He covered the bulb of the battery light with his hand and switched it on, letting a thin gleam escape through his fingers. He peered at the table so closely that his nose nearly touched the surface, but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. Mrs. Coulter had put a few things there before she got into bed—a couple of coins, a ring, her watch—but Brother Louis wasn’t interested in those.
He turned to her again, and then he saw what he was looking for, uttering a soft hiss between his teeth. Lord Roke could see his dismay: the object of his search was the locket on the gold chain around Mrs. Coulter’s neck.
Lord Roke moved silently along the skirting board toward the door.
The priest crossed himself again, for he was going to have to touch her. Holding his breath, he bent over the bed—and the golden monkey stirred.
The young man froze, hands outstretched. His rabbit dæmon trembled at his feet, no use at all: she could at least have kept watch for the poor man, Lord Roke thought. The monkey turned over in his sleep and fell still again.
After a minute poised like a waxwork, Brother Louis lowered his shaking hands to Mrs. Coulter’s neck. He fumbled for so long that Lord Roke thought the dawn would break before he got the catch undone, but finally he lifted the locket gently away and stood up.
Lord Roke, as quick and as quiet as a mouse, was out of the door before the priest had turned around. He waited in the dark corridor, and when the young man tiptoed out and turned the key, the Gallivespian began to follow him.
Brother Louis made for the tower, and when the President opened his door, Lord Roke darted through and made for the prie-dieu in the corner of the room. There he found a shadowy ledge where he crouched and listened.
Father MacPhail was not alone: Fra Pavel, the alethiometrist, was busy with his books, and another figure stood nervously by the window. This was Dr. Cooper, the experimental theologian from Bolvangar. They both looked up.
“Well done, Brother Louis,” said the President. “Bring it here, sit down, show me, show me. Well done!”
Fra Pavel moved some of his books, and the young priest laid the gold chain on the table. The others bent over to look as Father MacPhail fiddled with the catch. Dr. Cooper offered him a pocketknife, and then there was a soft click.
“Ah!” sighed the President.
Lord Roke climbed to the top of the desk so that he could see. In the naphtha lamplight there was a gleam of dark gold: it was a lock of hair, and the President was twisting it between his fingers, turning it this way and that.
“Are we certain this is the child’s?” he said.
“I am certain,” came the weary voice of Fra Pavel.
“And is there enough of it, Dr. Cooper?”
The pale-faced man bent low and took the lock from Father MacPhail’s fingers. He held it up to the light.
“Oh yes,” he said. “One single hair would be enough. This is ample.”
“I’m very pleased to hear it,” said the President. “Now, Brother Louis, you must return the locket to the good lady’s neck.”
The priest sagged faintly: he had hoped his task was over. The President placed the curl of Lyra’s hair in an envelope and shut the locket, looking up and around as he did so, and Lord Roke had to drop out of sight.
“Father President,” said Brother Louis, “I shall of course do as you command, but may I know why you need the child’s hair?”
“No, Brother Louis, because it would disturb you. Leave these matters to us. Off you go.”
The young man took the locket and left, smothering his resentment. Lord Roke thought of going back with him and waking Mrs. Coulter just as he was trying to replace the chain, in order to see what she’d do; but it was more important to find out what these people were up to.
As the door closed, the Gallivespian went back into the shadows and listened.
“How did you know where she had it?” said the scientist.
“Every time she mentioned the child,” the President said, “her hand went to the locket. Now then, how soon can it be ready?”
“A matter of hours,” said Dr. Cooper.
“And the hair? What do you do with that?”
“We place the hair in the resonating chamber. You understand, each individual is unique, and the arrangement of genetic particles quite distinct . . . Well, as soon as it’s analyzed, the information is coded in a series of anbaric pulses and transferred to the aiming device. That locates the origin of the material, the hair, wherever she may be. It’s a process that actually makes use of the Barnard-Stokes heresy, the many-worlds idea . . .”
“Don’t alarm yourself, Doctor. Fra Pavel has told me that the child is in another world. Please go on. The force of the bomb is directed by means of the hair?”
“Yes. To each of the hairs from which these ones were cut. That’s right.”
“So when it’s detonated, the child will be destroyed, wherever she is?”
There was a heavy indrawn breath from the scientist, and then a reluctant “Yes.” He swallowed, and went on, “The power needed is enormous. The anbaric power. Just as an atomic bomb needs a high explosive to force the uranium together and set off the chain reaction, this device needs a colossal current to release the much greater power of the severance process. I was wondering—”
“It doesn’t matter where it’s detonated, does it?”
“No. That is the point. Anywhere will do.”
“And it’s completely ready?”
“Now we have the hair, yes. But the power, you see—”