by John Creasey
Palfrey was going below, to play for time, to give him a chance to organise up here. Was there the slightest hope?
Rita reached Banister’s side.
“Let’s go and see him off,” she said.
She led the way to one of the platforms with the great window overlooking the snow-clad peaks and the snow-filled valleys. This one overlooked hangars and small aircraft and, in the distance, the wreckage of another. After a few minutes, Palfrey appeared, walking on his snow-shoes. Two men were with him.
A small aircraft stood outside a hangar. It seemed no time before Palfrey and the other men climbed in.
It was the more eerie because the thick glass of the window muffled all sound; all Banister could hear was the breathing of the girl who stood by his side, touching his hand.
Smoke shot out of the rear of the aircraft; it stood there for a moment, and then the smoke grew blacker; there was movement, as of a great gust of wind – and then, a long way off, a silver streak showed in the sky.
It vanished.
“He’s gone,” Rita said. “If he can persuade the governments below to do nothing for a few months—”
“Wrong way of dealing with the situation,” a man growled from Banister’s side. Banister hadn’t heard him come, but his voice and the way he spoke told him that it was Doggett. “We shouldn’t bargain with the fools down below, we should just present an ultimatum. They’d accept it.” He turned round.
His hand touched Banister’s, and there was a slip of paper in it. Banister clutched it. “You mark my words,” Doggett went on, “we use the velvet glove too much.”
He stalked off.
Banister slipped the paper into his pocket, then left the viewpoint with Rita. The paper seemed to burn through the cloth to the flesh.
Chapter 20
Banister was never alone.
If people in the street, in the dining-hall, in the shops were not looking at him; if he were not in the room with Rita; then the screen glowed and he knew that wherever he stood, he could be seen. The slip of paper seemed like burning ice in his pocket, but he dared not take it out.
Rita was sitting back in an easy-chair, with a drink by her side, listening to a Brahms concerto on a radiogram. With the note still burning in his pocket, Banister watched her. The calm beauty appalled him; she was so sure that she was right. It was a form of madness; how could it be anything else?
The screen was glowing because they were being watched; it seemed to Banister that the watching was more intense since Palfrey had left, although that might be because of his own tension, his fears and burning desire to read the note.
An image appeared on the screen; Klim’s.
“Rita, come to the Council Chamber, will you?”
“Yes, Klim.” She got up at once, as if with instinctive obedience. The image began to fade. “Shall I leave the radiogram on, Neil?”
“Er—yes. Thanks.”
She approached him, and smoothed his hair lightly with her right hand, then went on. The door swung behind her. She behaved as if she knew the kind of mental torment he was suffering, but that she also knew that it would not last for long.
The door stopped swinging.
The light still glowed.
Banister put his hand into his pocket and felt the paper; which was folded two or three times. Gradually, he unfolded it, until it was as flat as he could get it inside his pocket. He closed his eyes, appeared to be listening to the concerto. That would soon be over.
The music faded.
Banister stood up and went towards the radiogram, to switch it off. Just beside it there was a patch of shadow. He took his hand out of his pocket and held the paper in the shadow.
He read: “Dining-hall, 7.30, tonight.”
It was not yet five o’clock.
Doggett was in the dining-hall, after the evening meal, with seven or eight others, including the fair-haired Sophie, and Rita. There was one other woman – and Banister recognised her as Mick’s wife. They were talking and arguing, Doggett was as disgruntled as ever, Rita seemed to be touched with unusual serenity. As usual, the television screens were glowing, there was no corner of the room that wasn’t watched.
An image appeared – the Chinese announcer.
“Miss Rita, will you please go to the Council Chamber? Klim would like to see you again.”
“Yes, of course.”
Rita jumped up. She smiled at Neil, but didn’t speak. The door, those doors which always swung to and fro, to and fro, until they stopped, swung maddeningly behind her.
It was twenty-five minutes to eight.
Banister looked at Doggett’s long-jawed face, but saw nothing to encourage him. The others went on talking. If Doggett had his way, he would just smash the world below, and build up again – there was little worth preserving, it was an archaic form of life, anyhow. He got up when he had finished saying that, and went out. None of the others spoke of him, of Palfrey, or anything which seemed to do with the conspiracy.
Doggett came back.
There was a hush in the room, as all of them looked towards the lank-haired man. Sophie was as tense as any.
Banister became aware of an atmosphere which he had never sensed here before; it was utterly different. It showed especially in the expression of the two women.
Doggett said: “I should say we’ve got half an hour, with luck. Glyn is keeping watch, we’ll be warned if anyone comes. Banister, we’ve faked the video, all that the controllers can see is an empty room. We’ve only managed to do it once before.”
Banister said quickly: “Doggett, do you know—”
“Just a minute,” Doggett said. The surliness had gone out of his voice, compassion was in its place. He looked at Mick’s wife. “Mary,” he said gently, “I hate to tell you, but you have to know.”
He stopped.
