by Джеффри Лорд
«Did you tell the PM about the flying dresser? About what happened to poor Dexter?» J demanded.
«Heavens no! If he believed me he’d shut us down as a public menace this very day. If he didn’t believe me, he’d send me up to Scotland to act as Dexter’s replacement in the giggle factory. Thank God I managed to keep my mouth shut about that part of it at least.» He laughed nervously. «I haven’t even told you everything that’s been happening.»
J carefully replaced the poker in its stand and straightened up. «Then tell me, Leighton, damn you.»
«Better sit down first, old chap,» the scientist advised dryly, tobacco-stained teeth showing in an unpleasant grin.
J took a chair and waited expectantly.
Not looking at him, Leighton said awkwardly, «The fact is that since you’ve been gone, a lot has happened in the underground lab and in our little hospital. To begin with, Blade shows no improvement whatsoever. Dr. Ferguson has been doing as much as anyone could, which is almost nothing, and all he can tell us about the cause of Blade’s amnesia is that it’s caused by fear. Blade saw something on the other side so awful his conscious mind cannot accept it, something that’s trapped in his subconscious and trying to get out. You could say Blade can’t remember it with one part of his mind, but can’t forget it with another.»
J was annoyed. «That’s nothing new, is it? I’m no psychiatrist, but I could have told you all that.»
«There’s more. From the moment of Blade’s return until now the project has been harassed by a veritable plague of poltergeist phenomena.»
«Poltergeist?»
«It’s a German word for «playful ghost,» and indeed it would appear that a full battalion of playful ghosts has been running amuck in the installation. We’ve had more furniture tossed around. The VIP lounge is a ruin! Unexplained markings have appeared on the walls, looking for all the world like the scratches of gigantic claws. Mysterious fires have been starting all over the hospital complex. One started right before the eyes of one of the nurses, and scared her half to death. Another started in a chemical storeroom. Thank God the fire alarm sounded before there was an explosion. We put that one out not a moment too soon. We’ve been hearing odd noises, too. Thumpings. Bumpings. Whooshings. And at all hours of the day and night. I myself have heard what sounded like someone whispering to me in a foreign language, but when I looked around there was nobody there. The oddest thing of all was when one of the nurses met a little girl in one of the passageways. They exchanged greetings and it was a moment before the nurse stopped to ask herself how a little girl could get into such a closely guarded place, deep underground. The nurse searched high and low, but the little girl was nowhere to be found.»
J mused, «Too bad we don’t have a photograph of Dr. Saxton Colby’s daughter.»
Lord Leighton squinted. «How’s that? Oh, I see what you mean. Do you think those two little girls might be one and the same?»
«I’d be surprised if they weren’t, the way our luck has been running.»
Leighton continued, «I’ve fed all the data on the poltergeists into the computer, and they’ve detected a pattern.»
«A pattern? What sort of a pattern?»
«There seems to be a kind of sphere of energy in the complex. Everything that requires a great deal of force, such as the moving of heavy furniture, happens near the center of the sphere. A little further out we find lower-energy phenomena, such as fires and scratches and odd noises. Everything that happens at the outer edge of the sphere could be accounted for as strictly mental; voices, the little girl and so on.»
«The little girl was strictly mental?»
«She could have been. Remember, nobody actually touched her. She could have been an illusion. The computer also detected a definite trend in all these happenings.»
«What kind of a trend?»
«The sphere is growing, slowly but steadily. In fact, this morning, quite early, we began to hear the whispering for the first time in the computer section. The computers, as you know, are a good hundred feet closer to the surface than the hospital. This thing, whatever it is, is gradually working its way upward. Unless it changes its rate of growth, it should start to manifest its presence in the streets of London some time late the day after tomorrow, at least in the neighborhood of the Tower. What we do then I have no idea.»
«At least we have some data to work with.»
