The Fuller Memorandum Read Free Page A

Wolverhampton. Back when I was at university in Birmingham I nearly landscaped it by accident. I was trying to develop a new graphics algorithm. Planar homogeneous matrix transformations into dimensions dominated by gibbering horrors tend to attract the Laundry’s attention: they got to me just in time—just before the nameless horrors I was about to unintentionally summon into this world—and made me a job offer I wasn’t allowed to refuse.
    (Mo’s history is similar—indeed, I was involved not only in recruiting her, but in keeping her alive until she could be recruited. That was some years ago. Mo and I have been together for, oh, about six years; we tied the knot nearly three years ago, using the urgent need to break a behavioral geas as an excuse to do something we both wanted to do anyway.)
    So, I’m here at RAF Cosford, an active air force base which is also home to the Royal Air Force Museum annex, where they keep the stuff that’s too big to fit in their North London site at Duxford. Ostensibly I’m here to examine an aircraft that has been the locus of some disturbing incidents (and to stop those incidents recurring). Also, thanks to Angleton, I’m supposed to take a look at something in Hangar Six.
    One of the things you learn fairly fast in the Laundry is that most people in the British civil service and armed forces don’t know you exist. You—your organization, your job, the field you work in—are classified so deeply that the mere knowledge that such a classification level exists is itself a state secret. So, to help me do my job, I carry something that we laughably call a “warrant card.” It’s a form of identification. It comes with certain Powers attached. When you present your warrant card for inspection, in the course of official business, the recipients tend to believe you are who and what you say you are, for the duration of that business. Not only that: you can bind them to silence. Of course, trying to use your card outside official business tends to attract the attention of the Auditors. And having attracted their attention once or twice, I’ve never been too keen on finding out what happens next . . .
    The RAF Museum is fronted by a shiny new glass-and-steel aircraft hangar of an exhibit hall. I march right up to the front desk (there’s no queue), present my warrant card, and say: “Bob Howard. I’m here to see Mr. Hastings.”
    The wooly headed volunteer behind the cash register puts down her knitting and peers up at me over the rim of her bifocals. “Admission is five pounds,” she chirps.
    “I’m here to see Mr. Hastings .” I force a smile and adjust my grip on the warrant card.
    “Is that a season pass?” She looks confused.
    What? I shove the card under her nose. “I have an appointment with Warrant Officer Hastings,” I repeat, trying to keep a note of impatience out of my voice. “I’m from the Department of Administrative Affairs.” It’s a thin bluff—jeans and tee shirt aren’t normal office attire for the civil service, even in this weather—but I’m crossing the fingers of my free hand and trusting my card to untangle enough of her neurons to get the message across. “A meeting to discuss the, ah, business in Hangar Six.”
    She blinks rapidly. “Ooh, Hangar Six ! That’s a bad job, it hasn’t been the same since Norman had his Health and Safety inspection . . . They used to keep the Whirlwind in there, did you know? You’re wanting Geoffrey, aren’t you?”
    “Would that be Warrant Officer Hastings?” I ask, hopefully.
    “Oh yes.” She pushes her knitting aside with one liver-spotted hand and picks up the telephone with another. “Geoffrey? Geoffrey? There’s a man here to see you! Who did you say you were? A Mr. Howarth! Yes, to see you now! He’s out front!” She puts the phone down. “Geoffrey will be here in a couple of minutes,” she confides, “he needs to scrub up first.”
    I tap my toes and whistle tunelessly as I look