The Plague of Silence

by John Creasey

  Matt said: “How can I make you understand that it’s all a waste of time?”

  “You can hate me for it, you can blame me for it, but there’s one way that I can make pretty sure that you’re not one of them, Matt: that’s by finding out if you’re immune. You have to be put in an infected area. We’ve isolated some insects and their satellite swarms, and I have some in a small box. Here.”

  He took his hand out of his pocket, and showed a small plastic box—match-box size. The light was good enough to show the mosquitoes and the little “cloud” inside it.

  “If you’re stricken after an attack, then I shall take it that you’re cleared,” said Palfrey. “If you’re not—then I’m going to assume you are a Rondivallo man, and I’m going to make you talk. Any arguments?” Palfrey asked, still painfully.

  “Just go ahead,” Matt said.

  Palfrey said: “I don’t know what to hope for.”

  He opened the door with one hand, holding the small box in the other. A soft wind blew in. Matt did not see the other Z5 men outside, did not see Palfrey’s expression, saw nothing but the little plastic box. Palfrey held it poised, and then tossed it against the wall. It struck and broke, and the mosquitoes flew out. Then Palfrey went outside and closed the door.

  It was still light in here; light enough to see.

  Matt stared at the broken pieces of the box, then heard the familiar, dreaded, humming sound. He saw the satellite clouds. He felt a cry rise to his lips. He wanted to shriek, to fling himself against the door, to do anything to save himself, but Palfrey might think he was putting on an act.

  A mosquito settled on the back of his hand and he brushed it off; but immediately another settled on his forehead, and he felt its bite.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE ORDEAL

  Matt felt himself shudder as the tiny bite came, less painful than a pinprick; then he slapped his hand on his forehead and felt the mosquito squash. Slowly he drew his hand down and stared at it; there was the little splotch of blood. The fit of shuddering was uncontrollable. He leaned against a bench and let it have its way; and as he shivered he felt another tiny pain at his left hand. But that wasn’t all. He felt as if his mouth was suddenly full of dust, was dry, was so dry that he couldn’t speak.

  God!

  He couldn’t speak. There was a lump in his throat, pain there too, like burning.

  He hated Palfrey.

  He hated Z5.

  He felt sweat on his forehead as he moved, and was surprised to find that his muscles still served him. Would they, for long? The burning in his throat wasn’t unbearable, rather like the beginning of a cold, but the burning sensation had come on so suddenly.

  He felt a burning in his legs too, and then in his arms. He stared stupidly at his feet. This was it, then: the end. He wasn’t immune, and Palfrey could be satisfied, Palfrey would probably send flowers to his funeral.

  Damn Palfrey, damn Z5.

  He tried to speak, but no sound came; he tried to shout, but now it was difficult even to move his lips. His legs were quivering and they felt weak, as if they would give way at any moment.

  They were giving way!

  Then he heard a sound, heard the door open, and a moment later saw Palfrey and another Z5 man.

  “All right, Matt,” Palfrey said, “you’ve had enough.”

  They had to carry him out.

  They took him into the cool night air, and then Palfrey revealed a hypodermic syringe. He didn’t speak as he injected a colourless liquid into Matt’s forearm, but as he drew the needle out, he said:

  “With luck, you’ll be yourself again in half an hour.”

  That was a lie.

  “We’ve found one counter-agent which works, but have very little of it,” Palfrey said. “It’s being used on volunteer guinea-pigs, to help our research men follow the signs from the moment of infection. You’ll be all right, Matt. Rest here, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  At least he was no longer suspect.

  Palfrey walked from the hut in the garden briskly, but his shoulders were rounded and he seemed to be studying the ground. As he reached the main hall, the man who had been complaining about the lights came hurrying forward with a hand outstretched.

  “Here, you,” he said abruptly.

  Palfrey looked up, into a fat face, at a bulky man, who was probably in his middle forties. The gourmet type. His eyes looked angry and his voice held a touch of anger too.