«You like data? There’s one thing more, and I don’t think you’ll care for it. At the exact center of the sphere-the exact center, mind you-is our friend Richard Blade.» He added softly, «I think we should face the possibility that Blade is the source of the trouble.»
«And what then?»
«To protect London, we may have to kill him.»
J put down his pipe, which had gone out unnoticed. It toppled over in the ashtray on the desk, spilling cold ashes. J had anticipated the direction Leighton’s logic would take, but now that the conclusion had been reached, he felt sick with horror. His voice shaking, he said hoarsely, «I cannot accept that.»
«Better one man than hundreds.»
«The thing has killed no one yet, Leighton. It has damaged property, but it has killed no one. Before we take a human life, we must be certain human life is in danger, particularly-«He hesitated.
«Particularly if the life is Blade’s,» Leighton finished. «The thought of a poltergeist frisking about in the computer rooms like a bull in a china shop cannot help but appall me, but of course you’re right.» These words were uttered in such a faint gloomy voice they were almost inaudible. J realized with a chill that it had been his beloved computers Leighton had been worried about all along, not the people of London.
J stood up and began pacing the floor, head lowered and hands clutched together behind his back. «If Richard were sane, all this nonsense might stop. Let’s suppose it’s a kind of demonic possession.»
«Demonic possession!» Leighton snorted with contempt. «There’s no such thing as a demon!»
«Need I remind you, sir, that something came through KALI with Blade. Didn’t you see it? A kind of blue glowing cloud?»
Leighton nodded reluctantly. «I saw it.»
«That cloud may be our enemy. Perhaps it somehow draws its energy from Richard, and that’s why it clings so close to him. If Richard came to his senses, the thing might no longer be able to maintain its hold on him. At worst we’d have Richard’s help against it, and he’s been to the thing’s home territory. He may know its weaknesses, if it has any.»
«Dr. Ferguson has tried every treatment known to psychiatry. Nothing seems to help.»
J halted before the hunchback and frowned down at him. «But has he tried the resources of simple humanity, my dear Leighton?»
«What resources?»
At the moment he had asked his question, J had had no idea, at least on the conscious level, of what «resources of simple humanity» he was going to suggest, but now a plan leaped full-grown into his mind. «Remember Zoe Cornwall?»
Leighton frowned. «I seem to have heard the name somewhere.»
«Dash it, man! She was the woman Richard was engaged to, around the time our experiments first began. He had to break off with her because of our damned official security.»
«Yes, I think it’s coming to me. She got married, as I recall, to some accountant.»
J began pacing again. «That’s right. Reginald Smythe-Evans C.P.A. That’s the chap. A decent enough fellow, though of course Richard never could stomach him. Richard and I and a few other lads from MI6A were playing hide and seek with the Russians at her wedding. Damn poor form on our part, but we were desperate. She forgave him, and in fact made him second-godfather of her third child.»
Leighton said wistfully, «Her third child. God, how the years fly by.»
J pressed on with growing excitement. «Richard has had many women since then, both here in England and in various X dimensions, but it has always been my impression that Zoe has remained for him the woman, as Conan Doy
le might have put it. With all the others Richard has held something back, knowing that the relationship could not last. Only with Zoe had he even the illusion that a lifelong proper Church-of-England marriage was possible.»
«Come to the point, man,» Leighton snapped.
«The point is this: Zoe may be the one thing in the whole world Richard has not forgotten. If he could see her again, it could jog his memory, start him on the road to recovery.»
Leighton stroked his chin thoughtfully with a small hand. «Hmm. You may have something there, but if she’s a happily married woman, would it be wise to, as it were, blow on the fading embers?»
«I won’t ask her to divorce her husband or anything like that, of course. What’s done is done. I only want Richard to see her, to speak to her if he can speak, or listen to her if he can’t. How can she refuse a request for a single visit? For a few hours of her time? Once Richard meant a great deal to her, you know. He still does, if I’m any judge.»
«Do you know where she is?»
«No, but I can find her. MI6 can find anyone it really wants to find.»
