I turned my head to look at him. My neck hurt when I moved. I hadn’t realised I’d tensed every muscle.
He said, ‘We shall split the screen again and play the two angles simultaneously. You will need to watch very carefully.’
He took up the remote and the film started up again, advancing, frame by frame. Click by click.
On the left-hand screen, the three of them, just a tangle of limbs and bodies, fall backwards.
On the right-hand screen, Ronan has released his bombs. He stands for a moment, arms above his head, looking up, following their trajectory. And then – something new – he steps back into his pod. He vanishes from sight. His door is closing.
On the left, almost inch by inch, they’re falling. Falling back into the pod.
They say the onlooker sees most of the game. Had Markham, from far back in the hangar, realised what was about to happen? Was it possible that his objective was never Ronan, but Leon and Guthrie instead? He must have had less than a split second to make a decision and act on it. He gave his life trying to save them.
Click. They’re almost through the door. Almost…
Click. On the other screen, Ronan’s pod vanishes. He’s gone. He got out before the blast. He’s not dead. No time to think about that now.
Click. The other screen shows a dark hole which is the empty doorway. They’re inside.
Then there’s a huge white flash. Then nothing.
What?
I found I was gripping the edge of the table.
‘Again,’ said Dr Bairstow and, once again, there was Ronan’s pod vanishing. He unsplit the screen. ‘This is the best we can manage. Please watch very carefully.’
Peterson leaned forward. I pulled out my specs and practically climbed on the table.
Click. There’s the open doorway.
Click. Still there.
Click. Still there.
Click. The dark shape has changed. It’s smaller. The door is closing.
Click. Smaller still. But still not completely closed.
Click. Nearly. Nearly.
Click. Huge white flash.
Click. Picture gone.
I said hoarsely, ‘Again.’
The open doorway.
The door closing.
Closing.
Closing.
Inch by inch.
And now I was leaning across the table, my nose practically on the screen.
Dr Bairstow paused the film and I squinted, blinked, and squinted again.
White flash.
‘Go back!’
There was the door closing.
And there was the white flash.
But before that … just for a fraction of a second.
Without me asking, Dr Bairstow froze the screen.
And there it was. Or rather, there it wasn’t.
Their pod was gone.
And then the white flash hurt my eyes.
But the pod was gone.
I sat back, thinking furiously.
The pod was gone. Before the explosion. But only very fractionally before the explosion. Was there a chance…?
I made myself take three long deep breaths before looking up to see everyone watching me.
Dr Bairstow said, ‘It would appear there is a possibility – a small possibility – that their pod jumped away. Just a fraction of a second before the blast.’
No one spoke.
‘However, it would also appear, on the face of it, that the door wasn’t fully closed. Since, to my knowledge, a pod cannot jump with its door open, we are left with two conclusions.’
Still no one spoke.
‘One – door status notwithstanding, they were able to jump away from the blast.’
I couldn’t help looking at Commander Hay and her old/young face.
‘Whether they would have survived such a manoeuvre is doubtful. Or two – the unclosed door means they weren’t able to jump away from the blast and that our original hypothesis – that they were killed in the explosion – still stands.’
Silence.
So – the inescapable conclusion – either they were probably dead or they were certainly dead. Well, that was fractionally better than this time yesterday.
What now?
Commander Hay was talking. About the pod door, apparently. ‘We’re not sure if it was closed. Our best people have been over and over this footage and no one can definitely say yes or no. Let’s say it was – because there’s no point in speculating. If it wasn’t – then they’re all dead.
‘Hey,’ said Peterson, putting his hand on my shoulder.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so blunt. But the fact remains…’
No, she was right. If the door wasn’t closed, then they were dead. Blasted into atoms. Or, if the door was closed but they were caught in the blast, then they were dead. But, if the door was closed and they somehow got away in time…
She was continuing.
‘We’re not sure what effect the explosion would have had on what was presumably an emergency extraction. We suspect that if they did survive, lacking any specific instructions to the contrary, the computer took them to their last known coordinates.’
‘Which were?
‘13th April, 1204.’
I felt my throat tighten. Fear clutched at me again. The unexpected joy of knowing that Leon and the others might still be alive was slipping away, to be replaced by something black and cold.
‘Where?’
‘Constantinople.’
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I heard Peterson swear softly to himself.
I stared at the table. One thought hammered through my head. Leon might be alive. They might all be alive. Suddenly, unexpectedly, out of the blue, I was being told that they might not have died in Hawking that day. That there was a chance they were still alive.
And then, in the next breath, I was being told they’d landed in one of the worst places in history. That even if they had survived the blast, or the possibility that the door might not be correctly engaged, or the crash landing, or whatever else had happened to them, then the chances were that they wouldn’t survive for very long. Because they were in Constantinople on the 13th April, 1204.
I placed my elbows on the table, covered my face with my hands and let the tears fall, because I just couldn’t hold it all back any longer.
They gave me two minutes. No more. Someone cleared their throat and I took my hands away to find Mrs Partridge handing me a cup of tea. Everyone politely murmured among themselves while I tried to pull myself together. Leon might be alive. Leon might actually still be alive. Why wasn’t I more surprised? Deep down, had I always known? Was this why I’d never said anything to Matthew?
Don’t get your hopes up, said a warning voice in my head. The blast – the crash – the landing – the terror of Constantinople on that day – any or all of those could have killed them. The odds against survival are very great. Don’t allow yourself to hope.
Eventually, aware of the silence, I looked up.
Commander Hay clasped her hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry, Max. You probably need time to process this, and you will have it, but not now. There is something else we must consider.’
I pushed thoughts of Leon to one side and croaked, ‘What?’