cubbins was silent for a moment. "You have made your point, young man. I take it you are serious about this hurricane?"
"Deadly serious," said Riley with all the conviction at his disposal.
"Commodore Rodriguez is a very honest man," said Cubbins. "He tells me here that, if you are right, the Base will not be the safest place on Esperance. He advises me to take that into account in any decision that I might make." He looked at Riley keenly. "I think you had better tell me all about your hurricane."
So Riley went through it again, with Cubbins showing a niggling appreciation of detail and asking some unexpectedly penetrating questions. When Riley went dry he said, "So what we have is this---there's a 30% chance at worst of this hurricane---so grotesquely named Magda---coming here. That is on your figures. Then there is your overpowering conviction that it will come, and I do not think we should ignore that. No, indeed! I have a very great respect for intuition. So what do we do now, Mr. Martin?"
"Commodore Rodriguez suggested that we might see Martinet. He thought he might accept it from a British source when he wouldn't take it from an American."
Cubbins nodded. "That might very well be the case." But he shook his head. "It will be difficult seeing him, you know. He's not the easiest man to see at the best of times, and in the present circumstances...."
"We can try," said Riley stubbornly.
"Yes, we can," Cubbins said briskly. "And we must." He looked at Riley with brightly intelligent eyes. "You are a very convincing young man, Mr. Martin. Let us go immediately. What decisions I make regarding the safety of British subjects must inevitably depend on what Martinet will do."
The Presidential Palace was ringed with troops. Fully two battalions were camped in the grounds and the darkness was a-twinkle with their campfires. Twice the car was stopped and each time Cubbins talked their way through. At last they came to the last hurdle---the guardroom at the main entrance.
"I wish to see M. Junot, the Chief of Protocol," Cubbins announced to the young officer who barred their way.
"But does M. Junot wish to see you?" asked the officer insolently, teeth flashing in his black face.
"I am the British Consul," said Cubbins firmly. "And if I do not see M. Junot immediately he will be very displeased." He paused, then added as if in afterthought, "So will President Martinet."
The grin vanished from the officer's face at the mention of Martinet and he hesitated uncertainly. "Wait here," he said harshly and went inside the palace.
Riley eyed the heavily-armed troops who surrounded them, and said to Cubbins, "Junot?! Why him?"
"He's our best bet of getting to see Martinet. He's big enough to have Martinet's ear and small enough for me to frighten---just as I scared that insolent young pup."
The "insolent young pup" returned. "All right; you can see M. Junot." He made a curt gesture to the soldiers. "Search them."
Riley found himself pawed by ungentle black hands. He submitted to the indignity and was then roughly pushed forward through the doorway with Cubbins clattering at his heels. "I'll make Junot suffer for this," said Cubbins through his teeth. "I'll give him some protocol." He glanced up at Riley. "He speaks fluent English so I can really get my insults home."
"Forget it," said Riley tightly. "We're object is to see Martinet."
Riley found himself not liking Junot's office very much. The ceiling was too high, vaulted and ornate. It seemed to be frosted with pale pink cake frosting. Far overhead, in its curved center, it boasted an enormous imported crystal chandelier suspended by three twisted golden chains.
Junot himself rose to greet the two Englishmen from behind a timeworn 18th-century desk and came forward with outstretched hands. "Ah, Mr. Cubbins; what brings you here at a time like this---and at such a late hour?" His voice was pure Oxford, his French and African ancestry be damned.
Cubbins swallowed the insults he was itching to deliver and said stiffly, "I'm here to see President Martinet."
Junot's face fell. "Oh, that cannot be, I am afraid. You must know, Mr. Cubbins, that you come at a most inopportune time."
Cubbins drew himself up to the most of his unimpressive height and Riley could almost see him clothing himself in the full awe of British majesty. "I am here to deliver an official message from Her Britannic Majesty's Government," he said pompously. "The message is to be delivered to President Martinet in person. I rather thing he will be someone annoyed if he does not get it."
Junot's expression became less pleasant. "President Martinet is---in conference. He cannot be disturbed."
"Am I to report back to my government that President Martinet does not which to receive their message?"
Junot sweated slightly. "I would not go so far as to say that, Mr. Cubbins."
"Neither would I," said Cubbins with a pleasant smile. "But I would say that the President should be allowed to make up his own mind on this issue. I shouldn't think he would like other people acting in his name---not at all. Why don't you ask him if he's willing to see me?"
"Yes, that would be best," agreed Junot unwillingly. "Could you tell me at least the---er----subject-matter of your communication?"
"I could not," said Cubbins severely. "It's a Matter of State."
"Very well," said Junot. "I will ask the President. If you will wait here...." His voice trailed off and he backed out of the room.
Riley glanced at Cubbins. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"
Cubbins mopped his brow. "If this gets back to Whitehall I'll be out of a job---but it's the only way to handle Junot. The man's in a muck sweat---you saw that. He's scared to break in on Martinet and he's even more afraid of what might happen if he doesn't. That's the trouble with the tyranny of one-man rule; the dictator surrounds himself with shit-sacks like Junot."