The scientist nodded slowly. «I’d forgotten you were the original Great Octopus, but before you pick up the telephone and start slithering your tentacles out through the wires, perhaps you should consider that you may be placing this lady in grave danger.»
«Danger? What do you mean?» J had started toward the telephone on the desk, but now he paused.
«Nobody knows the limits of this creature’s powers, this thing from who knows where. If Richard’s old flame can actually threaten our Mr. Thing in any way, as we certainly hope she can, Mr. Thing may take steps to defend himself. For all we know Mr. Thing is in this room listening to us at this very moment «
J glanced uneasily around. «Nonsense. You told me yourself the thing was still contained within the hospital and computer complex.» He picked up the receiver of the old-fashioned desk phone and dialed Copra House.
Ten minutes later, his call completed, J hung up and turned to face Lord Leighton.
«You’ll like a happy man,» Leighton commented, smiling. «It does your soul good, doesn’t it, to do something, anything, even if it’s the wrong thing?»
«It’s not the wrong thing.» J walked slowly to the window and looked out. It may have been imagination, but the overcast sky seemed markedly brighter. Was that a touch of green on the branch of one of the leafless trees in Prince’s Gate Crescent?
J glanced down.
On the sidewalk, gazing up at him with an expression that was, at one and the same time, shy and bold, innocent and challenging, stood a girl, not more than ten years old. Her clothing-a short skirt, sweater, bobby socks and saddle shoes — was curiously out of style, and she wore her blonde hair in a pony tail.
At first J was about to grin at her with the vacant grin he reserved for all small children who insisted on being noticed by him, then the thought entered his mind, Are you Dane Colby?
The girl answered his unspoken question with a teasing nod.
«Leighton,» said J softly. «Come here, quickly.»
Before the hunchback could limp to the window, Jane Colby had skipped on down the sidewalk and out of sight.
Chapter 4
The bells in the massive tower of the Church of Saint Peter Mancroft in Norwich had ceased pealing, but their humming drone had not yet faded away to silence when a pale slender woman in her thirties emerged from the Royal Shopping Arcade, crossed Gentleman’s Walk, and entered the wide market area in the center of town, moving slowly through the crowd, stopping here and there at the stalls to buy fruit and vegetables. She wore a yellow plastic raincoat and hat, as did the three boys of various ages who tagged along behind her, for it had recently rained and the cold breeze and overcast sky promised more rain soon.
«Mama, let me carry it.» This was the youngest who piped up, stretching his arms to accept the bag of apples she had purchased.
«All right, Dickie.» She carefully handed it to him.
Mrs. Zoe Cornwall Smythe-Evans smiled. Dickie was not like his older brothers. He had a surprising maturity, a manliness, an almost knightly chivalry the others lacked, and there was no denying he was healthier, and that he was stronger than the others had been at his age. While the others moped about, doing as little as possible, little Dickie was always springing forward to volunteer his services. What could be the cause of the difference?
All three boys had the same father; the eldest was named Reggie Jr., and the next younger called Smitty, both taking their identities from Reginald Smythe-Evans. Dickie had many names. He was christened Edward Thomas Richard Smythe-Evans, but somehow from the beginning she could only think of him as Dickie, the name he had gotten from his second-godfather, Richard Blade. Had the name influenced her in some subliminal way, making her expect more of him than of the others, and had the child sensed this expectation and responded to it? She did not know, but this was not the first time the idea had crossed her mind.
Packing a head of lettuce into her string bag and paying the mustached vendor, she let her thoughts slip back into the past, to the days and the nights she’d spent with Richard at his seaside cottage in Dorset so many, many years ago. It was amazing how vividly those memories came back to her at times, though for the most part her busy life occupied her full attention, allowing little time for daydreams.
