The Devastators

by Donald Hamilton

  “I should have guessed,” I said. “She wouldn’t have a switch that would blow her to hell instantly. There’d be a time-delay, anything from five minutes to half an hour, enough to let her get clear once she’d pulled the handle. Enough to let the rats get well dispersed before the place went boom… You’d better go watch the hall. I’ll be with you in a minute. Now you’ve pulled that trigger once, maybe it will come easier next time.”

  He looked at me without resentment, and moved dully to the door, which made me feel lousy. I mean, the thing was done; there wasn’t any sense in rubbing his nose in it. I grimaced, and looked down at the slim woman on the floor, still smiling faintly in death. I went over and checked McRow. He was dead, too. At least that much had been accomplished, for what it was worth now. The dark-faced man was dead. It occurred to me that I never had learned his name or nationality, not that it really mattered. I got the gun from his shoulder holster.

  The stuff on the desk caught my eye. I went over and looked for some papers of significance, secret formulas, instructions telling how to destroy the world, or save it. There was nothing that looked significant. There was still, however, a little pile of my belongings. I took time to slip my watch on my wrist and clip my folding knife to the neck of my pajama jacket. It had been given me by a woman of whom I’d been quite fond, and I didn’t want to lose it if I could help it. Without pockets, I had no place to transport the rest of the stuff, so I just left it there.

  As I started for the door, the Shpagin opened up with a short burst that echoed up and down the rock corridor outside. Les glanced around as I reached him.

  “They’re alerted, but I can hold the stairs as long as I have ammunition,” he said. “Did you get that other man’s gun? Give it to me.”

  Something had happened to him, now that he was getting to shoot at men. His load of guilt had slipped away; he looked almost happy. I gave him the extra pistol. “Now you run along, old chap,” he said. “Back the way we came. Turn right outside the observation ward. There is a passage there that leads to the cliff face, I am told. It is covered with painted papier-mâché or canvas so it won’t show to seaward, but that shouldn’t be much of an obstacle. Can you swim?”

  “More or less,” I said. “Look, I—”

  “One of us must get away to give the warning. You are not going to pick this moment to turn noble, my dear fellow? After all, I already have the symptoms; I am doomed. You still have a chance, if you get away. Cheerio.”

  I looked down at him, crouching there. It seemed to me I was leaving a lot of doomed people behind. Again, there was nothing to say that didn’t sound corny. I heard the Shpagin give another burst as I loped up the corridor. I almost fell when I stepped on something small and soft that squealed loudly; you wouldn’t think there was that big a noise in that small a body. Obviously Madame Ling’s black lever had done its work. The rats were loose.

  I kept an eye out for the sentry from above, who was bound to have heard the racket. I saw him come into sight outside the observation ward, ducked back, waited until he was well silhouetted against the light, and dropped him with the last shot in my revolver. Below, the burp gun cut loose again.

  I had a momentary thought of Vadya as I passed the ward in which I’d left her, but I knew she wouldn’t expect me to stop for her and I didn’t. She was in no condition for a high dive and a long swim, anyway. It would kill her just as dead as Madame Ling’s high explosive. The corridor leading to the cliff was cold and dark, and I had company in it. I told myself that I couldn’t catch anything from a rat that I hadn’t already got from a hypodermic, but the scurryings and squeakings didn’t help the morale.

  Then I ran into the end of the corridor, bruising my knuckles on some kind of a wooden framework. There was canvas between the timbers. I cut at it with the knife, and daylight flooded the tunnel. Madame Ling’s luck would have been in if it hadn’t already run out: the sunny weather of the morning had given way to rain and fog. I thought I saw the shape of a vessel of some kind, far out at sea, but I couldn’t be sure. I looked down.