  “Me?” asked Palfrey mildly.

  “Yes, you. I’m told you’re in charge of the hotel in the absence of Mr. Larsen. Tell your men to let me go out, at once.”

  “Ah,” said Palfrey. “They won’t let you, of course. It could be dangerous outside.”

  “Nonsense. I go out for a post-prandial every night, and I don’t intend to change my habits. All this nonsense about a state of emergency is a lot of alarmist folly. Just tell your men to let me go out.”

  “Sorry,” Palfrey said. “It wouldn’t be wise.” He turned to go and saw the other man move his right arm; so he wasn’t surprised when a hand descended heavily on his shoulder.

  “Don’t come the high hat with me. I’m going out, or I’ll know the reason why.”

  “The radio can tell you the reason why,” Palfrey said.

  “There are dozens of men in the grounds. If it’s dangerous for me it’s dangerous for them.”

  “Oh, indubitably,” Palfrey agreed mildly. “But they’re paid for it.” He shrugged himself free and walked off. The bulky man stood glaring. Other residents of the hotel were still in the lounge, most of them now staring at Palfrey, although some were looking out of the window, where it seemed as if the whole forest was on fire.

  Palfrey went upstairs.

  One of the Z5 men followed him, to make sure that no one attacked; and Sarak was standing just outside the door of the room he had taken over. Palfrey nodded to him as he opened the door. Three men sat at the big table, and one jumped up quickly; a wispy kind of man probably much older than he looked; he seemed to be in the middle twenties.

  “Anything new in, George?” Palfrey asked.

  “The Cabinet’s in session. Stefan says that there’ll be a stink if you don’t get to London pronto. Not his own words, mind you.” George’s face had an earnest expression, and there was not a vestige of a smile. “I said you’d call him.”

  “Get him for me, will you?” asked Palfrey, and sat down in a chair which one of the other men pushed forward. George picked up a telephone. “Lull in reports of new outbreaks?”

  The two sitting men nodded.

  “Deaths?” “About one out of four, so far.”

  Palfrey pulled a face. “Hell of a proportion,” he said. “I hope to heaven that curare distillation works on Matt Stone.”

  “It has on everyone who’s been injected with it within half an hour of the infection,” the man said. He was a sleek, dark-haired forty, with a slight cast in one eye, immaculately dressed, and with a deep, impressive voice. “Getting at them quick enough is the problem.”

  “Wish it was the only one,” Palfrey said bleakly. “Getting enough of the curare is going to be the main problem. Doubt if we could treat a thousand cases in this country, and there will be tens of thousands of victims by the morning.” His voice was dry and unemotional. “Get me some coffee and sandwiches, Phil.”

  “Right.” The dark-haired man stood up.

  “Having trouble getting Stefan?” Palfrey asked, and George nodded but didn’t speak, and then said: “Here he is, he’s in the Cabinet room at Number 10.”

  “Ah,” said Palfrey. “Thanks.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE ULTIMATUM

  Stefan Andromovitch sat at a corner of the large oval table at Number 10, acutely aware of the fact that every Minist
er, from the Prime Minister downwards, was staring at him. He had never faced a meeting of such men as these on his own before; Palfrey had always been there as spokesman. It was one of the few occasions when Stefan felt that his nationality was a serious obstacle. None of these men had reason to like Russia or Russian policy, and it was difficult to break down the prejudice towards an individual. Men in Z5 could, but they had trained themselves to it.

  He was waiting for Palfrey to come on the line.

  The crowded room was silent. A haze of tobacco smoke filled it, and the predominant odour was of cigar tobacco. But for the tension in each man this would have been the most ordinary looking meeting. Each man wore a black coat, a grey tie, a stiff white collar. The formality of the English was part of their stubborn strength.

  Then Palfrey said: “You there, Stefan?” and a loudspeaker carried his voice, on a muted tone, so that everyone in the room could hear it. The Minister for the Colonies, who was slightly deaf, used a hearing aid.

