by John Creasey
“Stop it, Joyce,” Palfrey said sharply.
“I won’t stop it, it’s true. She’s driving me mad!”
“Joyce—”
“Keep quiet!” screamed Joyce.
“Joyce,” Palfrey said, his voice rising, “she gave you the biggest piece of biscuit.”
“That’s a lie!”
“It’s the truth.”
“She had the biggest piece.”
“You did. I was watching.”
The significance of what he had said struck home with savage hurtfulness, and Palfrey caught his breath. For a moment he thought that Joyce had been quietened, too, but she began again in the same shrill tone.
“Now you even watch every mouthful of food I take!”
“We all do.”
“I don’t. Don’t you say I do. Don’t …” Joyce broke off. “I can’t go on. I’m going to kill myself.” She swung round and rushed out of the room, and Palfrey jumped to his feet. The sound of Joyce’s footsteps echoed clearly at first, but gradually faded.
“I shouldn’t follow her,” Beth advised quietly.
“But she may kill herself.”
“She won’t,” Beth said.
“You can’t be sure.”
Beth leaned across and took his hand. She actually smiled.
“No, I can’t be,” she admitted, “but I’m nearly sure, and if we go we might drive her to try, in defiance. It’s best to leave her.” After a pause, she went on: “Sap, when are you going to stop tormenting yourself? You can’t live other people’s lives for them. If she really wants to kill herself, then we can’t stop her. I don’t think she will. I don’t think anyone screened by you and Z5 will ever take that way out, except to guard vital secrets. Do you?”
He stared into her eyes.
“Not really,” he said slowly.
“Of course you don’t,” Beth said. “Sap—”
“Yes?”
“You’ve got to think.”
“Think? What do you imagine I’ve been doing recently?”
“Reacting,” Beth said quietly.
“What?”
“Reacting,” Beth repeated firmly. “We all have. Everything has happened too fast for us, it’s like being caught up in a torrent. We’ve been so busy keeping our heads above water we haven’t really tried to swim.” When Palfrey didn’t answer, she went on: “You mustn’t waste your energy on me, or Joyce, or Copuscenti, or the Prime Minister. You haven’t enough to spare. Make your mind work as it’s never worked before. Make your subconscious think.”
He didn’t answer but watched her, wondering what was in her mind; there were depths he hadn’t plumbed, depths of which she herself was probably not aware.
“Sap,” she went on. “You keep saying one thing over and over again.”
“What thing?”
“That the solution to the problem is like a word on the tip of your tongue.”
“That’s so,” he agreed.
“You seem so sure it’s there.”
“I feel sure.”
“So, you have to probe your subconscious,” Beth said. “But—” she broke off.
“Go on. Don’t pull any punches.”
“You won’t let your mind concentrate on this problem only,” she said. “You worry too much about individual pain. That way you’ll never relax, or concentrate the way you always do best.”
“And what way is that?”
“Single-mindedness,” Beth said, and she gave a little laugh. “Expel me from your mind, expel Joyce, then, if there is a solution it will come to you in a flash. You know that, don’t you?” When he didn’t answer, she laughed again: “Look at you now!”
“What does that mean?” he hardly knew whether to be annoyed or amused.
“You’re playing with your hair.”
“I often do.”
“Whenever you’re preoccupied, yes. Do you know what I think?”
“Not at this moment.”
“I think you play with your hair as if you were signalling to your subconscious,” Beth declared. “Honestly, when you do it, do you consciously ponder anything? Or does your mind feel as blank as your face looks?” Again, quite spontaneously, Palfrey laughed.
“It feels blank enough,” he admitted.
“There you are,” said Beth with deep satisfaction. “I’m sure I’m right. You know your conscious mind goes blank and you call on the subconscious, and suddenly you get an idea – the solution to the problem which is baffling you.”
Palfrey contemplated her very closely indeed. She was more excited than he had known her, and her eyes were very bright. She was earnest and yet half-laughing. He thought that loss of weight suited her, showing up the fine bone construction of her face; her lips particularly, were beautiful. He had an almost overwhelming temptation to take her in his arms; he had felt like that several times, but had not done so, and she seemed content with a friendship and an affection which lacked the fire of love. Now, however, something in his expression must have warned her what was going through his mind, and suddenly she sobered.
He said, with an answering sobriety: “Yes, you’re right.”
“Twist your hair round your finger and keep doing it,” Beth ordered. “Keep doing it, Sap. Make your subconscious work.”
Palfrey said: “I can only give it a chance to work.”
“Do that then,” urged Beth. “Do that.”
Quite suddenly she moved forward, kissed him, hugged him, then walked silently out of the room.
While they had been talking, Smolensk in Russia, Calgary and Edmonton in Canada, Houston in Texas, Scottsbluff in Nebraska, Norwich in England, Cork in Ireland, Dijon and Grasse in France, Poznan in Poland, and seven other cities throughout the world flashed the dreaded 10.