  It wasn’t an encouraging sight. I mean, out west where I grew up, water was something you used for diluting your whiskey a little when you outgrew soft drinks and didn’t feel like beer. Otherwise, except for purposes of cleanliness, I’ve never had much truck with the stuff. Oh, I learned to swim after a fashion in a pool liberally laced with chlorine, and I got some small-boat training along with weapons, codes, ciphers, drugs, unarmed combat, and all the rest of the stuff when I joined the outfit. But water has never been my favorite element.

  I can’t tell you the height of the drop, exactly. It wasn’t quite as impossibly high as Madame Ling’s casual mention had suggested, but then nothing she’d said had turned out to be quite the way she’d said it. It was a good two stories down, maybe three. There were sharp rocks below, on which black water broke into foam. I’d have to go well out to clear them. To the right, around a shoulder of rock, was the cove; to the left was nothing but sheer cliff, with no landing place visible, and the whole thing was due to explode any minute, anyway, if Madame Ling hadn’t been bluffing about her destruct circuit. I didn’t think she had been, time delay or no. All I could do was swim out to sea and wait for the place to blow and then hope I had strength enough to get back ashore somehow.

  Standing there, I could hear shouts and gunshots from the cove. Suddenly there were some sharp crackling noises in there, and for a moment I thought Les must have charged the stairs and carried the fight right down to the landing area, which seemed crazy. Then a small boat poked its nose around the shoulder of rock. It came into sight, driven by a racketing outboard motor and guided by a man I recognized. Basil was making his escape at full throttle. The gray box he’d been carrying lay on the seat beside him.

  I didn’t have time to think about it, which was just as well. There were half a dozen small animals crawling over my feet, anyway, which made it seem a desirable place to leave. I just dove, throwing myself well out from the cliff. Suicide was not part of the plan, but for a moment, as I hung in the air, I thought I’d overdone it and would plunge headfirst right through the boat, undoubtedly breaking my neck in the process. Then Basil glanced up, startled, and threw the tiller hard over, and gravity took hold of me, and I hit well short of the craft.

  The impact almost fractured my skull. The solid water was like a club. Dazed, I felt myself rushing down and down, without strength enough to make the upward turn. There were a couple of moments when I didn’t even know which way the surface was. By the time I got things sorted out down there in the bitter-cold water, I was running out of air. I paddled upward weakly, burst through the surface, and something glanced heavily off my shoulder as I gasped for breath. I saw Basil standing in the boat, swinging an oar for another try at my head. Apparently his panicky swerve to escape me had stalled his motor somehow, or he’d killed it to keep from capsizing.

  I let myself go under again, and saw the oar blade slice through the silvery surface, grabbed it, and pulled hard. He came right to me like a good boy. He was no trouble at all. He couldn’t swim any better than I could, and I paid my debt to Vadya—and maybe to Nancy Glenmore, too—with hardly any effort. He didn’t seem to be even trying. When I got him back to the boat, I saw at least part of the reason. He had only one hand to use. The other wrist was chained to the gray box.

  I managed to get the body half into the boat without swamping the little craft. I swam around to the other side, heaved myself in, and pulled him aboard. I took a quick look at the metal box, recognizing it now: it was one of the standard courier cases. The weight indicated something inside besides paper: it was undoubtedly booby-trapped against tampering, with a charge that would go off if the handcuff was opened with anything but the right key, if the chain was cut, or if the box itself was attacked by a jimmy or other unauthorized instrument.

  I didn’t have the slightest doubt what the non-explosive contents were. Tricky to the last, Madame Ling hadn’t been wil
ling to entrust the results of her experiments wholly to the vessel in which she expected to make her getaway. In fact, she’d probably intended to use herself as a decoy if things went wrong, drawing attention from the preliminary copy of her report that she was sending to some trusted agent along the coast, using Basil as her messenger.

