by John Creasey
There were other equally secure, local headquarters for Z5, one in each major capital. The London nerve centre could communicate with these others very quickly, by radio of such high frequency that no one could cause interference. In this, too, all the nations co-operated, so that Z5 was indeed the nerve centre, and had an authority (but little power) unique in world history. It had become what idealists had long dreamed the United Nations should be, and the single-mindedness of Palfrey and his chief assistants strengthened its authority. No one who served Z5 pledged loyalty to his country; he or she owed their first allegiance to the world. Warring nations were at least agreed that there were some matters on which they must be united, some dangers which could only be faced if they acted together. Some of them took a great deal of convincing that such a necessity had arisen, but once convinced, they set aside national sovereignty for the period of emergency.
There had been several emergencies.
Eight years before, science distorted and misused, had threatened the world with a new Flood, which would have drowned all living creatures. Six years before, there had been urgent danger that all the waters of the earth would dry up in a Drought which no one could have survived. In these, and in others, the nations had acted in unison once assured that no one nation would benefit at their expense.
Dr. Palfrey’s great difficulty, and greatest single cause for frustration, was with leaders of nations who were prepared to lead their people to death for a principle of only transitory value.
Obviously Palfrey was a remarkable man. Few people knew how remarkable, for not only did he direct the activities of Z5 in striving to keep the nations together under considerable stresses, but he directed a world-wide intelligence service, the sole purpose of which was to watch for, and report to him, the slightest sign of danger. There had been the threat of fire, an Inferno which could have reduced the world to ashes, and the threat of perpetual Sleep. The rumours of these dangers had come early to Palfrey, and immediately he had alerted his own agents, and the world’s governments; and so saved the world from disaster.
A week ago, Palfrey had first heard of the midget creatures which were to burrow and build their own pathetic fortress beneath Dave Fordham’s barley. He had talked to Neil Anderson, learning about the creatures, seen first in Sweden. Anderson had known they could be dangerous; and Anderson, like a hundred other agents commissioned to this search, had set out with instructions to catch one of the creatures alive.
Palfrey did not yet know about Anderson’s death.
Anywhere in England, anywhere in the world, a call to S1234X would reach Palfrey, in his office, or his study, beneath Mayfair. Twice his headquarters had been raided, and after each raid a stronger one had been devised.
Now he sat at a very large desk of red mahogany, in a big room filled with glazed bookcases and veneered filing cabinets, all of which were fireproofed, waterproofed and virtually impervious to explosion.
Seated, he appeared slight, with rounded shoulders, not by any means the popular conception of a powerful leader; standing, he was more impressive.
The expression on his pale, ascetic face was mild and vaguely sad, an innocence accentuated by the silky fairness of his hair. He had a habit, when preoccupied, puzzled or in danger, of twisting a few strands of hair about his forehead, and eventually pressing them down in a childish curl. Those who saw him for the first time, inspired by his reputation, were not a little disappointed, overlooking the steadiness of his grey eyes, and the hint of strength at his mouth and chin.
He sat alone, that afternoon, studying three reports which had come in as a result of urgent instructions issued to agents throughout the world. The request had been simply worded:
Make most thorough investigations into any report or rumour about a race of creatures sometimes described as midgets or dwarfs, sometimes as cats, rabbits, ferrets or very big rats. Investigation should be made both in rural and urban areas. Also most thorough investigations in any reports of the loss of food in warehouses, which cannot be explained convincingly. Also, of any areas where mice, spiders, insects and small animals of all kinds appear to have been killed off. Give both matters absolute priority.
Now three reports lay before him.
One was from a big wheat warehouse in Kansas City, Missouri, U.S.A. Stocks had been raided by animals believed to be rats, later suspected to be rabbits. The investigating authorities were puzzled, for they had found no further trace of the marauders. In the area there was an unusual but welcome freedom from insects, mice, all small vermin and pests.
The second report was from Tokyo; big rice stocks near Kyoto had been devoured, and the authorities could not identify the animals concerned, although rabbits—the symbol of fertility in Japan—were suspected. Small vermin and insects had almost disappeared from that area, too.
The third report had come from the Congo; tribesmen had reported the discovery of a race of white pygmies, half animal, half man. The report had not been confirmed but the circumstantial evidence was strong. The pygmies had disappeared into the bush, but warning of them had been carried to a hundred tribes.
Palfrey’s right hand strayed to his hair.
He did not yet fathom, nor even begin to suspect, the full significance of this news. It was the fact that the reports were from such widely separated parts of the world he found so disturbing.
Aloud, he said: “Southampton, England; Tokyo, Japan; Kansas City, U.S.A., and also near Brazzaville, the Congo.”
He pulled gently at the strands of hair, his expression set, anxiety showing clearly. His gesture was an indication of his increasing agitation. Premonition warned him of the possible significance of the reports; such premonition was based on experience, of course, and experience told him that whenever phenomena were discovered in places so far apart, in all probability it was only a matter of time before they were found in other places; possibly in many of them.
