Читаем Skyfall полностью

Richard Lonsdale was managing director of Pharmaceutical Chemicals Ltd., a job for which he received a substantial salary garnished with a number of agreeable perks. The papers he had taken home were all safely packed into his briefcase, along with a cassette of letters for his secretary to type. New problems would arrive soon enough. He delicately sawed the top from the first egg, shook on salt and pepper, and spooned out a bit. Just right. He looked at the headlines in The Times and the day had begun.

The business news was always depressing so he never looked at that until he was in the car. As usual little good seemed to be happening in the Near East, Spain again, Korea.

GRAVE DANGER PREDICTED FOR PROMETHEUS PROJECT.

That was more like it, a bit of the old scientific Cassandra to keep the blood flowing. What one bunch of scientists invented the next bunch predicted would despoil the world, destroy the environment and give everyone cancer in one loathsome form or another. Unfortunately they were usually right. He finished his breakfast and read the article with some attention. He was just folding the paper when his wife, in her floor-length dressing gown, swept in.

“Good morning, darling,” Emily said, giving him an offhand peck on the forehead. “Don't forget to be in time for dinner tonight because that man from abroad's bringing people around afterwards. You arranged it last week, remember? I'll have some coffee if there's any left. What a most appalling thing! Look at that headline. I know they exaggerate a bit, but this does sound absolutely ghastly. Earthquakes!”

“In Russia, my dear, if the rocket should blow up and if there's a ground fault where the man says there is.”

“But what about all the other things, the death ray and all that?”

“My dear, I assure you that what happens to Prometheus can have no effect in any way upon us at the present time. Now, I must be going.”

The Rolls was waiting outside when he emerged promptly at 8:15. The chauffeur was removing an invisible fleck of dust from the black bonnet and he turned with a smile to hold the door open.

“Lovely day, sir. Vintage day, that's what my old mum used to call it.”

“Your mum was right, Andrew. We haven't had a summer like this since seventy-five.”

Gravel crunched softly under the wheels as the car rolled sedately down the drive. The fact that it was a company car and Andrew a company employee did not diminish the pleasure. With the window open and the Third Program playing a Bach trio, the morning was a good one indeed. So good that Sir Richard never opened his paper to the business pages. They would wait and this day wouldn't. From his home to the plant was about ten miles, an easy fifteen-minute drive, mostly through country lanes. If they had taken the motorway it would have been less than a mile more and would be much faster. They never did. It would be rush and modern times, high speed and telephones all day; the longer the rural peace lasted the better. Stone walls flowed by, then green meadows with grazing Guernseys, a field with sheep. The lambs were big now and losing their early charm. A thickly wooded copse was replaced by farm buildings, then the cobbled high street of the village of Dry Etherton. The shops were just opening and Harry Moor stood in the open door of The Dun Cow lazily working his teeth with a matchstick. He raised his hand as the Rolls went by, the perfect picture of the happy publican, and Sir Richard returned the salute. They did a wonderful steak and kidney pudding at The Dun Cow and it had been too long since he had had one. Sunday perhaps.

Now the road straightened as it climbed onto the limestone ridge above the town. Meadows and farms on all sides, slashed through by the motorway that made the new town possible. Then the town itself. He knew the old village was still down there, at least a part of it, but it could not be seen until you were right on top of it. The towers of the blocks of flats dominated the scene, rows and rows of them like beehives.

Beyond the flats were the low white buildings of the plant. At least these were landscaped and not unattractive. The road swung around the plant and dropped so that the large chemical tanks were outlined against the sky. Painted orange. It had seemed preposterous when he first saw them, but he had discovered since that it was far easier to live with than sooty battleship gray which became more and more depressing as time passed.

The guard at the gate saluted casually, more a wave than a military greeting, and the Rolls eased to a stop before the main entrance.

“Usual time, sir?” Andrew asked.

“Only if half six is the usual time. Perhaps it should be. I've given my solemn oath that I'll be home on time. If I am not down ring the office and remind me.”

“Yes, sir. Have a good day, sir.”

“Thank you, and the same. And Andrew, if you can, keep out of the whiskey in the back. The level keeps dropping faster than my own attention should warrant.”