'Tricky, I'd have thought? The Centre is international.'

‘Very tricky, in theory. But in practice we got rapid cooperation from other Governments. Once they read Arklow's report – even ahead of their own experts' confirmation – they were as concerned as we were not to create public panic. So foreigners attached to the Centre had their own Embassies down on them at the same time.' He smiled thinly. 'However cumbersome the diplomatic machine may appear, there are means of short-circuiting it when danger, and common interest, are self-evident.'

'I should hope so,' the General said, 'or my profession would be a lot busier… By the way, what's being, done about the theory that the Mohowatt stations are causing the crust disturbances?'

'Oh, for God's sake,' Lord Stayne snorted. 'Old wives' tales!'

'You're scarcely impartial, with millions invested in them,' the General pointed out. 'And Sir Walter has thousands of his members' jobs at stake.'

'All the same,' Harley told him, 'I agree with Stayne. There is no evidence to link the two. Only the kind of post ergo propter argument one expects from the more sensationally minded of our environmentalists – and fortunately Arklow's report is not available to them, or we'd have some real red herrings to deal with… The remote possibility of some such link existing is being investigated, of course,' he continued blandly, 'but meanwhile it would be extremely premature, and highly disruptive, to envisage any modification of the Mohowatt programme. All the interested governments are agreed on this.'

'Oh, well… But to get back to the earthquakes…'

'We prefer to call them "seismic abnormalities".'

The General gave a short bark of a laugh. 'As Sir Walter said – let's talk about realities, within these four walls.'

'Very well. Earthquakes.'

'Will Beehive stand up to them, I wonder? So deep underground?'

Lord Stayne said, 'Surely,' and Sir Walter humphed in agreement.

Harley inclined his head. 'They should know. After all, they built it, virtually – they and their predecessors. And on the best possible advice… In fact, of course, the picture has changed with Arklow's evidence. Beehive is likely to suffer some damage. But remember, the codename Beehive is an over-simplification. It's really a complex of hives, well dispersed over the country, with everything that matters reduplicated. As long as there's anything of Britain left to control, there'll be enough of Beehive left to take control of it when the worst is over and the time is ripe… Which is why – I need hardly say this -you gentlemen must be continuously careful about the quality and preparedness of your key men at the regional hives.'

'You, too,' the General said pointedly. 'Of course.'

'Let's talk about now,' Sir Walter suggested. 'Operation Beehive's cut and dried, ready for when the balloon goes up. We can trust each other to go on improving our own aspects of it. So let's not waste time. The first week after Beehive Red will be the crunch. If Beehive can establish an authoritative image then, it'll keep it. The real problem's now – the one month, or six months or whatever, before the balloon. How to prepare people without letting them know they're being prepared.'

'You have put your finger,' Harley said, with slightly pompous approval, 'on the real purpose of this meeting.'

Sir Walter grinned sardonically. 'And in view of the Hitlerian overtone of the only possible solution – the one that's on all our minds – you'd be much happier if I, good old Walter Jennings, the golden voice of organized labour, were the one to name it.'

'Since you put it that way' – Harley's smile was unabashed – 'yes.'

'You old fox.'

The other three went on looking at Jennings, waiting. Jennings, shrugged. 'AH right. I'll say it. We need a scapegoat. We need one urgently, to forestall any possibility that Mohowatt might become that scapegoat, which could be disastrous.'

*We need an identifiable category of human scapegoats,' Harley amplified. 'And there's one ready to hand, isn't there? The witchcraft movement.'

'It seems a shame,' the General said, with unexpected wistfulncss. 'They're a harmless enough lot. Rather endearing, some of them.'

'Not all of them, by any means. And have you any alternative?' When the General shook his head, Harley went on: 'They're tailor-made for it, you must realize. They've been a really widespread and public movement for only about twenty years, since the 1980s. By now there are at least a quarter of a million of them – though one can only estimate, since they have no formal national organization. They've been part of the scenery long enough for everybody to know who most of them are – but they're new enough as a mass phenomenon, and bizarre enough by conventional standards, to make millions of people uneasy. Very uneasy. I know they've behaved themselves remarkably well, in public-order terms – there's been localized trouble from teenage elements at one or two of their Festivals, and not even that for some years. But under the surface their very existence touches on some terrifyingly atavistic emotions. Trigger those off…'

He left the sentence unfinished,, hanging in the air.

After a while Lord Stayne said: 'This will require very careful planning if it's not to get out of hand.'

'That shouldn't be difficult.'

‘What had you in mind? You've obviously given thought to it already.'

'A little curtain-raiser to test public response,' Harley said. 'A little – er – "spontaneous" provocation and over-reaction, to be followed up with some inspired comment in the media. And so on…… There isn't much time to waste, but fortunately they've a Festival coming up.'

Stayne nodded. 'The Midsummer Solstice.'

'Thank God Beltane's over,' Jennings said. 'It's got altogether too tangled up with May Day. And that I might have found embarrassing.'

'With regard to your "spontaneous" provocation, Harley,' General Mullard asked thoughtfully. 'How little is "little"?'

2

All over Bell Beacon the small fires were being lit and the scent of woodsmoke hung in the almost motionless air. Moira estimated that there must be at least a hundred covens spread out over the three-hectare plateau which sloped gently southwards from the northern summit. Not over the whole of it, of course; the space around the still unlit Great Fire in the centre had been left well clear for the Ring Dance; and besides, once that was ablaze, too close would be too hot.

The Beacon really was an ideal place for a Sabbat, Moira thought. The little plateau was almost perfectly flat, the short downland' grass was like a lawn and there were no bushes or trees which might catch fire. The slope was too slight for even a candlestick to show a noticeable tilt, yet it was enough to give appropriate dignity to the summit itself, the northern hump a few metres across on which the Great Altar stood.

Bell Beacon rose a good hundred metres above the surrounding countryside, and from its summit in daylight one could look down not only on much of Buckinghamshire in which it stood, but eastwards into Middlesex and southwards across the Thames into Berkshire and Surrey. Yet except at the northern face, which ended the ridge, it was not precipitous and could easily be climbed on foot. On normal summer days cars would drive up here by the long slanting road, but not tonight. Ever since the Beacon had started to be used openly for the local mass Sabbats (Moira, twenty-seven now, had been brought to one of the earliest by her parents as a little girl) custom had established that cars be parked out of sight below Gresham Wood and the footpath used for the last half-kilometre. There were still latecomers winding up it now, in the twilight, and spreading out to find spaces for their own individual coven Circles, calling cheerful 'Blessed be!' greetings to friends as they threaded their way among the Circles already established.