  Like Vadya, I’d been a little surprised that she’d been unwilling to stick by her agreement and sell the man out. Certainly I’d never seen a woman less likely to be troubled by considerations of personal loyalty. But now her reasoning made sense, because Basil was the ideal courier here. A braver man, carrying a secret of this value, might have been tempted to cash in on it somehow, but not Basil. He wouldn’t have had the nerve to let anyone tinker with the booby-trapped case to which he was attached no matter what the possible profit might be. Chained to a bomb, he would think of nothing but getting rid of it quickly and safely, by delivering it to the person who had the handcuff key…

  In any case, I had the secret of Dr. Archibald McRow’s super-bug. I also, no doubt, had the secret of the serum that would combat it—well, sixty per cent worth.

  I turned to the outboard motor and yanked at the cord. Somebody was shooting at me from the shore; I’d drifted into sight of the cove. A boat was beached there, much larger than mine, piled high with cages, but the loading process had come to a standstill now. A couple of men were wading into the water toward me, trying to close the range. I yanked at the cord again, wishing I knew more about those lousy little two-cycle motors: it’s a form of machinery with which I’ve had hardly any experience.

  A burp gun opened up, and I heard the ricochets whine past, and saw the bullet-splashes move in my direction. Then the whole world seemed to tremble, and the cliff came down.

  24

  The face above me said, “I am terribly sorry, sir. About your friend. He sank before we could reach him.”

  “My friend?” My voice seemed to come from miles away.

  “The man you were trying to rescue. There’s no need to blame yourself, sir. You did your best. Now just hold still, please, while I bandage this gash on your shoulder. You are lucky to be alive. Your boat was smashed to kindling… Oh, just one question, sir. Was your friend carrying explosives of some kind? I mean, there was an odd underwater disturbance a minute or so after he went down…”

  By this time I was aware that I was lying on the deck of a boat or small ship. I also could remember being hurled into the water and swimming, it seemed, miles with Basil’s inert body, dragged downward by that damn metal box. Apparently it had been booby-trapped as I’d guessed, and the water-pressure had sprung the sides as it sank, setting off the charge. That took care of McRow’s immortal contribution to science. It also took care of my contribution toward saving the world. That was up to other people now.

  I said, “Colonel Stark.”

  “The Colonel is in the wireless shack, sir,” said the man bandaging me. “I don’t know just what you told him, but he wanted to get it on the air right away. He will be back shortly.”

  “There was a ship or submarine or something lying offshore…”

  “It has been taken care of, sir. There you are. A little rest and you’ll be good as new, sir.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I sat up and looked shorewards over the ship’s low rail. Under the gray clouds, the shore had a different shape from what I remembered. Where there had been a headland of sorts, crowned by the remnants of Brossach Castle, there was now only a scar on the face of the cliff. I thought of Les Crowe-Barham, and of Vadya. Then I thought, for some reason, of the big Highland ox. I hoped he, at least, had escaped.

  Footsteps came briskly along the deck, and I turned to see a stocky, gray-haired man in tweeds, with a fierce gray moustache. I had no doubt this was Colonel Stark, and I had a pretty good idea, having been through similar situations before, of the kind of elaborate official routine he’d put me through now. The only consolation was that I was going to have the fun of telling him that he’d have to quarantine this whole ship, himself included, until it was determined just how contagious I was…

  It was two weeks before I was pronounced safe to associate with the human race again, after having so many samples taken of me that for a while it seemed likely there’d be nothing left. I was glad to see that an American doctor had been invited to participate in the experiments. Otherwise, I’d have had to rush to offer my unique plague-proof blood to my own country after the British got through analyzing it. As it was, I felt justified in getting off by myself for a day, to sort out a few uncomfortable thoughts I hadn’t been able to deal with while serving as a scientific specimen.

  They’d given me back the little red car, which they’d found somewhere and had tuned and filled with gas—excuse me, petrol. I thought that was pretty nice of them. I drove away from Glasgow through the usual Scottish drizzle and, after getting lost a couple of times, managed to locate a small village named Dalbright. I parked outside the churchyard and went in through the iron gate.

