by John Creasey
A young officer, leading them, stopped at some double doors, and pressed a button on one side. The doors slid open.
“This is the apartment reserved for you,” he announced.
Except that it was furnished sparsely, it might have been a hotel suite.
“Just before I left I was told by Merritt that Dr Ephraim Higgins will come to see the patient,” Duval said. “I will bring him here. Will you wait for him, Dr Palfrey?”
“No,” Palfrey said. “I’d better be back in Nice or London, but readily available. I hope this woman’s leader will want to talk to me again.”
Duval said nothing.
Palfrey took a last look at Leah, who had been exactly as she was now for several hours. Then he went back the way he had come, as sure as he could be that the woman could not be taken away without authority.
Who else was safe?
At the surface, the sun was high and very warm. As Palfrey and Duval drove back towards the coast, they had a glimpse of a calm, sunlit ocean, dotted here and there with small boats. Two liners, untouched by freak wave or heavy seas, seemed to steam like toy ships on painted water.
“Where will you go now?” Duval asked.
“Back to the hotel,” Palfrey said. “And I’ll wait.”
Waiting was going to be the worst thing of all, because as he waited he would think of so much – of Corvell, of the disaster here, of the fact that ‘they’ must have been active for two years at least and he had had no knowledge of it. He would think of the men who had disappeared as well as of those thousands who had died – and would keep brooding over Julia Shawn, wondering what had happened to her, and how the man he knew as the Patriarch might use her in order to get what he wanted.
In Palfrey’s room was a sealed package from London. He opened it by a window, and the breeze fluttered some of the papers inside. These were reports, typewritten on flimsy paper, from a dozen Z5 agents. Some dealt with the phenomena at sea, and Palfrey felt a sense of increasing excitement as well as fear when he confirmed that most of the disappearances at sea had been preceded by freak waves. No other report of a midget silver-coloured vessel or submarine was here.
But there were reports of the Indian, Garri-Garri, together with two photographs of the man. The reports confirmed Palfrey’s own recollection. Garri-Garri had been a Hindu scientist who had spent his life studying the problem of longevity and the evidence for reincarnation. He had claimed, at times, that he had turned men and women in their seventies into vigorous people of young middle-age. One or two instances had been investigated, with inconclusive results. Garri-Garri had never been proved a charlatan but few scientists or doctors of repute had been greatly impressed by him. Every report revealed him as a man of overwhelming pride, arrogance and vanity. He had stormed out of several conferences when his integrity had been challenged – always in the same way. The accusation was that the young and vigorous people had not been the older ones rejuvenated, but different people. Garri-Garri had sworn that this was calumny.
Had he lied?
He had disappeared off the coast near Gascais, Portugal, when deep sea fishing, but there was nothing to indicate that this had followed a freak wave.
Palfrey read all these reports, then turned again to the photographs of the handsome man with dark, dominating eyes.
The girl-woman prisoner was so like him that she might indeed be his daughter.
Julia Shawn did not know where she was.
She was alive, she was fully conscious, she was frightened – partly because of being alone in a small room. The one thing about the room which puzzled her most was its smallness. It was not much larger than a tiny cabin on a cross-channel steamer. She was on the lower bunk. The other was a foot or two above her, and by stretching out her arms she could just touch the far wall. She turned over, and saw that her clothes were folded over a chair. Then she thought:
“They can’t be my clothes.”
She sat up, almost bumped her head, moved more cautiously and touched the clothes. No, they weren’t hers. The dress was yellow, by coincidence presumably, but the sandals were brown, like pliable leather – or were they of plastic? There were no stockings, but there was an almost transparent brassiere and a pair of flimsy panties.
She pushed the single sheet back. The first thing she noticed was its feather-lightness; it was like gossamer. The substance puzzled her. It was obviously strong, but lighter in weight than any material she knew.
She got off the bed, having to keep her head low because of the bunk above. There was only just room between that bunk and the ceiling for someone to get onto it. It was empty. A gossamer sheet, like the one on her bunk, was spread smoothly over it. She made herself look away from it, and then picked up the brassiere; it was made of the same kind of material, and it seemed absurd to imagine that it would give her any support. She put it on, bending down to fit it over her full breasts; when she straightened up, she felt the support to be both firm and substantial. She pulled on the fragile pair of panties, and had never touched fabric so delicate; yet when she pulled, it seemed very tough.
She put on the ‘dress’.
In fact, the garment was more like a gym tunic. It was slightly waisted, and the pleated skirt fell halfway between her waist and her knees. It would make an ideal dress for tennis, except for the colour. It was also so light in weight that she hardly felt as if she had anything on.
She stood as far back as she could, in front of a small wall mirror, but could only see her head and shoulders.