Mick’s wife said very slowly, very painfully: “He’s— dead?”
“Yes.”
“Rita—” began Mick’s wife, and didn’t finish.
“Yes,” Doggett said. “Rita must have reported that he opened the wrong door and let Banister see what was happening in the new shafts. It’s getting worse, every day. Anak and Klim are completely power drunk. Even if they were going to get away with all this, they couldn’t afford to get rid of men like Mick. It’s—” He broke off, mute with anger.
Mick’s wife said in the same husky voice: “We can’t waste time, Jim. What—what’s the meeting about?” She looked as if she were trying to show a real interest, but could not. Her eyes were filled with the grief of parting; probably she could see nothing except the round face and the rounded blue eyes of her husband.
“All right,” Doggett said. “I think there’s a chance that we can get away within the next seven days.”
Banister realised then that the escape plan had been their dream – as desperate as any in the history of war and tyranny. He saw the light of hope and of the courage which despair created in the eyes of all the men who watched Doggett.
“We have aircraft practically assembled,” Doggett went on. “They normally carry three men apiece; according to Mick and others in Project Ninety-seven, they can carry six at a pinch. That means there’s room for all of us in the plan. We can get to Australia or New Zealand.”
There was a panting eagerness in his voice; and the others watched, open-mouthed now.
“Between us we can take samples of fatalis and pulveris, documents, plans and formulae. Once they have all of that down below, they ought to be able to do plenty about it.”
Only Mick’s wife seemed not to hear him. Banister was choked into silence by the desperate hope in Doggett and the others.
“The timing will be the difficult thing,” Doggett went on. “We mustn’t take anything away until we’re ready to go, if
anything were missed—” He shrugged. “You don’t need telling what that would mean. I’m not sure whether we can meet again in a group. I’ll keep in touch, one by one, and—”
“We can’t escape,” Banister made himself say.
The short, sharp statement cut across Doggett’s voice, made the others turn their heads towards him, drove the dazed look out of Mick’s wife’s eyes. They looked at Banister as if he were mad.
“Don’t be a fool,” Doggett said sharply. “We’ve planned this down to the last detail. We can use our own shaft which no one knows about – I’ll tell you more about it later. What we want to know from you is what will be most useful down below. How much do they know about—”
“We can’t go,” Banister said doggedly. “Palfrey’s gone down to gain time. Anak’s delivered your ultimatum at last.”
There was silence; tension; a growing sense of dread.
“He’s used fatalis on a much bigger scale than ever before, and he’s also used the disintegrating agent—”
Doggett exclaimed: “No!”
“Project One hundred and nine,” Sophie said hoarsely. “Pulveris.”
“I don’t know what it’s called, but it simply disintegrates buildings,” Banister said slowly, hurtfully. “Palfrey says that several smaller towns down below have been destroyed. Anak’s demanded co-operation – collaboration – from governments below. If he doesn’t get it, he’s threatened to destroy big cities. He can do it, I gather.”
There was a long pause.
“Yes, he can – and will unless he gets what he wants,” said Doggett unexpectedly. “He wants absolute domination of the world. He’s appointed himself the Supreme Being. He wants to create men and women in his own image and build a world fit for his perfect creatures to live in – and to do it, he’ll destroy everything.”
Into a tense silence, Sophie said: “It’s hideous, a sacrilege that—”
“Listen to me,” Banister broke in. “Palfrey’s pretending to see it Anak’s way. He’s acting as a kind of envoy. That gives us a little time. We have to get at the supplies of fatalis and of the disintegrating agent, and must make sure that they can’t be used. We’ve to find out where they’re stored. The best we can do is name three individuals who can fly off, taking the information Palfrey needs – the location of other cities and mountain strongholds. If we fail with the rest of our job, Palfrey and the others down there still have some kind of a chance. So, we’ve two angles. One, find and destroy the source of power here; two, get all formulas and information to Palfrey.” He stopped.
Doggett said huskily: “Yes.” He looked ill.
Sophie said: “For seven years I’ve been planning, working, praying, thinking, dreaming, of getting out of here alive. For seven years.”
She seemed to wince.
Mick’s wife said: “I’ve been here for five years, Mick was hoping that next year at the latest we’d get away. With the children. We—”
Banister said slowly, firmly: “I think I can guess what you feel like. I can’t justify throwing my weight about like this, but—there are the two jobs. Destroy everything Anak can use, and take all possible information down below. Once we destroy the weapons . . .”
“We blow ourselves up,” a man said, in a queer, small voice.
Banister understood them; could get into their minds and feel as they did; he could not speak again.
They had come here, believing; hoping. Gradually the years had sapped their faith; gradually they had realised the empty mockery of the Higher World. Their minds, their thoughts, their hearts, their hopes – everything they possessed had been thrown into the passionate desire to escape. For years they had schemed, planned, dared – and now they were within reach of the moment when they could take their final chance.
The world “below”, for so long a dream, had become a practical possibility.
