Earth Cult by Trevor Hoyle Page A

these parts, Cal Renfield was seated at a large oval desk contemplating a rough page layout, some of which was already blocked in with half-tones and criss-crossed areas indicating copy. A mug of black coffee cooled at his elbow.
    He levered himself into a semi-standing position, and when they had shaken hands flopped down again, his belly reverberating with the shock-wave.
    â€˜My staff have taken the day off,’ Cal Renfield said, gesturing at the empty office with a hand that reminded Frank of a small pink pin-cushion.
    â€˜You have staff?’ Frank said good-naturedly.
    â€˜Sure I have staff. All one of them. Do you want some coffee?’
    â€˜No thanks,’ Frank said, and then changed his mind.
    Cal Renfield nodded towards the electric coffee pot andinvited him to help himself. As Frank was doing this the small balding man said, ‘Don’t you slick city reporters ever wear suits? All I’ve ever seen you in is denims, polo-neck sweaters and wind-cheaters. Is that the new hip style for Chicago newspapermen?’
    Frank did a mannequin’s twirl. ‘Today’s ensemble is leather,’ he intoned in the arch portentous tones of the fashion commentator. ‘Note the neat little coloured leather side-panels sewn into the body of the garment,
so
useful for carrying all the essentials of the writer’s trade: pens, pencils, notebooks, erasers, portable typewriters.’
    â€˜From what I heard, a safety-helmet, a pick-axe and a pair of miner’s boots would be a darn sight more useful.’ Cal Renfield offered a pack of cigarettes, his grey eyes shrewd and watchful.
    â€˜So you heard about that?’ Frank said. He took a cigarette and lit them both. His hand was perfectly steady.
    â€˜I’m the local newshound,’ Cal Renfield reminded him. ‘They wouldn’t allow me to visit the Project but I spoke with Lee Merriam, who’s a regular guy, and he gave me the salient facts. As we newshounds say.’ His soft round features sobered and his eyes became flat, without expression. ‘It didn’t help the men trapped below ground much.’
    Frank drank his coffee.
    â€˜What happened exactly?’
    â€˜I thought you said Lee Merriam told you.’
    â€˜He did. Some of it.’
    â€˜The salient facts.’
    â€˜Lee wasn’t underground when the tremor started. You were.’
    â€˜We were underground,’ Frank said. ‘There was an earth tremor. End of story.’
    Cal Renfield nodded his head slowly. He sniffed. ‘For a reporter your power of recall isn’t what I’d call shit-hot.’
    â€˜I keep telling you, Cal, I’m not a reporter – I’m a feature writer with a science magazine. What happened is probablywhat Lee Merriam told you. I don’t want to bore the ass off of you by repeating it.’
    â€˜But you found the bodies?’
    â€˜Yes. They were on the gantry.’
    â€˜What gantry is that?’
    â€˜You’ve never been down to the detection chamber?’
    Cal Renfield smiled. ‘Do you think they’d allow the editor of the local newspaper to look at that vital top secret installation of theirs? No way, brother. No chance.’
    â€˜Who told you it was top secret?’
    â€˜Friedmann. When they moved in I went up to interview him and he gave me a long rigmarole about top secret this and classified that. I got the impression they were engaged on some kind of advanced research for the government. Isn’t that so?’
    â€˜In a way it is,’ Frank said, reminding himself that caution was the watchword of the day. ‘They’re funded by a government agency, the Institute of Astrophysics. But I’d hardly describe the work they do as top secret.’
    â€˜Okay,’ said Cal Renfield, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. ‘You found the bodies on the gantry. Which is in the detection chamber.’
    â€˜There isn’t a lot to say about