Suddenly, she raised her hands; quite startled.
She was surprisingly calm, and only a little frightened. She had come round from the drug, realised that she was a prisoner, and yet her only reaction had been of curiosity. Until this moment, she had felt no fear. Now that she had reminded herself of reason for fear, it swept over her like a wave. She stared at the door in a kind of terror which made her whole body quiver.
Nothing happened.
She clenched her teeth as she reached out and touched the handle of the door. It would be locked, of course. She turned the handle and pulled – and the door opened.
She stood quite still; holding her breath.
The small door was rather like a hatch, and she could not get out without bending her head. She made herself go forward. Her hips touched the sides of the door, and although she bent very low, the top of her head bumped. But next moment she was in a narrow passage, where the ceiling was little more than head high.
It was like being in a miniature prison; a kind of dolls’ house of a prison.
She heard no sound.
Her heart was palpitating, but she made herself go on. She kept thinking of what Palfrey had said: it did not matter what she saw or felt or touched – any trifling thing might help to identify this place later. But – the walls were bare. They were a pale green in colour, not unpleasing in itself, but there was no relief from it; no darker line, no change of colour, no break – even the outlines of doors were barely discernible. She walked on, towards a T-junction. The passage there stretched out a long way in each direction. She saw only two things in the passage, one on either side; each reminded her of a steel door, like those on ships to divide one section from another.
Which way should she go?
Why had she any freedom of movement?
She turned right, and walked along, heart in mouth. She thought for a while that the walls at either end were blank, that she was surrounded by three passages, and that was all; but when she reached the end she saw another passage, leading in either direction.
Again she turned right.
Then a long way ahead, she saw what looked like a big shadow on the wall, the only relief she had seen yet from the pale green. She glanced upwards. At intervals there were little grilles rather like those of a miniature radio set. The air was fresh, and ye
t it wasn’t like the atmosphere of a house which was often open to the fresh air. The light was uniform; that helped to explain the uniformity of the colour, too.
What was the shadow?
As she drew nearer, she saw that it was more like a big window. It must be at least twenty feet long by six feet high, and it looked very dark outside. Was it night? She drew closer to the window, and saw a faint sheen, as of glass. She held her breath, scared for some reason she could not understand. It was not just that she seemed to be alone, that there had been no sound anywhere, and that she had no idea where she was. There was disquieting eeriness, particularly about that ‘window’.
Was it one?
She reached it – and almost cried out.
She was looking out into water; deep water. She saw a huge fish heading straight for the window, and shrank back. It stayed some distance away, unblinking, then turned and swam lazily off. A small octopus had eyes in its hooded body-cum-head like a Peeping Tom from a new planet; its tentacles waved sluggishly. A cloud of fish, all small, all with faintly pink bellies, flashed past her and disappeared. A school of tropical fish, strangely shaped and beautifully coloured, passed like a regiment of toy soldiers. She saw more big fish, including one that she believed was a shark.
All the time, the water in which they swam seemed motionless; the fish created the only movement.
Julia moistened her lips, and realised how very dry they were. Her mouth was parched, too. She looked away, but found herself forced to glance back; the eyes of a big fish seemed so close to hers. She shuddered, and swung round – and screamed.
A man stood just behind her.
She backed away, tripped, and nearly fell. The man stretched out a hand, took her wrist, and held her until she was steady. Then he let her go. She saw that he was smiling faintly – not grinning at her, as she had thought at first; he looked as if he were mildly amused, that was all. He was about five feet six in height, very little taller than she. He wore a blue smock, rather like the one she was wearing, but it was shorter. It reminded her of the dress which Roman soldiers had worn, but this man wore nothing on his head. His fair hair was trimmed in a kind of crew cut. His broad features were pleasant, not particularly handsome but quite attractive. His skin was flawless.
It reminded Julia of the girl’s skin; the girl who had started all this.
“Hallo,” the man said, in perfectly good English. “I am sorry if I frightened you.”
She realised she was gasping for breath.
“I—I’m all right.”
“Of course you are,” he said. “This is the safest place in the world – or one of them.” His smile showed that he had good, even teeth. “How long have you been here?”
“Not—not long.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I—I tell you I’m all right,” she insisted.
“I’m not at all sure that you are.” He stretched out his hand and took her wrist; he was feeling her pulse. “Not bad,” he conceded. “Better than I expected. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I think you ought to have something, anyhow,” he said. “Come along with me, and we’ll have a light meal. You can have very little food, if you prefer.” He took her arm, turned round, and led her back the way she had come. She was still frightened and nervous, but could not deny that this man seemed to give her a kind of reassurance. He was probably in the middle twenties, she guessed. His arms and legs were well shaped, and the skin smooth and – without blemish, she reminded herself.
