The Arthur Leo Zagat Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur Leo Zagat

  An illimitable expanse of snow and ice stretched desolate beneath him. Overhead the Aurora’s macabre dance of sheeted light was eerie against night’s black curtain. For to the west an air-borne dot circled, minutely scarlet. Instinct, the call of kind to kind in the vast loneliness, told Dean Thorkel that this was a plane, man-guided. It faded into the lurid dance of the Northern Lights.

  The automatic control relinquished the plane’s guidance. Moments later, Dean Thorkel stumbled across tumbled blocks of ice. He passed a blue plane, frost-whitened, hidden beneath the overarch of a pressure-ridge. His breath fell in snow before his mouth, and each inhalation was an agony. The snow-hill just ahead was a house. Its outlines wavered as the icy fingers of a forty-below temperature twisted his brain. The shape of a door was vague in the ice-encrusted wall.

  He forced a numbed hand to it. But the door opened before he touched it. A tall figure stood in the jagged rectangle. Its long face was a white, expressionless mask. Gregory Vance lifted an arm, jerkily, beckoned Thorkel in.

  “Greg!” Thorkel’s intended shout was a frozen whisper. “Greg! You’re all right! I thought—” Thorkel went across the threshold, reached for the statue-like figure of his friend, touched its shoulder. Suddenly Vance crumpled, to the floor, slowly, horribly, as the man-form robots used in domestic service crumple when the power-cast fails.

  “Greg!” Dead eyes stared up at Thorkel. Just beneath the hairline a threadlike scar circled, crimson on the gray-white forehead. Thorkel peered closer—

  “Freeze. And keep your hands away from your body!” Dean Thorkel twisted to the sharp command behind him. He saw a squat apparition, formless in a loose black robe; the head a faceless black globe, a black-gloved hand thrusting at him the blued steel of a forty-shot Trinite gun. Thorkel stiffened, his arms grotesquely out from his body.

  The voice came again through the swathings, flat, colorless.

  “You are Dean Thorkel.” It was not a question, it was a statement.

  Eyes glittered through holes in the ebon fabric. The black figure was ten feet away. It was useless to attack him. Before Thorkel could possibly close with him the tiny Trinite projectiles from his gun would tear into the American, would explode, and he would be spattered flesh.

  “Yes, I’m Thorkel. What do you want?”

  “The keywords of the cipher Vance left with you.”

  Then the formula was safe! The cipher was unreadable without the keywords. Thorkel shook his head, wordlessly.

  The flat, cold voice was brittle.

  “It will be better for you to give it to me willingly. I shall have it from you—be assured of that. And the process will not be—pleasant.”

  Torture! The Mongol’s were adepts at it. But torture could not make a dead man talk! Thorkel’s knees dipped, his hands fisted. He sprang—straight at the pointing gun!

  Something caught his ankles, tripped him. Amazingly, Vance’s body jerked toward him, headfirst across the floor! Thorkel fell…

  CHAPTER III

  Vance’s Corpse

  The newsman lifted slowly back to consciousness through a weltering purple darkness that was thick about him. His head pumped pain against a thin band tight around his skull. Fingers fumbled at his brow. His eyes opened. A black-swathed head floated before them, and glittering pupils in which glinted green flecks of light peered at him. A relentless, unhuman voice beat against his dulled ears.

  “What is the code?”

  Thorkel’s lips tasted salty blood. But he forced words through them. “No!”

  The black head drifted upward as the Oriental straightened. The gun was gone from his hand, but there was something else in it, something metallic from which wires trailed. One filament came down to Thorkel’s head, the other disappeared within the spy’s robe.

  The gloved hand twisted at that which it held. Fire bound Dean Thorkel’s head in agony. Fire ran, a searing flood, through his veins. Sight, hearing, were gone. Feeling alone was left as every cell of his body quivered in anguish.

  Then the fire died, and he was a limp, helpless mass on the floor.

  “What is the keyword to the cipher?” Cold, pitiless, the inexorable question came down to him from the masked figure.

  There was no escape, no hope of rescue. Greg Vance had chosen this location because of its isolation, its loneliness. Eventually human endurance would crumple and Thorkel would be compelled to divulge the key- words. Yet Thorkel still could say, through gritted teeth, “No, you scum,” and gather himself to withstand the return of hell.