There was something about this situation which set his nerves on edge. Even before learning of the depredations, he had been disturbed about world food supplies. Many of his agents reported low stocks due to poor harvests, and hunger and starvation were liable to drive men to desperation and so to war. The shortage of food as a consequence of the swift increase in the world’s population was becoming a grave preoccupation in many countries.
Any moment now, more reports would come in with further details from countries already named. The nearest possible source was Southampton. If there was such a development he could make inquiries himself. Essentially a leader, he was frequently irked by the fact that his responsibilities kept him away from the scenes of action.
A green light glowed at one of the four telephones on his desk; this was his secretary and confidante, Joyce Morgan. He lifted the receiver.
“Yes, Joyce?”
“I’ve some bad news,” Joyce said in the quiet unemotional voice which half prepared him for what was to come. “Neil Anderson is dead.”
Palfrey unwound the strands of hair, patting them into place with unconscious deliberation. Anderson, a Swede who had seldom operated in England, had been pressed into service for this investigation. That morning, he had telephoned to say that friends in Salisbury had told him of the surprising disappearance of insects and small vermin from the Avon Valley area, and he was going to question the neighbouring farmers.
“How did he die?” Palfrey asked quietly.
“He seems to have been murdered but I don’t know all the details. The police from Salisbury telephoned. He’d written our number down in blood on the window of a car.”
“Blood,” echoed Palfrey. “Where’s the body?”
“Where it was taken, near Salisbury.”
“Leave him there until I arrive,” ordered Palfrey. “Ask Kenneth Campson to go down at once to do the post-mortem. Put the usual word in with Scotland Yard. What else?”
&nbs
p; “The woman who brought him away from the place where he was killed says that he was attacked by rabbits,” Joyce said, and for the first time her voice held a very slight tremor.
“Where?” asked Palfrey, but before she could answer, he went on: “Get me Joe Richardson at 10, Downing Street, and while I’m talking to him brief one of the men standing by – it doesn’t matter who it is – about where this thing happened. He must take me down there at once.”
Palfrey rang off, and stared straight ahead, at a portrait of the Marquis of Brett, the man who had first led Z5. Then it had been an Allied and not a world-wide concept. There were moments when Palfrey seemed to need to commune with this man who had been dead for over ten years, and this was one of those times. Palfrey felt cold, with fear. Creatures who could devour huge quantities of food, who apparently devoured all insects and small vermin, who seemed to appear in the African bush, as well as in England, who could kill so swiftly, by blood-letting – he shivered.
A blue light glowed on a telephone; this was one of the Prime Minister’s personal assistants, Joe Richardson, the liaison officer between 10, Downing Street and Z5.
“What’s on, Sap?” Richardson had a rather casual way of speaking as if it could really be of no importance what the conversation was about. He was a willowy young man, and on the whole likeable.
“I don’t much care for the indications,” Palfrey answered. “I think we might be in for a major panic.”
Richardson said sceptically: “Scaremongering again.”
“I hope I am. Meanwhile I think we ought to have the police and the troops of Southern Command standing by for emergency action. Better safe than sorry,” Palfrey added, taking comfort in a cliché. “Will you ask the P.M. to fix this?”
“Just on your say so?”
“Yes,” Palfrey said sharply. “I’ll give chapter and verse if I want any action taken, but I’d like to make sure we can snap into action.”
After a pause, Richardson said soberly: “I’ll fix it, Sap.”
“Thanks,” said Palfrey.
He rang off, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Against the pinkness of the blood, seen through his eyelids, he imagined rabbits, dozens of rabbits, with fine, pointed teeth, filed like the teeth of Dracula. He shivered again, and stood up. As he passed the door of the adjoining room, he put his head round it.
“I’m off, Joyce. Who’s coming with me?”
“Baretta.”
“Thanks,” Palfrey said. He gave her an absent-minded smile and closed the door. One of the odd things about his relationship with Joyce Morgan was that he often did not really see her. He knew she was there, dark-haired, quietly attractive, but she seldom registered on him as a woman. Once this had caused deep resentment in her; now those days had passed, though her love for him had not.
He slipped into a narrow passage and then into a lift large enough for two people only. It shot him up to one floor below ground level, and from here he walked to a flight of steps, and arrived in the busy concourse of Green Park Underground station. He walked to Dover Street, where a streamlined Allard waited, with a dark-haired, dark-eyed man at the wheel – Jim Baretta, an Italian who served Z5 with a passionate loyalty. Palfrey got in. Baretta started off at once, speaking without glancing at his passenger.
“Joyce thinks you ought to have two more cars behind you, Sap.”
“She’s right,” Palfrey said. “Isn’t she fixing it?”
Baretta smiled. “Yes.”
“Then what are we worrying about?” Palfrey sat back and closed his eyes – and again rabbits swarmed in front of his mind’s eye. Rabbits. He sensed the skill with which Baretta threaded his way through the traffic, and was still sitting with his eyes closed when they reached the Embankment near Lambeth Bridge. With a minimum of delay, they went down stone steps towards a helicopter station, stepped into a two-man machine, and took off almost on the instant. As they flew over London, Palfrey looked down at the sprawling mass of chimneys which rose like cylindrical mushrooms in a spawning ground, at the occasional ugly square which towered above the slender houses. He thought, not aware of the bitter irony: I feel like Gulliver.