"Will he see us?"
"Oh, I'm sure he will," said Cubbins. "I think I've roused his curiosity."
Junot came back 15 minutes later. "The President will see you now. Please come this way."
They followed him along an ornate corridor for what seemed like a full 1/2 mile before he stopped outside a door. "The President is naturally---disturbed about the present critical situation," he said. "Please do not take it amiss if he is a little---er---short-tempered, let us say."
Cubbins guessed that Junot had recently felt the edge of Martinet's temper and decided to twist the knife. "He'll be even more short-tempered when I tell him how we were treated on our arrival here," he said shortly. "Never have I heard of the official representative of a world power being searched like a common thief!"
Junot's sweat-shiny face paled to a dirty gray and he started to say something, but Cubbins ignored him, pushed the door open and walked into the room with Riley close behind. It was a huge room, sparsely furnished, but in the same over-ornate style as the rest of the palace. A trestle-table had been set up at the far end round which a number of uniformed men were grouped. An argument seemed to be in progress, for a small man with his back to them pounded on the table and shouted, "You will find them, General; find them and smash them!"
Cubbins said out of the corner of his mouth, "That's Martinet---with the Army Staff--Bouthillier, Morel, Poulin."
One of the soldiers muttered something to Martinet and he swung around. "Ah, Cubbins, you wanted to tell me something?"
"Come on," said Cubbins, and strode up the length of the room.
Martinet leaned on the edge of the table which was covered with maps. He was a small, almost insignificant man with hunched shoulders and hollow chest. He had brown chimpanzee eyes which seemed to plead for understanding, as though he could not comprehend why anyone should hate or even dislike him. But his voice was harsh with the timber of a man who understood power and how to wield it.
He rubbed his chin and said, "You come at a strange time. Who is this petit pied-blanc?"
"A British scientist, M. le Président."
Martinet shrugged and visibly wiped Riley from the list of people that he would care to know. "And what does the British government want with me---or from me?"
"I have been instructed to bring you something," said Cubbins.
Martinet grunted. "Quel?"
"Valuable information, M. le President. Mr. Martin is a weather expert---he brings news of an approaching hurricane---a dangerous one."
Martinet's jaw dropped. "You come here at this time to talk about the weather?" he asked incredulously. "At a time when war is imminent you wish to waste my time with weather forecasting?!" He picked up a map from the table and crumpled it in a black fist, shaking it under Cubbins's nose. "I thought you were bringing me news of Sorel. Sorel! Sorel---do you understand? He is all that I am interested in."
"M. le President----" began Cubbins.
Martinet said in a grating voice, "We do not have hurricanes in Esperance---everyone knows that."
"You had one in 1911," said Riley.
"We do not have hurricanes in Esperance," repeated Martinet, staring at Riley. He suddenly lost his temper. "Junot! Junot, where the hell are you?! Show these ânes blancs out!"
"But M. le President...." began Cubbins again.
"We do not have hurricanes in Esperance!" screamed Martinet. "Are you deaf, Cubbins? Junot, get them out of my sight!" He leaned against the table, breathing heavily. "And, Junot, I'll deal with you later," he added menacingly.
Riley found Junot plucking pleadingly at his coat, and glanced at Cubbins. "Come on," said Cubbins bleakly. "We've delivered our message as best we were able."
He walked with steady dignity down the long room, and after a moment's hesitation Riley followed, hearing Martinet's hysterical scream as he left. "Do you understand, Mr. British Scientist?! We do not have hurricanes in Esperance!"
Outside, Junot became vindictive. He believed Cubbins had made a fool of him and he feared the retribution of Martinet. He called a squad of soldiers and Riley and Cubbins found themselves brutally hustled from the palace to be literally thrown out of the front door.
Cubbins examined a tear in his blazer. "I knew it would come to that," he said. "But we had to try."
"He's off his nutter," said Riley blankly. "He's stark, staring raving mad!"
"Well, that's to be expected of his kind," said Cubbins calmly. "Didn't you know? Lord Acton once said that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Martinet is thoroughly corrupted in the worst possible way---that's why everyone is so afraid of him. I was beginning to wonder if we'd get out of there alive."
Riley shook his head as if to clear spiderwebs out of his brain. "He said, 'We do not have hurricanes in Esperance,' as if he's forbidden them by presidential decree." There was a baffled look on his face.
"Let's get away from here," said Cubbins with an eye on the surrounding soldiers. "Where's the car?"
"Over there," said Riley. "I'll take you back to your place---then I must call at the Nationale."
There was a low nimble in the distance from the mountains. Cubbins cocked his head to one side. "Thunder," he said. "Is your hurricane upon us already?"218Please respect copyright.PENANAKkY1l0P2OX
Riley looked up at the moon floating in the cloudless sky. "That's not thunder," he said. "I wonder if Martinet has found Sorel---or vice versa." He looked at Cubbins. "That's gunfire!"
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