Her wild-set dark eyes clouded. Her generous mouth formed into a frown. She did not like to think of Richard. There was pain in the memories as well as pleasure, and frustration, and a curiosity that did not fade with the years, but grew gradually stronger. What was the secret work Richard had never been able to tell her about, the work that had finally destroyed their plans for a life together? Was he some sort of secret agent, or a criminal, or something else, something so strange as to be entirely outside her experience?
Richard Blade!
Against her will she saw his rugged face again, heard his voice, felt his touch, and was transported to a time-one time among many-when he and she had drifted in the gentle rise and fall of the breathing surf and watched the sunrise.
«Damn you, Dick,» she whispered.
«What?» asked little Dickie, surprised and worried.
«Nothing, Dickie. I was thinking of someone else.»
The boy was visibly relieved, yet there remained in his eyes that terrible alertness, the same alertness she had often seen in the dark restless eyes of his namesake.
Her shopping done, she left the marketplace, crossed the narrow road called Gaol Hill, and passed the brooding ancient flintstone Guildhall that stood like a medieval sentinel guarding the northern boundary of the city square.
Here the crowd thinned out and she quickened her pace so that Dickie, with his short legs, was forced to trot. The other boys lounged along sullenly, plainly resentful at having their precious time wasted on a boring shopping expedition. Though they were big enough to help, Zoe had not been able to bring herself to ask them to carry anything. Reggie would have answered, echoing his father, «We have servants to do the bleedin’ shopping.»
Except for little Dickie, who now stumped cheerfully along at her side, nobody in her social circle could understand her need to do things for herself, even if they were things that «weren’t done.» All of them sat down most of the time, and smoked a great deal, and drank a great deal in a quiet way and tried to look world-weary. Their favorite expression was, «You’ll get over it, my dear.» If she showed any feeling at all, any unusual happiness or unhappiness, someone would always parrot, «You’ll get over it, my dear.»
She sometimes thought, How efficient! A single bit of wisdom that fits every possible occasion! She’d never been able to bring herself to say the loathsome phrase, even on those occasions when it really did fit.
Sometimes her friends asked her, «Are you happy?»
She would answer, «I suppose so.»
It always satisfied them to hear her say that.
She strode along narrow Dove Street, cro
ssed Pottergate, and continued on to the corner of Duke Street and Charing Cross, passing under the overhanging second floors of the ancient pastel-painted cottages. There she paused to let Reggie and Smitty catch up. They had been dawdling along behind, listlessly trying to push each other into the gutter.
«Mama,» Dickie said suddenly. «Do I know him?»
«Know who?» she asked, puzzled.
«The man you’re mad it. The man with my name.»
«No you don’t, dear.»
«Will I ever meet him?»
She shook her head firmly. «Never! Now let’s hurry home. Daddy will worry about us if we’re out when the rain starts.» She had already felt a few tiny droplets on her cheek.
The rain began in earnest as they came in through the garden gate, so Zoe and the boys were forced to run the last few hundred yards along the stone walkway, up the red brick steps, across the little porch and, with a whoop of laughter from Zoe and Dickie, through the tall front doorway into the vestibule. Reggie and Smitty ran, but they permitted themselves no laughter, only a mild annoyance.
The Smythe-Evans residence was, to judge by its exterior, a beautiful old house, as beautiful and as old as any of the others in the neighborhood, half-timbered, tile-roofed, vaguely Tudor, with the stucco portions of the wall in a pale candylike «Suffolk pink.» It was surrounded with the usual trees, the usual flowers, and the usual lawns.
The interior, however, had been modernized by Reginald’s father some time in the Roaring Twenties, and the omnipresent Art Deco furniture and hangings were not yet old enough to be quaint, but too old to make a strong statement in favor of progress.
Mrs. Kelly, the roly-poly cleaning woman, paused on her way down the hall stairs to frown disapprovingly as Zoe opened the closet and proceeded to put her yellow raincoat on a hanger.
«May I be assisting you, mum?» the old woman demanded.
«No, thank you, Mrs. Kelly. I can manage.» Zoe was helping the children off with their coats.