  “Hallo, Sap,” Stefan said, and immediately felt easier, for it was as if Palfrey was in the room. “You know that I am at a meeting of the Cabinet, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Sorry I couldn’t make it,” Palfrey said, quietly and clearly. “I think developments, when they come, will be down here in the Forest of Conne. I’m sure that this is one of the centres of the trouble, and have no doubt that there’s some human directing force, little doubt that the situation is to be used as a kind of blackmail. If it weren’t, it wouldn’t have happened simultaneously in so many places. We’ve no idea of the location of the other main operational centres, such as we have here, so we have to wait for our chance.”

  “Have you worked on Stone?” Stefan asked.

  “Yes. He’s been infected and is recovering now. Certainly he wasn’t immune, and I think anyone working on the other side would be. Have you had any further information from Washington?”

  “No. Mr. Domminy received the message,” Stefan said. “Is there any hope at all of quick results?”

  “I’ve reason to believe that some of the residents or the staff of this hotel might be involved, and I’m going to take them one by one. A number of them work at Wide World Foods, mostly on the managerial and executive side. Is Mr. Domminy at the meeting, by the way?”

  There was a stir as a small plumpish man, with a bald pate and bushy hair at the sides and back, glanced at the Prime Minister.

  “Yes,” said Stefan.

  “As Minister of Food and Agricultural Supplies he is in constant touch with Wide World,” Palfrey said. “Does he—”

  “Know the directors very well indeed,” Domminy interrupted. “They grow some of the finest, the very finest crops of all kinds, and their canning and deep-freeze plants are ahead of any known anywhere in the world. On my recommendation the Government subsidised their work.”

  “So I understand.” Palfrey’s voice sounded dry. “I ought to see them at once, Mr. Prime Minister, and if Mr. Domminy will tell me who he deals with there—”

  “Oh, the managing director,” the Minister said. “A great man who has dedicated himself to feeding the poor and hungry, a practical believer in feeding five thousand with the pitifully inadequate loaves and fishes. But why you should think that he might be able to help you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Palfrey broke in. “I’ll see Mr. Harrison about those members of his staff resident at the hotel. As you already know, the manager Larsen is dead—probably murdered with poison in his drink. You will have the general report of the position, the places where outbreaks have occurred, the number of casualties, the methods tried to arrest the advancement of the paralysis, the fact that so far curare is the one drug which has proved of any use. You’ve already reported the advice that members of die Government and others of similar importance to the State should have facilities for subcutaneous injection available all the time.”

  “Let me speak to Palfrey,” the Prime Minister said, and picked up a telephone near him. “Palfrey, this is Meddon speaking. All leading scientists and doctors have the facilities, of course, but there isn’t anything like enough to go round.” Meddon spoke in a cut, clipped voice. “There are now seven places in this country where outbreaks have occurred and in some there is a state of panic. There is every reason to believe that similar situations might arise overseas; there are already reports of it from Western Europe. I want something much better than you’ve given us.”

  Half of the men round the table nodded, most of them vigorously.

  Domminy said: “So I should think!”

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” Palfrey said formally, “it is less than twelve hours since we were aware of the emergency.”

  “Ah.” Meddon grunted. “Yes. But we need miracles.”

  “Is there any encouragement from abroad, sir?”

  The Prime Minister said slowly: “There is no indication of any kind from any source that any progress has been made towards finding the breeding grounds of the insects, or finding out who is controlling them. Palfrey—” there was a break in his voice.

  “Yes,sir?”

  “What do you consider are the possibilities that the causes of this are not traceable by normal methods?” The Prime Minister hesitated. “In other words, have you any indications at all that the sources of infection are from places beyond the earth’s orbit?”

  Stefan could imagine Palfrey smiling at this; and could also see the tension on the faces of the other men round the table. Only three seemed to reject the possibility out of hand.

