The door opened. From the shadows beyond a blast of gun-fire spat furiously at me, I felt a jolting blow on my middle, but the wire-woven shirt saved me. My breath was gone. I folded up, realizing that there was no time to reach the knuckle-gun, and that the dark figure rushing forward from beyond the threshold had his pistol aimed for another shot.
I fell sidewise, the familiar cool hilt of my sword against my palm; I heard the faint whisper of sound as it shipped from its scabbard. I thrust up, feeling the blade go smoothly into my opponent’s belly and rasp against his spine. His gun blazed, missing me, and he fell forward with a gasping scream. He was dressed in black, and masked. Behind him, from the door, other men came running. They too wore masks.
But now I was up, catching my breath, and with the knuckle-gun ready. I lunged forward at the leader. His sword cut hair from my head as I ducked. I slammed my fist against his jaw, squeezing the trigger at the same time, and his face exploded in red, horrible ruin. He had no time to cry out before he died.
But there were too many of them, and I could not hold them in the passage, The sound of shots had raised an alarm; I heard distant cries. My opponents wanted to escape, and they came at me helter-skelter, guns barking, blades shining. A bullet grazed my cheek. Others were stopped by my shirt, but the impact dazed me, made me lower my guard for a moment. That was time enough.
Four men came out of the hallway, staring around with quick, fearful glances. Had they waited, they could have killed me. As it was, they fled, shooting back at me—with bad aim—as I staggered up to renew the fight. They were gone in the underbrush around the terrace, leaving two corpses at my feet.
Someone had struck first, forestalled me. I didn’t know who, or why. I sheathed the sword and hurried into the house, making straight for Wellingham’s underground workshop.
He was there, his body crumpled across a bench, blood on his gray smock and a smear of red on his white hair. I ripped open his shirt and put ray ear against his thin chest. I could barely hear his heart-beat. After a moment I let my gaze search the laboratory. The heat-ray model was gone.
I put Wellingham on a couch, locked the door, and investigated the medicine cabinet. There was adrenalin. I opened a syringe, filled it, and slid the needle delicately between Wellingham’s ribs, till I knew I’d touched the heart. The stimulant worked.
Someone knocked on the outer door, I ignored it. I watched Wellingham come back to life, watched his pale eyelids stir and lift, and pain blaze in his faded eyes. But I dared not give him morphine. I could not even let him die in peace.
“Heath—” he whispered. “Dale Heath?”
I said, “That’s right, Wellingham. What happened?”
“The—adrenalin? I’m dying?” He saw my nod, and sighed. “The model—heat-ray—stolen.”
“Did you complete it?”
“Yes. Only model—destroyed plan—easy to build projectors from—model—”
“Who stole it, Wellingham?”
“Horsten,” he said. “John Horsten, He plans—overthrow—the Firstman.—Joanna—helping him! She knows—knows—”
HE DIED. This time it was final.
The knocking on the door was louder now; a torch was burning at the lock. I looked around. There was another door in the corner. I opened it warily and went out into a hall. Distant footsteps thumped on stairs. I saw a cupboard not far away. I slid into it and waited, while the footsteps went past me and entered the laboratory.
Presently I emerged and climbed the stairs. I could have outbluffed the guards, but I didn’t want to waste time. I made my escape without difficulty.
In a public washroom I made repairs. A coin opened the medical kit on the wall. Antiseptic and liquid-skin fixed the graze on my cheek, and I used cold water to remove bloodstains from my clothes. After that, I telephoned Administration.
Horsten wasn’t there. They couldn’t locate him.
I said “Thanks” and went out, looking toward the Pavilion. The dance was still going on. I headed in that direction, my mind a turmoil. Immersed in my own plans, I hadn’t realized that others might be plotting too—plotting murderously. A coup to overthrow Garson, with Horsten behind it? And Joanna aiding that warped, vicious geopolitican? Why the devil?
I meant to find out. The heat-ray model had to be recovered. But I couldn’t ask Bob Garson to help me; not when I was plotting against him myself.