Soon, they were flying over open fields. The silver ribbon of the Thames weaved and turned among the massed green and among the red and grey and yellow of roofs. Very quickly, they came within sight of the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, skirting the lighted cross that stood out as a warning to all aircraft.
“Where are we going?” Palfrey asked Baretta.
“To a pub called the Goose Inn.” Baretta answered in English so natural and colloquial it was hard to believe he had been born in Genoa. “A message has just come over the radio, Sap – from Joyce.”
“Ahhh,” Palfrey sighed, and the sigh was touched with fear. “More reports from overseas?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Baretta. “A warehouse in Leningrad has been eaten empty of wheat. Scores of rabbits reported to be in the vicinity. Rice fields in Southern India have been invaded by animals believed to be rabbits, the entire crop stripped, as if locusts had devoured the lot. Have you any idea what’s going on?”
“Not yet,” Palfrey said, and the apprehension was in his eyes as well as in his voice. “But I already know how much I dislike it. Can you sight this Goose Inn?”
Baretta pointed downwards.
On the folds of Salisbury Plain, in the midst of a flat expanse of green and yellow, gold and brown, was a solitary building, stark and unlovely, with one road sweeping past it, and two lanes converging on to it. Dotted about the fields of wheat and barley, grass and clover, were clusters of cottages, and an occasional farmhouse surrounded with the usual outbuildings. Near the Goose Inn itself were three cars, one of them carrying a sign and a spotlight.
“That’s it all right,” Palfrey said. “I wonder how long—”
He broke off, with a catch in his breath, and Baretta exclaimed aloud. Some distance from the Goose Inn, in a field where a huge tree stood heavy with foliage, a cloud appeared to rise out of the earth, and to spread and spread. As the helicopter moved towards it, the cloud moved in turn, across the fields towards the city of Salisbury and the cathedral’s majestic spire.
Chapter Four
View from the Air
Baretta, his voice edged with alarm, said: “What is it?”
“It looks like a smokescreen,” Palfrey answered. He switched on the radio, already tuned in to the headquarters of Z5. “This is Palfrey,” he announced, and the operator, deep beneath Mayfair, responded. “There is a cloud which could be smoke or gas, between Salisbury and the Goose Inn. It looks as if it might be intended to cover movement of some kind. It wants tracking from the air and along the ground. Alert Army and Air Force to help in keeping it in sight.”
The operator said mechanically. “Message received.”
“Thanks.” Palfrey rang off. He glanced about him and saw another helicopter close by, identical with his own. He timed in to it. “Z5-X can you hear me.?”
“Z5-X, hearing you loud and clear.”
“Do you see the patch of smoke?”
“We can see it.”
“Keep flying above and behind it,” Palfrey ordered. “You’ll get help soon. Understood?”
“Fully understood.”
Palfrey switched off, still staring at the moving patch of smoke. He had seen similar phenomena before; it was remarkable how often a smokescreen proved the best kind of concealment; one of the earliest of his investigations, into the Mists of Fear, had revealed that a mist, something like electoplasm, had concealed creatures no one had suspected of existing.
“Where now?” Baretta asked.
“Goose Inn.”
“That smoke gives me the creeps.”
“I fully sympathise.”
Palfrey made himself look away from
the cloud, towards the oak tree, and the fields where it had first appeared. An old machine, rather like a combine-harvester, looked as if it had fallen into some kind of earth subsidence, and he believed that the smoke had come from that very place. He scanned the field with powerful glasses, saw more evidence of the subsidence, and had a strange impression: that he could see the bodies of a dozen babies, lying side by side, close to the spot where the earth had given way.
Babies.
Then he saw a man lying on his face, strangely desolate, in the lane which led to the inn. Palfrey took it for granted, without knowing why, that the man was dead. Was that Anderson? Or was there another victim? He must find out quickly.
He saw soldiers, in twos, at various places, as if the area had been cordoned off; if it had, that was good.
Soon, the helicopter was directly over the Goose Inn. A dozen people stood about the three cars, including two uniformed policemen. Moving along the road was a white ambulance; that would be for Anderson. The years had taught Palfrey to accept the sudden death of agents as inevitable, but each one brought its own sorrow and its own crop of memories. He and Anderson had once survived deadly danger together.
Baretta landed the helicopter lightly as a feather. One of the policemen came across the field towards them, a sergeant in dark blue. He watched Palfrey closely, and waited for him to speak.
“I’m Palfrey,” Palfrey said. “Have you had any more trouble?”
“I’m Sergeant Cooper, sir. Not as far as I know, sir.”
Sergeant Cooper was an astute man, careful not to commit himself.
“Is an Army detail on the way?” Palfrey asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ve just been informed of that by radio.” The statement was flat and factual, but Cooper was obviously puzzled and wary. “I’ve kept everyone away from the place where the man was attacked, waiting for expert opinion, sir. Mrs. Fordham whose husband is still near the spot, is very anxious to go and find if he’s all right.”