  Palfrey said mildly: “You mean from another planet, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “The simple truth is that I don’t know.” answered Palfrey, “but I think the source will be found on earth all right. In any case, our problem is whether we can control it. If the Forest of Conne is one of the main operation centres, then I think we have a chance.” His voice sounded as if it were further away: “They’re back from the forest?” There was another pause, and then he spoke more loudly again: “I’ve a reconnaissance party back from a job, sir. Shall I call you back?”

  “We’ll hold on.” The Prime Minister sat with the receiver in his hand.

  Stefan looked at one Minister after another; some old, some youthful, all wise in their own generation, all men of wide experience, men who had sat to discuss matters of awful import to both the nation and the world. He saw how most of them stared at the telephone, how they all seemed to be motionless – even Domminy, who had covered his face and was in an attitude of prayer, until one man took his cigar from his lips and said:

  “Can’t possibly concede the possibility of interplanetary action. Can’t possibly.”

  The Prime Minister didn’t speak.

  “We don’t know what conditions we are creating,” a small, lean, pale-faced man said. His eyes were so sunken that he looked almost like a skeleton over which the skin had been stretched. “It may be that radio dust in particles so small they do not affect human beings are infecting and affecting a kind of mosquito. The breeding grounds may be everywhere. The rate of growth may have been speeded up. When we decided to take upon ourselves the responsibility of interfering with nature we—”

  “Are you there, sir?” It was Palfrey, but there was no note of excitement in his voice; just flatness. “There was a fire in the forest, and it appears to have destroyed several small experimental forest clearance and farming stations which we examined without result this afternoon. There is some evidence of extensive research, some evidence of radio-activity in materials found there. Seven dead men were discovered tonight. We may have something to work on, but nothing to offer quick results.”

  The Prime Minister did not speak, and the stillness affected the others in the room, making it look as if they themselves had been paralysed.

  Palfrey went on almost apologetically: “One thing is to distribute in
secticides and deal with it as a state of emergency. Have all suspect districts sprayed immediately with the insecticides, and hope for the best.”

  The Prime Minister said: “Yes. Very well. Thank you.” He rang off, and Stefan put the receiver down at the same moment. The Prime Minister’s face was colourless and he looked tormented; anguished. “Yes,” he repeated and licked his lips. He looked slowly round at the tableau at the table, and when he spoke his voice sounded very faint. “There appears to be nothing at all we can do.”

  Domminy spoke in clear, ringing tones:

  “It is the hand of God. It is a visitation upon us for our folly in defying the laws of God and of nature. It would be understandable if God were to wipe all of us out. It might be possible then to start afresh and to build a world free from such follies. Others before me have dreamed such a dream. But I do not go all the way with them. I believe that even at this late date it is possible to redeem not only peoples but nations. I am sure you all agree with me. There is no reason to believe that mankind is beyond salvation.”

  A man next to Stefan said under his breath: “Save us from this pious nonsense.”

  Another said: “Shhhh.”

  A third interrupted the little Minister. “We all respect your religious views, Domminy, but we are now faced with a material crisis.”

  “I don’t see what good would come,” began the Prime Minister, stirring himself, “unless you advocate a day of prayer. Hmm, yes. A day of prayer might at least help to reassure the people.”

  “My dear Prime Minister,” said Domminy, “I have no intention of advocating a day of prayer. Such days have been held in the past and millions have paid lip-service. They have been frightened into praying, and directly the emergency has passed, have they changed their ways? They have not. Some material way has to be found to deal with a materialistic situation. The present position is that we, and the rest of the world, are faced with a plague which could wipe out mankind. We have evidence of it. We do not require further evidence, I am sure. This should be sufficient to frighten all of mankind into its senses. While some of the outbreaks have been extremely serious, most will prove to be minor, if we are wise. A shock paralysis, fear, followed by a tranquillizing agent, then recovery, with the dread of what might follow if the plague should strike them again. That would keep people away from sin.”