They let me into the Pavilion when they recognized me, though I wasn’t in costume, and I made my way through the dancers to where Joanna Garson was gliding in a waltz with a golden-cloaked officer. I tapped his shoulder. She came into my arms gracefully, smiling up at me, though she was nearly as tall as I. Her body was steel under satin.
A lovely woman, Joanna Garson. Till now I’d never thought her especially intelligent. I wasn’t sure about it yet, nor would I be till I knew why she’d tied up with Horsten. Honey-colored tyes watched me. She had been drinking champagne, looted perhaps from the ruined Chicago cellars, and the Sparkle of the stuff showed in the look she gave me.
“I shouldn’t dance with you, Dale. You’re late, and you’re not dressed for my party.”
“I had a tough time getting here at all.”
“Is Bob still working?”
“He was when I left him. The fleet’s tailing soon, you know, Joanna.”
Laughter curved her full, red lips. “He loves his fleet more than me.”
I said, “You know that’s not so. Without you—I don’t know if he’d have the strength to go on with his job.”
“Well—perhaps. Why talk of that tonight? Thanks for the present, Dale. It was a lovely necklace.”
“I’ve another present,” I said, and steered her to a terrace. She looked a little startled, but yielded. We fenced out into the coolness of the night, lit with hanging lanterns from the trees.
“Down here.”
“Oh, this is far enough. My gown—” I took her arm, too roughly. She tried to pull away, and there was startled alarm suddenly in her face. I saw her mouth opening; in a moment, I knew, she’d scream. There was one way to stop it. I jerked her close, clamped my lips down upon hers in a savage kiss. And she relaxed in my grip.
Before she could recover or could realize my intention, I had her down the steps of the terrace and into the thick of the bushes. My hand gagged her effectively. She struggled, but I laid the edge of my misericordia against her throat.
“Don’t yell,” I said very softly. “I’ll put the knife in you, if I have to, and take my chances.”
She didn’t quite believe that, but she was frightened. “Dale,” she whispered. “You’re insane. What—” “Wellingham’s dead,” I said.
Her start of surprise wasn’t convincing. “But—I don’t understand—”
“There’s not much time, I know about Horsten’s plotting. I know you’re in with him. Suppose I told Bob?”
Briefly her face was an impassive mask as she thought it over. “You’re still insane, Dale. Take that knife away!”
FOR answer I pressed a little harder.
“Try screaming,” I suggested, “I’m not joking, I want the heat-ray projector back.”
“You wouldn’t dare kill me,” Joanna said. “Bob would—”
“What? After he knew you were betraying him?” Fine words for me, I thought. A game of double betrayal. But I had to do this job my way.
I showed Joanna my knuckle-gun. “Do you know how this works? These spikes—they can make hash of a man’s face. Or a woman’s. Listen to me. I’m pulling out tonight; I’m leaving the City. I won’t be coming back. I want the heat-ray to take with me. You get the point. I won’t be talking to Bob—about you or Horsten or anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Figure it out. Since I’m leaving, I won’t mind killing you before I go—”
“I’m not afraid of death,” she said. “—or using this knuckle-gun on you,” I finished. “I’ve used it once already tonight. The man’s dead, but that’
s because I aimed for his brain. I wouldn’t kill you, Joanna—but you’d wish I had.”
She shrank away from me, her ivory skin whiter than ever. I went on inexorably.
“This man—he wasn’t pretty when I finished. He had no nose. His lower jaw was gone. And I’d do a better job on you, Joanna. Plastic surgeons couldn’t do much after I’d worked you over.”
“My God, Dale,” she whispered, a pulse beating in her throat. “What have I done to you to make you hate me like this?”
“I don’t hate you. I don’t give a damn about you. I just won’t let anyone get in my way.”
She was ice-cold in my arms. “What do you want?”
“Where’s the heat-ray model?”
“John has it.”
“Where?”
“A hideout—under the lake—”
“His plans?”
