Earth Cult by Trevor Hoyle Page B

dead bodies.’
    â€˜Presumably they were drowned.’
    â€˜They were found at the bottom of a flooded mine,’ Frank said, sticking to the literal truth.
    â€˜Did the tremor have anything to do with it?’
    â€˜In what way?’ Frank asked, sipping his coffee and squinting at a large blow-up photograph of what looked like a steel smelting plant. He turned it over and read the typed caption:
US Bureau of Mines Shale Oil Plant, Grand Valley, Col
    Cal Renfield sighed. ‘You’re not the easiest of people to extract information from, you know that? I want the background stuff, not the official version. Was there anything at all that struck you as being out of the ordinary? Hell, Frank, you were first on the scene, practically an eye-witness.’
    â€˜I’ve told you, they were already dead when I got there.The chamber had been flooded by the storm and there was no way of reaching them until the water subsided. Didn’t Lee Merriam tell you all this?’
    â€˜Yeah.’ Cal Renfield drank the last of his coffee and studied the half-completed layout in front of him. ‘I just got the feeling there was more to it than that.’ He glanced up at Frank with his shrewd grey eyes. ‘You know, my news-hound’s sixth sense?’
    Frank moved round the office looking at the files of cuttings and news agency reports. He was on Cal Renfield’s side: he was sympathetic to the man and wanted to help him but at the same time it would have been a mistake – and a betrayal of confidence – to have revealed anything of what he had learned about the Project’s research programme. And it was unlikely that the editor would have grasped the significance of a concentrated emission of antineutrinos reaching them from the centre of the Galaxy. For the moment Frank had to play it cool, giving the appearance of an interested if slightly bemused bystander.
    He approached the desk where Cal Renfield was working, saying casually, ‘You mentioned the other evening that some kids had been born round here who exhibited strange behaviour patterns. Where are they, local hospital?’
    â€˜We don’t have a hospital in Gypsum. They’re over in Radium receiving intensive care. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜I’d like to see them if possible. How far is Radium?’
    â€˜About fifteen miles north of here, the other side of Mount Powell.’ Cal Renfield pursed his lips together, like a small pink button. ‘What’s your interest in them, Frank? Changing your views?’
    â€˜I’m interested in anything that bears investigation. How do I go about arranging a visit?’
    â€˜I could do that for you,’ Cal Renfield said after a moment’s thought. ‘I know one of the doctors in the hospital, Bob Bragg. Used to have a practice in Gypsum for a couple of years, then got taken on as a staff medico. Do you want me to fix it for you?’
    â€˜If possible, Cal. I’d appreciate it.’
    â€˜See what I can do,’ Cal Renfield said, reaching for the phone. He was about to dial when Helen Renfield came in from the street, struggling with a large bulky photographer’s case and a tripod. She dumped the equipment in a corner and straightened up, pressing her hands into the small of her back.
    â€˜You know my staff,’ Cal Renfield said to Frank, and then to Helen, ‘Did you get it?’
    â€˜I got it,’ she said briefly, looking at Frank’s left shoulder but not his face. ‘I hate to tell you this, but taking pictures of a calf with five legs is not my idea of investigative journalism. It’s hardly going to make the front cover of
Time.’
    â€˜Might make the front cover of
Stockbreeders Gazette,’
Frank said jocularly.
    Helen Renfield didn’t think the witticism merited a response. She went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. Her red hair was drawn back from her face and tied in a schoolgirl