The door shut. The huge noise collapsed. But MacKerrie was gone.
Normally, in leaving Hazzard Laboratories, MacKerrie would have gone to his car in the parking lot inside. And then he would drive out through the gate. But he had a strong conviction that Dr. Carl Hazzard would already have called the gateman in an effort to intercept his departure. MacKerrie went instead to the house. There, he discovered from Mrs. Gray something which he already knew—that Marie was somewhere in the laboratory.
The man said hastily, ‘I won’t wait. Just let me out the front door.’
Out on the street, safely away, MacKerrie hailed a cab. As he was driven away, he wondered if Carl would phone Marie and tell her that MacKerrie had inadvertently disconnected him from control of his six-wheeled vehicle.
In the Brain Room, Carl’s initial agitation faded rapidly. He decided very swiftly not to involve Marie. And so—he told himself—it was simply a matter of waiting peacefully until he could contact MacKerrie. Which—he believed—would surely be not later than the next day.
And, in fact, he was peaceful until shortly after nine p.m, that night.
Chapter Seven
CAPTIVE OF THE ALIENOIDS
Peace ended when an automatic relay closed inside Cad. It was a circuit which normally connected him to the protective electrified fence that surrounded the laboratory grounds; and its message to him was that the electricity had shut off.
Carl stirred out of his quietness … and his intercom phone rang. It was the outside gate guard, reporting that there had been a cut-off of electricity to the protective fence. The harsh voice concluded, ‘I have no instruction about such a cut-off. It’s on a separate meter. What do you advise?’
The man-brain was now definitely startled … Is this accident? Or design?
He managed to say, ‘Call the electric company, and ask for emergency service.’
Having spoken, he broke the connection. He waited there, and he thought that, logically, it had to be a coincidence.
The intercom phone rang. Peters said, ‘My outside phone is dead, sir. Will you phone the electric company?’
‘Of course,’ said Carl.
First, he tried to phone out through the laboratory switchboard. When there was no dial tone, he—second—tried to phone on his private outside line, the one Silver had called him on. No dial tone.
This, decided Carl, is ridiculous. Obviously, though, it couldn’t mean anything sinister. In his precise fashion, he brought to mind a conversation he’d had with a phone company engineer a few years back. At the time there had been a problem with an employee suspected of dishonesty. It turned out that no matter how swiftly an alert phone technician was advised that the man was phoning out, he could not trace the call during the few minutes the suspect was on the line.
And that’s all the alienoids had had that morning, when he’d called the police station: two minutes, no more. So it was impossible that they had tracked him down.
Still … check.
He reconnected with the gateman. ‘Who else is on the premises, Peters?’ he asked.
‘Your wife, her housekeeper, and the laboratory watchman, sir. Dr. MacKerrie is sleeping at the Brain Foundation tonight, instead of in his cottage at the rear.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Unhappily, Carl recalled his phone call in the wee hours after Silver called, and the recorded reply from Mac.
Since the two watchman were armed, Carl presumed that they could take care of themselves. As for Marie, during his courtship of her, he had taught her to fire a pistol. But now he had a frustrated feeling that if Marie were suddenly required to locate the .25 caliber automatic he’d given her, she wouldn’t be able to.
That incredible woman, he thought. She’ll be the only problem in a crisis, I’ll bet …
Should he call her and warn her? It seemed too soon. Marie didn’t react well to anxiety. She usually worried twice as much as a threat called for. Better wait and make sure, before putting that kind of strain on her.
‘Sir,’ said the hoarse voice of Peters, ‘take a look at section 3-N.’
3-N was the western part of the north fence. As Carl focused his remote control TV on the indicated section, he saw a man’s head was peering over the fence into the grounds. Presumably, the intruder was standing on a step ladder.