  It didn’t come. The spy twisted to a frost-hazed window. The stutter of a descending plane was muffled by thick walls. The masked torturer bent to his victim, twitched the wire off. An inner door closed behind his retreating form.

  The front door shoved in before the rush of bulked bodies.

  “What’s’ going on in here? What’s all the delay?” Two men, formless in heavy furs, were inside the room. There were Trinite guns in their mitted hands. There were red tabs on their shoulders, the badges of the Northwest Flying Police!

  “He’s inside,” Thorkel gasped. “The killer’s in there!” He poked a shaking hand at the inner door.

  The Flyies whirled.

  “Come on, Connors.” one yelled, “McKraken’s inside!” The two made a diving rush across the floor, were in the other room.

  A wave of nausea rose, engulfed Dean Thorkel in a dizzy whirlpool. Air! He had to have air! He fumbled through the door, reeling. Intense cold struck at him, froze the mists from his brain. He saw a black shape flitting across the ice, saw it vanish behind a hummock. The slayer was escaping! He must—

  Iron fingers gripped his arm, hauled him back into the house. A gun snouted in his face. “Not so fast, you!”

  “He got out,” Thorkel yammered. “He’s getting away! Quick—you can still catch him!”

  The Flyie’s reply was heavy with sarcasm.

  “Oh yeah! We’ll chase shadows outside while you beat it. Say, we cops may be dumb, guy, but we don’t fall for the same stunt twice. Stick ’em up!”

  “Hey, Daniels!” The one called Connors was standing over Greg’s body. He had a paper in his hand. “Guess who this stiff is! It’s that Professor Vance—missing since Monday. This ‘tele’ picture’s kind of blurred, but it’s him all right.”

  Daniels swore picturesquely. “An’ this is the bird that killed him. Well, Connors, that McKraken’s slipped us, but we’ve made a damn sight better catch. Here’s where we get our stripes.” Steel cuffs clicked over Thorkel’s wrists.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake,” the newsman protested. “The murderer is escaping while—”

  “Sure it’s terrible—for you,” the officer scoffed, heavily humorous. “I’ll say you’re running in tough luck. Here we’re out hunting a mechanic from Z40 refueling field that’s stabbed his boss. We see your gyro’s down here, think it’s the yellow boat he took to make his getaway, and come busting in—just in time to spoil your little party.”

  “I tell you I’m not the murderer,” Thorkel pleaded. “The real killer is escaping, while you’re fooling around with me. Vance got a call for help through to me—I’m chief editor of New York Newscast Central—and I reached here just too late. Vance opened the door for me. He dropped just as I got in. It was that close. The killer jumped me and—”

  “That’s all wet,” drawled Connors, kneeling to examine the dead Vance. “This corpse is stiffer than a poker—he’s been dead at least twelve hours.”

  Hysteria edged Thorkel’s cry.

  “But he talked to me not an hour ago. I saw him—”

  The policeman’s big hand flicked out, slapped stingingly against his mouth. “Cut the fairy tales, you.” He shoved the bewildered man roughly into a chair, snapped another handcuff around one ankle and a chair-leg. “Let’s take a look at the body.”

  Thorkel buried his face in his linked hands. An hour ago Vance had called for help on the wave-lengths. Only Vance and Cliff Hoskins kn
ew how to compose the combination of his private line. Minutes ago Vance had welcomed him at the door of his retreat. Now he was dead and the Flying Policeman, trained to determinations of that nature, his opinion not to be disputed, had pronounced the scientist to have been lifeless for twelve hours at least!

  Talk penetrated.

  “Man, look at this! What the hell has this bird been up to?” The prisoner lifted his head, saw that Greg’s body had been turned over on its face, saw Connors pointing to wires that coiled out of two tiny holes in the center of a shaved patch at the back of Vance’s head. They trailed across the floor and were kinked where Thorkel’s feet had caught in them in his mad, sacrificial rush at the black-swathed figure!

  “We’d better send in a report, before we investigate further,” Connors was saying as Thorkel’s eyes clung bewilderedly to the metal threads. “Looks like the Borealis has quit. We ought to get the captain up here.”