He, Banister, was taking it away from them; was crumbling up their vision and their hope as the walls of great buildings crumbled.
With the realisation there came fear and a question: could he trust them? Or would they put escape first?
The fear faded, when Doggett moved.
“That’s right,” Doggett said, “we blow ourselves up. At least, we take the risk of doing it. Does it matter all that much?” He gave a queer, twisted grin. “Does it really make any difference? If we got down there safely and Anak released pulveris, we’d be blown to dust with the rest. In fact, if there’s a chance to stay alive, this is it.”
A man said: “I suppose so,” and Banister’s fear came back.
He asked hoarsely: “Is there a hope of taking over the whole place?”
No one answered, until Doggett said: “Mutiny,” in a flat voice.
“That’s it.”
“I shouldn’t think so. There are too many like Klim and Rita – enslaved by Anak. And far too many who just tag along with the rest, who don’t think. Anak’s perfect people aren’t so different from the people below. They’re smug and complacent, they drift along, they’re happy enough if someone else does their thinking for them.”
Banister said: “We can’t have much more time – here, or with the bigger scheme. Where can we meet and plan, how can we send messages?”
He felt better than he had since he had come here; now there was the possibility of planning, of acting; so now there was a reason for existence, something to do other than feel frightened or to feel the death of hope. He felt a passionate desire to work, fight, to stir these men to action.
Doggett said: “I’m in charge of the television system, and can fault it without anyone knowing, for a short time. We’ll draw up a schedule of times and places where we can meet. In emergency I’ll put the television out of action. I think we can get at the fatalis and the pulveris supplies. They’re well guarded, but we’ve Resistance men in the different project rooms. Finding the other strongholds might be more difficult. We can try. Anak and Klim have been pretty close about that. We know the others exist, we don’t know where.” He glanced at the television screen. “I think we ought to stop – it will come back into operation in a few minutes. I—”
He stopped speaking. Several of the men went out; so did the two women.
Doggett said to Banister: “Now don’t take any chances. Fool Rita as long as—”
He was facing the door; and a completely new expression seemed to freeze his face.
The horror which touched him also touched two others who were still present. Banister felt as if his whole body had been forced into a strait-jacket. He stood like a statue, head turned towards the door – breathing with hardly a sign of movement, like the others.
Sophie stood there.
Klim was just behind her.
Klim moved forward. He didn’t smile. He looked from man to man, sneeringly, contemptuously. His gaze lingered on none of them, until it fell on Doggett.
“I have suspected you for a long time, Doggett,” he said.
Doggett didn’t speak.
A man said in a quivering voice: “Where’s Glyn? Glyn was on guard, where’s Glyn?”
“Glyn is on the way to the work shafts. He won’t succeed in killing himself.” There was no expression in Klim’s voice, and only cold contempt showed in his face. “The rest of you will soon be there. And as for Banister—”
He turned towards Banister.
“I have learned whom to trust,” he said. “And I have learned how to punish.”
“But you made a mistake,” Sophie said, “even your perfection has a blemish, Klim. Because you trusted me.”
Banister caught his breath.
“No, don’t move,” the girl went on in the same quiet voice, and stretched out her hand towards Klim. “I thought it safer to take a charge of fatalis. If I should touch you, there would be a most unfortunate ac
cident.”
She looked at Banister again.
“We can beat them,” Doggett breathed. “We’ll have to get Klim away, and—”
“We haven’t a minute to waste,” Sophie said urgently.
As she spoke, the door opened again; she cried out and fell, her eyes filling with dread. Banister saw her fall, knew she had been shot with guns which made no sound. Men ran into the room, and as they came, Banister realised that the only hope lay in those conspirators who had left the room before the raid.
BOOK THREE
THE AGE OF DESTRUCTION
Chapter 21
Palfrey sat in a room at Brierly Place, in London, one of London’s gracious houses in a gracious square. The room was large. He sat at a table, with everyone else in the room in front of him. There were nearly a hundred men. Here and there, one stirred; here and there, a match struck or a lighter clicked or a man coughed. Those were the only sounds.
No eye turned away from Palfrey.
He talked, knowing that hardly one of those in the room wanted to believe him; but knowing, also, that most of them did.
Fear was in this room, like icy particles in the air.
He had known fear like it before, but had never known it come so swiftly.
There had been anxiety in the minds of different governments for some weeks, but until the past few days, no one had dreamt of the extent of Anak’s threat.
By Palfrey’s side sat his wife, Drusilla; a dark-haired woman of great beauty.
Next to her was Andromovitch; and on Palfrey’s other side, Bruton.
At the doors; on the stairs; outside in the street, were Z.5 agents, concentrated here for the time being. Men of great importance had come and must be guarded, but the guards knew what the great men did not; there was no positive security; no way of making sure that those who had come to see Palfrey would leave alive; or, if they left safely, would ever reach their Embassies or their Ministries or the Cabinet Room at Number 10.
Palfrey was about to tell them that.