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BRIEF DESCRIPTION

The time is 1970. In the short span of ten years, a powerful new industrialization has grown up in the west of Ireland — Industrial Corporation Eire. Behind its own rigidly controlled “Iron Curtain,” its scientists have solved many of the major problems with which the rest of the scientific world is still futilely grappling. The face of Ireland is being transformed, but more important to the great powers is the inherent menace these prodigies of scientific achievement may offer to the delicate balance of power in a badly divided world.

All attempts to discover the origin, nature and purpose of I.C.E. are easily thwarted by the Irish Secret Service and I.C.E's own Intelligence Section, until Thomas Sherwood, a young Cambridge scientist, is sent by British Intelligence to investigate. Sherwood immediately finds himself in a world of desperate violence. He is pursued across Ireland by spies and counterspies, and he tangles with still other agents who are stealing scientific information to sell to the highest bidder. His scientific abilities plus his tenacity and endurance finally bring him to a solution of the mystery.

Fred Hoyle, a world-famous astronomer, demonstrates again his versatility. Ossian's Ride reveals Mr. Hoyle's familiarity with western Ireland, mountain climbing, electronic computers and the writing of lively popular fiction.

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PROLOGUE

The Old Man was in a regular stew. So much had been clear to Geoffrey Holtum, his private secretary, from a short conversation over the telephone. It was a fair inference that the appalling Irish problem must have something to do with the P.M.'s state of mind. But why should the crisis be any worse in that particular direction than it had been yesterday, or last week, or last year for that matter?

Holtum knocked lightly on the sanctum door.

“Come in,” boomed the Prime Minister. “Thank heaven you're back, Geoffrey,” he went on, “just in time to keep me out of the clutches of the psychiatrists.”

“What's happened, sir?”

“What's happened! This!” The Prime Minister brought his fist down with a thump on a large typescript that lay in front of him. Then he picked it up and brandished the pages in Holtum's face. “This damned stuff. It may be the most significant document that has ever come into my hands, or it may be just a tissue of rubbish. I simply don't know which.”

“But what. . . ?”

“What is it? Nothing short of a complete explanation of the whole I.C.E. mystery. That's what it claims to be!”

“Whew! But how. . .?”

“How did it come into my hands? Listen!”  {7} 

Holtum wondered when he had ever done anything else but listen to the P.M.

“About a year ago, one of our Intelligence people had a brain storm, not a bad idea really. Instead of continuing to send our normal agents into Ireland, he got hold of a young chap from Cambridge, a clever fellow — science and mathematics and all that sort of stuff. Name of Thomas Sherwood, from a Devon farming family, good solid yeoman stock. I've had a very complete investigation of him carried out by Intelligence.”

The Prime Minister lifted a large file, and then dropped it back again on the desk top.

“Judging from what Intelligence says, I'd swear that Sherwood is absolutely one hundred per cent reliable. Yet on his own admission he's now completely gone over to I.C.E.! Then having sold out on us, he proceeds to send me this report, which is absolutely tremendous in its implications if it happens to be true.”

“Does he give any reasons, sir?”

“In heavens name, yes! I wouldn't blame him for selling his soul to the devil, if what he says in here is true.”

“But is there any conceivable motive for sending the report?”

“You know perfectly well that together with the Americans and the Russians we're now working up quite a pressure on I.C.E. If I believed in the veracity of Sherwood's report, I'd instantly recommend that this policy be scrapped forthwith.”

Holtum whistled. “And so it might be a colossal bluff.”

“Or it might be a warning, I don't know which.”

“But surely in the course of such an extensive document it must become clear whether this man Sherwood is on the level or not.”

“That's exactly what I'm going to ask you to judge for yourself, Geoffrey my boy. I've already arrived at an opinion myself, so I'm not going to say anything more that might prejudice you on the main issue. I've got an additional copy of the report. I want you to take it away. Go where you can read it quietly without interruption. And take this Intelligence stuff as well.”  {8} 

The Prime Minister handed over a couple of fat folders.

“Don't waste any time checking on the facts. I've done that already. Everything is impeccably correct. We even know that some rather peculiar people who appear in the story really do exist. We have this on the testimony of a certain internationally famous pianist, whose name I won't mention. He was invited to give a series of concerts at I.C.E., in the course of which he met, albeit rather briefly, some of the high-ups in the organization. Strange that we should have to rely on a musician for our best information. Shows what a beating our Intelligence Service has taken from these I.C.E. people.

“Remember, above all, that you're dealing with a very astute young man. Remember that he may even be adept at telling the truth in a way that gives a wholly false impression.”

“You mean, sir, that it's more a question of character than of logic?”

“Exactly so. Try to get yourself into this fellow's mind. You're fairly well of an age together. You should be able to judge him better than I can.”

Holtum dined at a quiet restaurant, a well-filled brief case at his side. He took a taxi to his apartment. With a large pot of fresh coffee, he pulled out the PM's bundle of papers. A sip of Cointreau first, and he took up the first page.