As Carl watched, the intruder edged up until he was kneeling on the concrete top. Then, while holding onto one of the strands of wire (which was normally electrified), he reached back and down—and drew up a ladder. It was evidently made of one of the light metals, for he swung it up over the highest wire; held it there, then climbed over himself, and finally lowered it until its bottom touched the ground inside the fence; all done with great ease.
There seemed to be a moment of imbalance as his foot somewhat blindly sought for the top rung. It took him a measurable time to steady himself, but presently he began to descend, as the head of a second man peered over the fence.
Carl watched, helpless to do anything … If they manage to get inside this room, I won’t even be able to defend myself—that was what he’d better decide about; if they broke in to where he was, what to do about that?
The severity of the danger astounded him. Incredibly, in this crisis he was completely disconnected from all of the equipment of his six-wheeled support vehicle, including the big rifle. As the appalling realization came that he would have to sit here and await events, he did manage a rueful thought: There goes my longstanding theory, that crises in human affairs are only caused by the side effects of the man-woman thing …
Clearly not relevant here; so it seemed to Carl.
During those rapid moments, while he considered his predicament, the second man started down the ladder, a third straddled the wires, and the head of a fourth peered from behind the far side of the wall.
As Carl watched, Number Two reached the ground and ran off to one side, Number Three came down and ran in another direction; numbers four, five, and six took equally swift, evasive action. Altogether, in the next ten minutes, Carl counted thirty-eight intruders.
And that seemed to be the invading force.
Time to act. Which meant it was time to decide what the other people on the grounds should do. No time to do anything for himself except figure out some way whereby no one noticed him.
Carl called Peters on the intercom. Once, twice, three times.
No reply. Good God! Moments later, when the intercom call to Marie also went unanswered, Carl suffered a reversion to an old impatience.
He visualized Marie sitting in her bed, reading. And refusing to answer the phone. In her time, she had done a thousand maddening things like that … In a minute, Mrs. Gray would pick up the phone, but, meanwhile, what a waste of vital time.
The minute went by; and Mrs. Gray did not lift the receiver, either.
While he considered that, and felt suitably baffled, Carl switched over to a view of the interior of the laboratory. Silence. Long, dimly lighted aisles between dark rows of darkly gleaming machinery. Still deserted—no, wait!
Over by one of the storage rooms, flashlights winked. Several hard-to-see men were retreating from the locked door of that room.
The next second: a sharp explosion. A flash of flame from the door … By God, they’ve knocked out the lock.
Instantly, Carl had his own optimum solution. The one thing he had been able to do before he was mobile was unlock his own door. He unlocked it now, hastily, thinking: When they come to my room, and find the door unlocked, they’ll begin with the assumption that there’s nothing important inside; and when they come in I’ll be just another machine standing here …
It turned out to be a false analysis. The half-dozen men who entered the Brain Room eight minutes later paused to survey the considerable machinery inside. After moments only, one of them gestured at Carl with his thumb. Without a word being spoken, all the men moved purposefully over, eased Carl out of the wheel slots he was settled into, and rolled the six-wheeled vehicle that cont
ained him through the open door, along several silent aisles, and up a ramp into the capacious rear end of a truck that had backed through the unguarded outside gate. He had time to see that the van with the rifle was in the forward part of the big interior of the truck.
Swiftly, wide holding straps laced him against one side of the truck’s inside, and the ramp folded up and became the truck’s rear door. The machine started to move forward. Carl was aware when it went over the bump and down-incline that led to the street.
He could feel it turn right, toward the nearby freeway entrance. Within minutes it was racing along at freeway speeds; and it was presently evident that he had been successfully captured.
Chapter Eight
SPACESHIP IN THE SKY
Earlier—
Marie’s intercom phone rang … Carl, she thought, and let it ring. Moments later the faint sound of footsteps outside her apartment heralded Mrs. Gray, who said, ‘A Colonel Nicer is on the line.’
Puzzled, Marie picked up her receiver. ‘How did you get on our intercom?’ she asked.