The hordes of Lozi were sweeping all before them.
Palfrey sat at his desk, and tried to let his mind drift, but his thoughts kept coming back to the way Joyce had rushed out threatening to kill herself. It was futile to conjecture whether she would or not, as futile as the fierce argument had been. The remarkable thing was that all of them had kept their tempers for so long. But was Beth right?
Suddenly he jumped up.
“I’m going out to walk,” he told the messenger on duty.
He went along to the lift and pressed the button, standing to one side as the door opened – and then fell back, his heart racing wildly as two of the killer Lozi streaked out, fur-clad devils which hurtled along the corridors and disappeared.
“Get them!” cried Palfrey. “Get them!” He raced down the passage to Beth’s flat, and pushed the door open. “Careful !” he cried. “Two of the bloody things are in the place.”
Beth turned to him, appalled.
“Lock yourself in,” he ordered. “Don’t come out until you’re told that it’s all clear.”
It took an hour to locate the killer Lozi, and to trap them in a steel wire cage. Satisfied that that particular danger was over, Palfrey went along to reassure Beth, then took the lift up. On Piccadilly, the street was absolutely deserted, and he knew why; Lozi were about. He saw a pack of them in Green Park, mostly the ordinary creatures, but two were killers, attacking a skeleton thin Alsatian dog. They got it down and tore it to pieces. Palfrey turned away, sickened, and yet, by a terrible familiarity, hardened to horror.
Then he saw Joyce.
She was close to a gnarled tree, alone, watching the killer Lozi. Even at this distance, a hundred yards at least, Palfrey could see the terror in her eyes. He quickened his pace and walked towards her slipping a revolver from his pocket. Provided the blood was not touched, there would be no immediate danger. He did not call out, not wanting to distract the killers’ attention. The earth usually so green, was barren, there was nothing
gentle, or kindly, on which the eye could rest.
The killer Lozi turned away from the dog’s bones, already stripped clean. They seemed to look at Joyce as if deliberating whether to attack her, but as they looked, and she shrank back against the tree, two other killer Lozi came from the houses bordering the park. Palfrey, gun levelled, prayed that there were no more.
He reached Joyce.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”
He put an arm round her, thinking wryly of the triteness and the emptiness of the words uttered. Then, surprised, he saw the two pairs of killer Lozi leap at one another in a savage battle which was obviously to be fought to the death.
Even then, the idea he was seeking did not come to him.
Joyce was quivering in his grip as he led her away, glancing behind him at that terrible scene, and seeing the more peaceful Lozi cowering away as if the fight terrified them, also.
“We’ll go straight back,” said Palfrey.
“Sap, I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.”
“I can’t forget it. I’m terribly sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“There is,” Joyce said. “I know Beth’s right for you. I know I made you get to know her better, but I’m still jealous. Sap, I’m so much in love with you.”
Palfrey simply did not know what to say, so he gave her a little squeeze, and lengthened his stride.
“If we survive,” said Joyce. “It is Beth who will have kept us sane. She’s the woman for you, Sap. Even though half of me hates her, I know that’s true.”
“Joyce,” he began, “you don’t need—”
He broke off and swung round, for suddenly there was a squealing and groaning and yelping from the Lozi, and he thought for a dreadful moment that they were after him and Joyce. His finger was on the trigger, futile though he knew shooting would be if the pack’s blood was up.
He did not shoot.
Two of the killer Lozi were attacking the ordinary ones with appalling savagery, and as some died, another pack of Lozi came racing towards those who were dead and dying, and began to tear them apart, and to devour them.
Joyce gasped : “Look!”
“My God,” said Palfrey, in a choking voice. “That’s it – that’s what I’ve been after.” Joyce stared at him but he did not appear to notice her, he was staring at the awful massacre taking place only a hundred yards away. “That’s it,” he repeated in a hoarse voice. “We can’t destroy them, but they can destroy themselves.”
Chapter Eighteen
No Other Hope?
Stefan Andromovitch sat in an enormous chair, facing Palfrey; once he had filled the chair, now there was room to spare. Professor Copuscenti walked about the big office, eyes glowing, cheeks flushed. Joyce, with notebook and pencil on her lap sat at a corner of the big desk, watching Palfrey with fixed intensity. Beth sat in an armchair, also watching Palfrey, a gleam in her eyes which might be of love, of compassion, or even of admiration. There was a kind of tension that had been missing for weeks, until Joyce suddenly exclaimed: “When on earth are they coming?”
As she finished there was a tap at the door, and it opened to admit the Rt. Honourable James Mason, the Prime Minister, and the Russian and American ambassadors. All three men came in falteringly, making the great effort needed for any kind of physical exertion. The grey-haired messenger and Stefan Andromovitch indicated chairs, and they sat down slowly, laboriously.
“Have you really some news for us?” the Prime Minister asked.
“I have what might be hope,” Palfrey said.