  “Check! There’s a communication set in the other room. And say, confirm this lad’s claim that he is editor of New York Newscast.” Connors went out, and his partner turned to the prisoner.

  “What’s the idea of the wires?”

  “I don’t know anything about them. Look here—”

  The policeman jerked about, his Trinite gun suddenly in his hand. The outer door was slowly opening! Thorkel went rigid in his chair, expecting again the squat, jet-draped torturer. The one who strode in, though short, was a fur-clad bulk. Thorkel glimpsed his face. An incredulous shout leaped to his lips—“Cliff!”

  Daniels’ gun stabbed.

  “Hands up, you! Up high!”

  Cliff Hoskins’ arms reached ceilingward, but his voice was unperturbed. “Hello. Dean. Glad you, at least, are safe.” His calm tone steadied Thorkel, he was no longer friendless in an inimical world.

  The police officer advanced threateningly.

  “One of his gang, eh.” His voice rose. “Connors! Oh, Joe! Come in here. There’s another baby just popped in. Come in here and put the bracelets on him.”

  “No, cop. You’re not putting any bracelets on me. On the contrary, you’re taking them off Dean Thorkel, here.”

  Daniels’ jaw thrust out, and his eyes slitted. “Oh yeah? Mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you? Who the blazes do you think you are?”

  “Lieutenant Hoskins, of the Army Intelligence Service. On special duty.”

  “More fairy stories! You birds sure tell them high, wide, and handsome.”

  “That will be enough low comedy from you. Take my thumbprints, check them with Headquarters.” Authority snapped in Hoskins’ voice. “Be quick about it too, if you want to save your jobs.”

  The flying policeman’s tone was sullen as he saw credit for an important capture slipping from him.

  “All right. All right. I’ll check your thumbprints. But there’s no need to get shirty. I’m just doing my duty.”

  “Right. But try to do it less unpleasantly.” The thumbprinting was quickly accomplished, and Connors retreated to the televisophone. Daniels permitted Hoskins to lower his arms, but watched him wearily. Hoskins ignored him, spoke to Thorkel in low tones.

  “We’ll have you out of those as soon as the checkup comes through. I got wind of what was going on up here only a couple of hours ago, and I sure burned the stratosphere getting here from Harbin. Just what has happened?”

  Thorkel’s words tumbled over each other. Hoskins’ face was expressionless, but his eyes grew granite-hard. “I can’t figure it out at all,” Thorkel ended. “There’s something wrong, somewhere.”

  “Greg was already dead when you got the first message.” Hoskins stated that humorlessly.

  “Huh!”

  “I’m not spoofing. The tip I got in Harbin gave me the picture. The Oriental spy reached here yesterday and tortured Vance to get the formula. Greg’s leaky heart gave way. The spy had the cipher, but he had to get you up here to read it. He posed Greg’s body in front of the visophone tube-eye and spoke from some hiding place nearby. The corpse started to topple, he had to pull the connection in a hurry. But he’d got what he wanted across.”

  Thorkel objected, almost pleadingly.

  “But Greg opened the door for me. He motioned me in.”

  “That’s the meaning of those wires. The Asiatic scientists have found that by applying an electric current of a certain intensity to the proper brain areas they can produce muscular reactions in a dead body similar to those the same areas controlled in life. It is merely a refinement of the ancient experiment of making a dead frog kick by electrifying the muscles themselves. You disturbed the adjustment when you touched Greg, and he dropped.”

  “He’s Hoskins, all right.” Connors’ reentry cut the friends’ colloquy short. “And H.Q. says we are to obey his orders to the letter.”

  Daniels flushed brick red.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he stammered, “but I—”

  “Forget it!” the Intelligence Man interrupted. “Unlock those cuffs. Then get out in your plane and scout for the killer.”

  As the door closed behind the cops Hoskins swung back to Thorkel.

  “But they haven’t the ghost of a show,” the latter said. “The spy is halfway back to Manchukuo.” Hoskins shook his head.

  “He must be hanging around. As long as you’re alive with the key to that formula he won’t give up. That’s why I sent the cops away. I’m sure he couldn’t have spotted my arrival. He’ll figure you’ve been left alone here, and return. We’ll be ready for him this time. He’s a sly fox, and we’ve got to be careful how we bait the trap. The stage must be set just right. Let’s see—” Hoskins’ eyes were glowing with a strange light. “Get back in that chair and play ’possum. I’ll hide in the other room.”