‘I’m calling from the gate,’ was the low-voiced reply—the tone was instantly electrifying—‘We have just taken the gateman here, and the factory watchman, into protective custody.’ His voice changed, and he spoke again before she could react to the astounding information. ‘Dr. Marie,’ he said earnestly, ‘this place is in process of being attacked by a considerable force. Can you and Mrs. Gray get dressed, and go separately in two cars that will drive up to your street door in five minutes?’
‘Attacked!’ echoed Marie at that point, faintly.
She had a wild thought the next instant:—Is this his way of putting pressure on a woman he is courting … The mere possibility was staggering. The most fantastic method she had ever heard of.
‘The alienoids are coming,’ said Nicer’s voice, ‘and right now we’re disconnecting the intercom. So quick! And don’t worry about Dr. Carl. He knows what’s going on, and as you’re aware he’s mobile. I’ll call you when it’s over. Goodbye.’
Marie gasped, ‘The who is coming?’ She felt blank. Alienoids? There was a click. She was speaking to a vacated line.
As she dressed with frantic haste, she was remembering the board meeting only two mornings ago of the Non-Pareil Corporation. She represented Carl, the former president and the largest stockholder. Like the other directors, she had sat at a gilt table, and couldn’t help but notice that all of the three other women present were younger and prettier than herself. There was Tina Glay, a blue-eyed stunner, whose husband was a vice-president (but out of the country, so she represented him). And of course, as always, also on hand was Melina Malagini, the beautiful woman with the ever-narrowed eyes, who attended all board meetings with her husband, who—people believed—invariably voted according to her judgment and not his own. And last, among the women was Ms. Craig, thirty-six years old, heiress to her late parents’ stock. A few years before, on hearing of Carl’s book on women (which he had titled, Women Are Doomed: the Aphorisms of Carl Hazzard), she had calmly announced a book project of her own, coincidentally titled, Men Are Doomed.
Carl was not amused, although he did laugh scornfully on several occasions. And a few times in Marie’s presence he had asked in his most ironic voice for a progress report on the work, ‘Put me down,’ he had said, ‘for the first copy to come off the printing press.’
In her conversations with Carl, Kyra Craig had always been very calm. In connection with the progress of the writing, she invariably said, ‘It’s coming fine.’ As far as any difficulties were concerned, she had reported, ‘The hardest section to be objective about has to do with the aphorisms on Real Men.’ In reference to his request to purchase a copy, she had always stated, ‘My book will not be for sale to men. It will be available to women only.’
There was another drama in which Kyra Craig played a role. She was playing it this morning in front of Marie’s eyes. Kyra was carefully avoiding looking at the man who sat across the table from Marie. As Marie vaguely recalled it, this individual had as a youth been Kyra’s first fiancé, when she was still in her late teens. The engagement had been in that long ago broken for reasons unknown to outsiders. But, since then, Ms. Craig had been married three times. Her current husband was a movie producer and a rather nice guy.
This particular shareholder’s presence was actually quite an event. Marie hadn’t seen him since he had gone off to Viet Nam in the late sixties. This unexpected person was Philip Nicer, only ‘child’ (approximately her own age) of another deceased vice-president. As Marie noticed him, and nodded recognition, he nodded back with a faint smile. But in addition his gaze momentarily locked with hers. She had a startled impression of being evaluated in a single lightning appraisal. Then the eyes, which were grey, turned away, thoughtful.
As the meeting neared its finale, the president—who had formerly been the financial expert of the organization—introduced the sharp-eyed Philip as ‘not only one of the leading shareholders of Non-Pareil but as Colonel Nicer of U.S. Intelligence, who has some important data for us.’
Marie was impressed. Colonel! she thought. Why, that’s next to General—The once nice young man had gone far, indeed.
Colonel Philip Nicer, when he stood up, was five feet ten inches and slender; and his voice, when he spoke, had a determined vibrance in it. He said that it was the belief of Military Intelligence that extra vigilance had again become necessary at all staff levels. ‘Somebody—we don’t know who—is infiltrating all major space manufacturers. Our task, of course, is to find out who these people are, and who is behind them.’ He particularly urged board members, who were also working officers, to re-evaluate longtime key people.