“To make portable projectors—many of them. And overthrow the—the Firstman—”
I wondered what she was getting out of the deal, but I didn’t ask. “How do you get to this hideout?”
“Water suits. I’d have to show you—”
“Fine,” I said, and meant it. I read her mind. If she could lure me into a trap, making sure I wouldn’t talk to Bob Carson—that was the way she’d want it. But it fitted my plans, too. I had to get my hands on the model and make certain that Carson would never recover it.
I slipped the knuckle-gun onto my hand and gripped Joanna’s arm, so that the weapon was concealed by the drapery of her sleeve. “We’ll go there now.”
“I’ll need a wrap.”
“No.”
She gave in and we mounted the path that led along the lake front. Behind us the music from the Pavilion faded and died. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I was conscious of a curious shortness of breath. Outside the illusory brilliance of the City’s lights, the world was in darkness, and men still fought and murdered in the ruins.
CHAPTER THREE
Under the Lake
THE cut on my hand, where I had gripped my own misericordia as I left Carson, was still painful. I managed to start the blood flowing afresh. Droplets of blood marked our path. But there wasn’t much, and Joanna did not notice. She was too busy making sure that we were not being trailed.
We had not far to go. A jetty reached out into the lake like a probing, curved finger, higher than our heads. We walked along the narrow path at its base, spray cold on our legs. I left my crimson trail where the water would not reach; the mark of bloody fingers now and then was sufficient. The guards would be out tonight, after Wellingham’s murderer. They would be searching the city. Those trained, shrewd ferrets would see blood, and follow. I wondered how much time I would have.
Joanna moved before me, her steps sure. The curving jetty had by now shut off the shore lights. Only the blackness of Lake Michigan stretched into emptiness on our left. The wind was icy.
We walked for a long time. Near the end of the quay Joanna stopped and ran her fingers over the concrete. An opening gaped there.
I took a flashbulb from my tunic and let its pale beam probe ahead. A chamber had been hollowed out of the jetty at this point: a ladder descended into gloom.
I had noticed the location of the spring Joanna touched to open the panel, and I marked it with blood. Then, while she blinked in the sudden light, I stepped past her into the tiny room, and she closed the door upon us.
“Down here, Joanna?”
“Yes. I said it was under water.” The watchful, honey-colored eyes dwelt on me.
“I’ll go first.”
We descended the ladder; I don’t know how long it was, but the lake was fairly deep at this point. We must have gone clear to the bottom. At last my feet struck solid ground, and we were in a circular chamber, quite bare, except for a score of regulation water-suits piled carelessly in a corner. There was a valve-door in one wall.
Joanna picked up one of the suits and tossed me another. I didn’t do the one she gave me. I didn’t trust her enough for that. I found another in the pile that fitted fairly well, checked the lead weights on the soles, and watched her adjust the transparent, tough material, with its tiny built-in air-kit.
“Who built all this?” I said.
Joanna didn’t look frightened any more. I guessed that she’d worked out a satisfactory plan for my elimination. A little smile quirked her lips as she looked at me.
“I don’t know. The jetty’s old—nineteen sixty or earlier. We—improved it.”
“What now?”
“I’ll show you.”
She slid her face-plate closed, and after that we couldn’t talk; there was no radio in these light suits. Following her example, I went toward the door in the wall. I couldn’t leave any more signs for the guards, with my wounded hand in its tight glove, but I hoped that the way would be clear from now on.
Luckily, it was.
THE DOOR opened into a tiny room empty except for a wire pulley. There were clasp-hooks on these. It was a conveyor belt of some sort.
Behind us the door shut; Joanna, showed me how to snap a buckle of my suit onto the pulley. She did the same. She pulled a lever set in the wall, at her side, and the wall before us opened slowly, letting the dark waters of Lake Michigan spurt in upon it, I still held my flash-bulb. I kept it focussed steadily on Joanna, but in that racing turmoil I could scarcely glimpse her. We were buffeted and hammered. Only our pulley wire kept m from being knocked unconscious against the walls.