  The rain had stopped, but the place was dripping wet. There seemed to be nobody around. The little white church was shut up tight. I walked around slowly, examining the gravestones. Every fourth one, approximately, was a Glenmore. Back in the corner stood a large memorial monument dedicated, apparently, to family members who’d once been buried elsewhere and then dug up and re-interred here by someone who felt the family spirits should spend eternity together. Here I found the gentleman of whom I’d been told, who’d been beheaded for spying for the wrong side, or for being caught at it; I also found one who’d died in a duel. I couldn’t help thinking that, while we don’t have many dealings nowadays with the dueling sword or pistol, or the headsman’s axe, we still seem to find interesting ways of getting ourselves killed.

  It gave me a guilty, regretful feeling to stand there alone. I remembered a girl who’d died in London who’d have liked very much to see this. Then I heard the gate creak, and I looked around and thought a ghost had come alive. I mean, it was a girl, and she was wearing a sweater and the blue-and-green hunting tartan: a kilt-skirt closed by a big safety pin.

  I stood quite still, watching her close the gate carefully, a little awkward because of the flowers she carried. Then she turned toward me. It was not Nancy Glenmore, of course. This was another girl, not quite as pretty, but with that fresh look they have up there. She gave me a questioning glance, and went on to a new grave near the church, and began to arrange her flowers carefully before it.

  I hesitated. I mean, it would not have been difficult to strike up a conversation. A question about the family would have done it. She was obviously a distant relative, or she would not have been wearing the plaid. And I was certified safe by the doctors of two countries; I was definitely not contagious, plague-wise. Nor was anybody, to the best of my knowledge, interested in shooting at me at the moment; there should be no risk from stray bullets. Still, she looked like a nice kid, and I did seem to leave a lot of dead people behind me, one way or another…

  I walked quickly back out to the roadster and drove to an inn for breakfast, having passed up the ship’s food that had been offered me. I bought a paper from a machine in the doorway. I had not, of course, been informed of what had happened up north after I’d left, or what measures had been taken. Security had been very tight, and I was, after all, a foreigner. Besides, Colonel Stark hadn’t liked me very much. He’d made it quite clear that while, officially, he was aware that I’d made a valuable contribution by escaping alive, personally he’d have thought more of me if I’d died fighting bravely at Crowe-Barham’s side. Well, he was entitled to his opinion.

  Waiting for my food, I read the paper carefully. It mentioned no strange diseases. There was, however, one small item about a question being asked in the House of Commons or wherever they ask those questions, concerning the accident that had totally destroyed a secret atomic installation, previously unheard of, on the northwest coast of Scotland, near the tiny village of Kinnochrue. I clos
ed the paper thoughtfully. Apparently they’d used a low-yield nuclear device for extermination purposes, maybe one of the tactical gizmos. It could have done the work. Maybe I could stop feeling guilty about not being able to swim well enough to keep afloat Basil’s body and the burden attached to it…

  Six hours later I was in London. My instructions, transmitted through international channels, were to check back into Claridge’s, where the room was still being held for me. A code word slipped into the text told me that the room and phone were now safe for conversation. This meant, I figured, that our own people wanted the answers to a few questions they had not been able to ask while I was in British hands. I didn’t particularly look forward to another interrogation, so it wasn’t with any great eagerness that I turned the Spitfire over to the doorman, got the key from the desk, and went upstairs, limping a little. Ironically, after all the exotic things that had happened to me, the wrenched knee I’d got stepping into a hole in the ground was the only thing that still bothered me, physically speaking.

  I climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and went into the big room and started to throw my coat on the bed and stopped. There were some clothes on the bed. I picked up one item: a very simple little white shift of a dress, rather wrinkled and grimy, as if it had been worn longer than it should have been. I looked around. There were some suitcases parked beyond the bed that I recognized. I went into the bathroom and looked at the small blonde girl in the enormous tub.

  “Some people knock,” Winnie said. “Even husbands have been known to, not to mention people impersonating husbands. My God, it’s nice to be clean again. I’ve been locked up in an attic for three weeks. One pitcher of water a day. You’d think they had rationing or something. Hand me that big towel, will you?”