He stopped beneath one of the small grilles in the roof, and raised his right hand. That was all – he raised his right hand. Immediately, a door in the wall began to open. It slid to the right. Beyond, she saw light and colour – and people. The man stood aside. Julia had to step over a ledge, and bend low to get through, but there was reasonable room. The door slid to behind them.
Now it seemed as if she was in a huge office with glass walls. Men and women were at desks, much as they would be in any office. On a wall – that on the right and beyond the offices – was a mass of instruments, and it reminded her of an atomic research station where she had once worked on security. No one appeared to take any notice of her. As they neared a door at the far end of this central passage, she realised that all the people were dressed alike – the women as she was, and the men like her companion.
It was then, as they stepped through another doorway, that the truth hit her with almost physical violence. The explanation of that huge window and the big fish came to her belatedly but with overwhelming effect.
They were underwater; at the bottom of the sea.
Chapter Thirteen
THE DEEP
For a moment, Julia stood quite still; shocked, frightened. The young man put his hand up, as he had outside, and a door slid open in front of him. Only when he stood inside, for her to pass, did he notice that she hadn’t followed close behind him. He turned round.
He must have seen how shocked she was, but he smiled and stretched out his hand.
“Come with me, I will look after you,” he said, as if he were talking to a child.
She took his hand, and he led her out of this passage, into another. For the first time, colour appeared on the walls – waves of different hues which had a subtle effect, as if – like a rainbow – they touched the air with their diversity, as one merged into the next. The colour on walls and ceiling was faintly iridescent, as if it was shining through water.
Julia did not think of that consciously. The man’s grip was firm on her arm, and she went forward in a daze. She did notice that instead of the bare offices and desks on either side, there were armchairs and couches. Men and women sat about, some reading books, others reading newspapers. At the end of one room was a smaller place, partitioned off. In one wall of this was a television screen, and for the first time, Julia really took notice; for the people on the screen were dressed in ordinary clothes. Suddenly, a large face appeared, and she recognised the character of Perry Mason. That brought a moment of realism, almost of relief.
Before her guide raised his hand in front of the next door, it slid open. A girl on the other side said:
“Hallo, Boris.”
“Maria,” the young man said, “this is Julia Shawn, who has come on a visit.”
“From above?” the girl asked. She looked Julia up and down with a curiosity and interest which was almost childlike in its frankness.
“Yes.”
“I often wonder how it is up there these days,” Maria said. “Is it still chaotic? Are human beings still imbecilic in their attitudes towards one another?”
“I hope that the Patriarch will arrange a general discussion before Julia goes back,” Boris said. “I will inform you.”
“Oh.” Maria was momentarily taken aback; she gave the impression that she was suddenly apprehensive. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
She pushed past.
Julia found herself wanting to ask: “Why should she be sorry?” Was she frightened even of the mention of the Patriarch?
Boris led her through this doorway into another room – a restaurant. Here the colours were subtly different, and the contrasts greater. Small tables stood about, with comfortable looking chairs around them. Several small groups sat at the tables, eating and drinking. Almost at once Julia noticed that men as well as girls moved about, serving the food – and that they were dressed almost exactly as those whom they were serving. A few glanced across at the newcomers, but no one moved towards them. Boris went to a table in a corner, and pulled out a chair.
“Please sit down,” he said.
She sat down.
“May I order for you?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“We’ll see,” said Boris. He pressed the table, and spoke as if to someone who wasn’t
here. “Delicacy, please.” He removed his fingers, and Julia saw that he had pressed a kind of push-button which was raised a fraction of an inch above the level of the table. She saw more; at first sight the table – like the walls here – had seemed to be a simple pattern of colour, but gradually positive shapes appeared. She could make out the silhouettes of mountain ranges, but none which was familiar. In her bewildered, half-frightened, half-curious mood, this puzzled her, but she did not comment.
“Would you like to ask questions?” Boris inquired.
Julia didn’t reply.
“You are free to do so, and I am free to answer,” he said. “The Patriarch has given me permission.”
After a pause, Julia found herself asking: “Who is the Patriarch?”
“Our leader.”
“Whose leader?”
“The Deep’s,” he said.
The answer came easily, as if there was nothing strange about it. “The Deep’s.” She recalled the great glass window and the monsters as well as the tiny creatures of the oceans which she had seen, and she felt again the sense of shock which had seemed to explode within her when she had realised that she was in some great underwater place.
Place?
This was huge – a vast building, covering many acres. She must have seen at least five hundred people here already. How many more were there? How much more was there to see?
“I don’t understand you,” she said.
Boris smiled in that charming way of his, and she had the impression that her answer gave him a great deal of satisfaction.