After his brief speech, Nicer came straight over to Marie—which was a little startling. But she was (she had to admit it) charmed. For about one minute. Then she got the gist of what he was saying.
He wanted to come over to Hazzard Laboratories and interview a dozen key people, including Carl and MacKerrie and several scientists, all of whom he named. That startled her. Names, she knew, were not easy to come by in a world as full of people as an Intelligence officer’s world must be. One had to be sincerely inquisitive to have that information at one’s tongue tip.
‘And—’ Nicer completed his series of requests—‘when I’ve talked to those individuals, I should like to drop by your official residence and have a discussion with you about, let’s see he pursed his lips, tilted his head, smiled, and continued about transactional psychology in personal relations.’
He knows! About her affair with MacKerrie (even though it was now ended). About the fact that Carl Had threatened to accuse Dr. Walter Drexel of murdering him; and of Walter’s threat to implicate her—all that—she realized suddenly had been in Nicer’s appraising glance minutes before.
The shock was so great that Marie didn’t react by moving. She reacted by continuing to sit very still. After what was to her an indeterminate time, she had a wry remembrance of one of the old Carl’s aphorisms from his unpublished work, Women Are Doomed: ‘The fate of a beautiful woman in trouble is to be passed around from man to man on an exact transactional basis.’
Marie was taken to a hotel in the Wilshire district in a military car driven by a man in uniform. The room she was taken to was of the high quality that she was accustomed to. For a while she lay on the bed fully dressed, tense and anxious. But finally she thought:—Okay, so perhaps he has a key to this room also. But the truth is, he’s a gentleman. I’m sure he’ll phone first and ask my permission to come up. I can decide then whether or not to let him …
With that, she undressed, slipped in under the sheets, thought:—The fact is, I am receiving the special care that goes with the transaction he offered me, and I might as well realize it … and she slept as she was having the thought.
Marie struggled out of sleep—and realized what the problem was. Fuzzily, she grabbed at the phone, which was ringing in short bursts, typical of some hotel switchboar
d operators.
‘Hello,’ she murmured.
‘Did I awaken you?’ said the voice of Philip Nicer. He spoke in an oddly cosy, personal way.
Marie had fumbled the bedside light on by this time, and had had a glimpse of her watch: Ten to four … Eeeee! …
Then:—It must be over, she thought. The attack, everything.
What happened? The question flowed out of her in a single breath.
‘I’m downstairs,’ Nicer said. ‘May I come up?’
What happened then was not exactly a pause. It was a process of thought. The thing that amazed Marie was that no words had been spoken by him or by her that implied what was now only a single word away from fruition. No proposal had been made, and none received. The entire dialogue that had ever passed between them, if written down, would in no way appear to mean what it was now obviously meaning. And which of course she, and he also, had clearly understood it to have meant.
The rapid awareness, all in the space of a breath or two, changed the situation.
The truth was she was not a woman who was available for swift affairs. Or, normally, for any at all.
The thought-feeling about that had been forcing itself to the surface of her mind almost from the first moment of awakening. And with it a sense of—
Something very complex. In Marie, at that instant, a thousand barriers sprang, so to speak, into ‘ready’ position. The sum and essence and meaning in that solid mass had her say now:
‘Really, Colonel—at this hour?’
‘I’ll be damned,’ said Philip Nicer.
As the man uttered the exclamation, there was a faint stirring of regret in Marie; a conviction that she ought not to let this be the end. Thinking thus, she said quickly, ‘Why don’t we have breakfast together?’
The man’s voice at the other end seemed to have recovered when he spoke again. For he said quietly, ‘I have a 7:45 meeting. So why don’t you join me for breakfast at 6:30.’
The Secret Galactics Page 6