  Thorkel sprawled in the chair, his head lolling.

  “How’s that?”

  “Great! But keep your eyes closed. And—I almost forgot! You had better give me the keywords to the cipher in case anything goes wrong. He may get one of us.”

  “The keywords are—” Thorkel cut off. Greg’s unclosed, dead eyes seemed eerily to signal a message to him. Words echoed within his brain. ‘Remember—give the formula to no one else, whoever he is, no matter what the circumstances.’ “Perhaps I had better not, Cliff,” he said slowly. “Greg enjoined me to give the secret only to the Secretary of War, no matter what happened. I’ve a queer feeling that I should not disobey him.”

  Hoskins’ black eyes blazed sudden wrath. Then, with a visible effort, he was smiling.

  “Don’t be a fool, old man. Greg could not have foreseen our present predicament. Besides, you know damn well that he would have entrusted the cipher to me, had I been available. He told me his plans months ago.”

  “You’re right, Cliff. I’m a superstitious ass. The words are—” There was a jarring thud against the door, and sounds of a scuffle. A blast of cold swept in a struggling group. The two Flyies were back, and between them—Dean grunted in astonishment—between them was the wizened form of—Randall Haley!

  Hoskins’ words were thick with inexplicable fury!

  “What’s this?”

  Daniels saluted.

  “We spotted this guy going like blazes in one of them new one-man rocket planes, but we couldn’t get within two hundred miles of his speed. He landed about a quarter-mile from here, concealed his plane and sneaked right up to this house. He was trying to listen at the door when we jumped him!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Ho-Lung Unmasked

  Thorkel stared at his assistant. Haley must have stolen the formula, must have known that he held the key. The damning facts tumbled into his brain chaotically. Information came to the Newscast editors’ desks that was often suppressed—for the nation’s good.

  Haley’s newscard would admit him where the general public was barred! Then Randall Haley was the Asiatic spy—Ho-Lung! He had returned to complete his crime, just as Cliff had predicted. Dean Thorkel leaped to his feet, flung out an accusing arm.

  �
�Haley,” he shouted. “Where’s that paper? Where’s the paper with the formula of the green ray?” His face was livid.

  The little assistant editor appeared dazed. He retreated before Thorkel’s fury, despite the Flyie’s grasp on his arm.

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Thorkel,” he twittered. “I—I came up here to get you out of trouble—to identify you. What—what paper are you talking about?”

  “That acting won’t get you anything, Haley, or Ho-Lung. You’ve got away with it for twenty years, but the game’s up. You know what paper I mean; the paper you stole from my desk.” Thorkel advanced on the man. Haley was against the wall, one foot was lifting, slowly, its sole scraping against the plaster. His lips trembled pathetically.

  “—I don’t know to what you refer. But—but if anything is missing from your desk, perhaps Mr. Hoskins can tell you about it. He looked through its drawers last night—said that you had sent him for something. I knew he was your friend and permitted it.”

  Thorkel thrust his face close to the birdlike countenance. “You lie, damn you.”

  “The whole night force will bear me out. Visophone them and ask.”

  There was ludicrous dignity in Haley’s refutation, the ring of truth in his statement. Dean Thorkel wheeled to Hoskins, who had drawn a little apart. The chair was between, and Thorkel caught at it.

  “What about it, Cliff?” A faint sneer lifted the Secret Service man’s lip. His hand hovered very close to the butt of his holstered gun. “He’s just playing for time, Dean.”

  For an instant Thorkel was irresolute, then something snapped in his brain. The holes in Hoskins’ smoothly spun story were suddenly caverns to his sharpened perception. His fingers flattened against the metal of the chair.

  “Maybe,” he barked, “maybe you’re right. You’re so damn pat with your explanations of everything, suppose you explain a few more things. For instance, how you got here right on the spot, moments after the spy escaped, without the Flyies’ having seen your plane. Why you were so all-fired anxious to get the keywords of the cipher out of me as soon as they were gone. And how it happened—I was a fool not to see it sooner—how on earth it happened that the faked call came in on my private line, the wave-length combination of which was known only to Greg, who was dead, and to you!”