Then a calm, quiet, deep silence Ailed the room, and we were moving forward slowly along the wire. I turned off the light for an instant. Instantly a terrifying, utter blackness shut me off from life. Deep as we were, no moonlight could penetrate the lake. I felt trailing weeds brush me as I was carried along.
Blindly I groped out ahead of me and touched Joanna’s arm. I prisoned her wrist. She did not try to pull free.
After a time the forward motion stopped. I used the light again, and saw Joanna unbuckling Herself from the wire. I did the same. We were in a small room, the duplicate of the one we had left, even to the lever in the wall.
Joanna pulled this down, and the valve closed, shutting us in. The water began to recede till only puddles were left at our feet.
We went through a door into the next, larger room. There were a dozen or so water-suits stacked in a corner. Joanna moved toward a translucent panel but I was there before her. I could see nothing, but I felt keen, questioning eyes upon me.
“We’re alone,” I said. “Tell Horsten we’re here.”
Presently a concealed door opened. The size of the underground hall amazed me, till I remembered the uncompleted trans-lake tunnel started in 1950 and abandoned a few years later. This was part of that tube.
The few dim lights left great blotches of shadow on the dank roof and sides of the place. There were a dozen or so metal chairs, a number of pallets, and a knock-down desk behind which John Horsten sat, his brows lifted, his eyes intent under their pale lashes. His gaze flashed to Joanna and then to me again.
There were about twenty men here, some of whom, I thought, bore the marks of my sword and knuckle-gun. They looked at me, watchfully, and though no weapons were drawn, I felt their menace.
I opened my face-plate. Joanna had already done the same. She cried, “Keep your guns on him! Don’t let him move.” Then she ran past me to the desk where Horsten waited. His thick lips twisted in a crooked grin.
“Ser Heath!” he said. “I hadn’t expected . . . What happened, Joanna?”
“Kill him!” she whispered. “He’s alone. He made me bring him here—”
“How did he find out?”
“I’m not sure. He told me he was leaving the City—and he wanted the projector.”
Horsten fingered his lips. “Leaving—commanding the Vikings on the southern raid, eh? You came here alone, Ser Heath? That was not wise.” I looked around at the grim-faced circle of men, and felt that cool wind of death blow past me. It would not do to show weakness now. I wal
ked forward, not too fast, till I reached the desk. Joanna shrank away from me. Hors ten’s face was wary; I saw his hidden hand move.
“If you’re talking to me,” I said, “—stand up!”
His head jerked back. A mottled flush darkened his cheeks. But after a moment he smiled,-in a twisted, malicious way, and rose, with a mocking half-bow.
“My apologies,” he said smoothly. “You rank me, of course, Ser Heath. For the present!”
“I rank you anywhere—at any time,” I told him. “Whether we serve the Firstman or depose him together. You!” I thrust my hand toward one of the men. “A chair!”
He hesitated, looked at Horsten, and then obeyed. I sat down. So did Horsten. Joanna hovered by the desk, waiting. I read too well the look she gave the little devil. Some women are attracted by ugliness and viciousness and unscrupulous strength in a man. She—loved him!
I said, “You blundering fool, Horsten! If this is a sample of your plotting, the Firstman has damned little to worry about.”
“Talk,” he said. “Talk as you like. You’ll end your talking soon enough.”
“Not here. Not at your hands. I know you’d like to kill me, but I’m too valuable to die yet. Your men will realize that.”
“Have you brought the guards here?”
Joanna broke in quickly, “I made certain we weren’t followed.”
“Then that’s good.” He nodded slowly.
I RAISED my hand. “Listen. I hadn’t known of your organization till tonight. Only your blundering told me. I’d already decided to pull out—to leave the City, and not with the fleet, either. I’ve quarreled with Garson once too often. I waited only till Wellingham had finished his heat-ray model. Then I planned to leave, go south and buy my safety with the Indiana folk. They’d be glad enough to have the heat-ray. They’d give me whatever I wanted. And with the heat ray I’d be safe from Garson.”
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