“Is there anything more to ask for?”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Conlon added, in the thin tone of almost complete exhaustion.
“It is really very simple and yet very horrible,” Palfrey said. “It has been there from the beginning, but we haven’t seen it before.” He paused, knowing how impatient the others were, and yet so tense himself that he was breathless; in fact he felt a mixture of excitement and of apprehension. Conlon was clenching and unclenching his hands in his lap; no one else moved at all. “There was an attack to the death by killer Lozi of one pack, on the killer Lozi of another pack, in Green Park two hours ago. The surviving killers then turned on the ordinary Lozi, and their pack ate them.”
The Prime Minister caught his breath.
“Ate?” echoed Conlon.
“So. They are cannibals,” said Halik. “Of course there has been evidence before – when they cannot get normal food, they will feed off their own kind.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Conlon. “I would have thought it likely to spread the disease. How can it help?”
“When there’s no other food they will turn on each other.” Palfrey said. “We have to make doubly sure they can’t get at our food stocks. We have to reinforce all of our towns and cities, all the centres where there is still food. Then we have to make absolutely sure none of the Lozi can feed off the surrounding land, as they are doing now. When there is absolutely no food left, they will turn on each other.”
“Can you be sure?” demanded Conlon.
“I think we can make sure,” Palfrey said.
“Think!” urged Copuscenti. “Think, for the love of God.”
“We haven’t attempted to kill them in large numbers for fear of too much blood-letting, and the consequent radiation through contact,” Palfrey said. “But if they turn on each other, though blood-letting will be inevitable, human contact with it need not be. If we call in as many people as we can and they are compelled to stay inside germ-proof centres, they will be in little danger of poisoning.”
Halik said heavily: “No one must be outside such centres if they are to be effective. What little harvesting is being done will have to stop. All small food centres will have to be closed. Here in England it is possible. It will not be so in Russia.”
“Or in the United States,” Conlon interpolated. “The distances are too great. Even with the normal means of distribution available it would be impossible to move all food stocks. And when one begins to think in terms of India and China—” he broke off, passing his hand against his forehead.
Palfrey could imagine exactly how he was feeling; knew that he was afraid to face the sacrifices that any effective hope would make inevitable. The Prime Minister was leaning back with his eyes closed, and when he spoke it was in the cracked voice of an almost dying man.
“Even in England, we cannot save everybody. The death rate today is twice as high as normal. In India, it is four times the normal rate, so—whatever we do cannot save everybody. What is really in your mind Palfrey?”
Palfrey answered very carefully: “Selective sacrifice, sir.”
“Be more explicit, please.”
Palfrey leaned forward, looking at the three men in turn, and when he spoke he weighed his words with even greater care.
“I will try to be more explicit. As the situation now stands, there is no hope for mankind, because there is not enough food to supply human beings and the sub-human Lozi. We are agreed about that, I am sure.”
Halik nodded, the Prime Minister said, “Yes”, Conlon muttered, “I guess so.”
“It is doubtful whether any human beings will survive for more than six months, because all the food which can be grown will be gone, and there will be no one left with the strength to till the land and plant the seeds. As things are, this is our last year of harvest.”
“I hate to admit it,” Conlon said, “but you are right.”
“So anything which offers an improvement must be accepted,” reasoned Palfrey.
“Go on,” Halik said.
“If we draw a pre-determined number of people into the protected food centres, those people can live indefinitely – certainly until the Loz
i outside turn and devour each other.”
“Yes,” agreed the Prime Minister, “always provided we don’t try to keep too many people in the centres. Isn’t that your point?”
“It is,” said Palfrey simply. “There is enough food for a certain number of human beings. There is no way of keeping the others alive. The facts, as far as I can judge, are that the food stocks in the main centres are sufficient to save ten per cent of the people now living in those centres.”
Conlon almost groaned: “Ten per cent.”
“Is that all?” asked the Prime Minister, wearily.
“It is not likely to be higher than twelve per cent.”
Halik shifted forward in his chair.
“So the others must die?”
“They will die in any case,” put in Andromovitch. “There is no hope for any of us unless we do what Palfrey suggests.”
“Precisely what do you advise?” asked Conlon in a tense voice.
“As I see the situation, sir, ten per cent of the people in all the centres must be protected, but the others sacrificed,” said Palfrey. “We must save a cross-section of mankind. Age will be a major, but not the only, factor. We must make a selection of wise, clever and experienced people of all ages and in all spheres of life, from the professions, from commerce, industry, and agriculture. After that, we must select the adults most likely to preserve the world’s civilisation at its best. In effect, we must sacrifice all the people beyond the age of forty. If we take a rough figure, by making the age thirty-five, we will have ruled out two-thirds of the world’s population. We can then save a third of those who are left. They too would have to be carefully selected for physical and intellectual fitness.”
“It is just not possible,” Conlon said, hoarsely.
“Who would make such a selection?” demanded Halik.