A Dream of Wessex by Christopher Priest Read Free Book Online

expectations modest he would find his movements strictly watched or controlled by the regime.
    ‘I shall be staying in Dorchester for a few months at least,’ he said. ‘Perhaps next year I will need to visit Plymouth.’
    Borovitin nodded, and Harkman felt that his approach had been correct. But then Borovitin said: ‘I don’t know what you expect to find in Dorchester.’
    ‘There are-Commission archives, sir. Those will be a major source for my work. And I’d like to visit Maiden Castle.’
    ‘Why?’
    The response came so quickly that Harkman was taken off-guard.
    He said: ‘Is there any reason why I should not, sir?’
    ‘No.’ Borovitin was glancing over the introductory letter again, as if the first time he read it he had missed something of relevance. ‘I don’t see why you need to go there.’
    ‘It’s historically of importance and interest.’ Borovitin was staring at him again; suspicion or disinterest? Harkman went on: ‘With the greatest respect, sir, I dare say that you have not worked in sociology. In the ancient past, Maiden Castle was a more important place than Dorchester. I believe that during the years Wessex was isolated from the rest of England Maiden Castle would have reverted to a role of great strategic and sociological importance.’
    ‘You don’t need my authorization to go there,’ Borovitin said flatly.
    This time Harkman stared back, aware that the Commissioner was not as disconcerted as he was by long silences. The reason he had offered for wanting to go to the Castle had been impromptu, but he felt he had produced an authentic-sounding reply. The fact was that he had to visit the Castle to fulfil some deeper, unspecified need, and he had no explanation for that.
    And there was another reason now: to see the girl, to buy a tide-skimmer.
    ‘About the archives, sir,’ he said in the end, no longer ill at ease under the Commissioner’s bland scrutiny, but anxious to bring the interview to an end. ‘Could I have your authority to inspect the Commission records?’
    ‘You’ll have to file a formal application. See Mander.’
    ‘But I understood that the archives were under the jurisdiction of a Mr Cro. It was he who wrote to confirm my appointment.’
    ‘All administrative functions are channelled through Mr Mander.’
    A few minutes later, Harkman found the office that had been allocated to him for his use. Although it was quite large, and the previous occupant had cleared it out thoroughly, Harkman disliked the room immediately. It had only one window, and although it could be opened it was set high in the wall and only by standing on a chair could he see out. The effect of it was, as Harkman reflected as he tried it for the first time, that he could sit all day under the sterile glare of fluorescent strip- lights, and smell the fragrance of flowers, hear the buzzing of insects, and listen to the sounds of the holidaymakers walking in the narrow sunlit street outside.
    Donald Mander came to see him, and Harkman’s first impressions of the man were favourable. He was a florid-faced middle-aged man, with just a few wisps of hair feathering his pink, shiny head. He laughed a lot - although Harkman guessed it was intended to put him at his ease - and had what appeared to be a noncommittal and cynical way of describing the office routines and personnel.
    ‘Commissioner Borovitin tells me I must file an application for use of the archives through you.’
    ‘That’s right, yes.’
    ‘Then could you take it that I have applied? I’d like to start as soon as possible.’
    ‘You’ll need a form, Harkman. I’ll look one out for you, and send it down.’
    Mander had brought a chair with him from the next office, and the swivel-joint was creaking as he changed his position.
    ‘Couldn’t I just have a note typed out?’ Harkman said.
    ‘It has to be on the proper form,’ Mander said, and laughed. Harkman thought that anyone who found that idea funny must have been working