by John Creasey
What should he do?
The firm hands massaged him; the sound of flesh moving over flesh, the occasional slap, a kind of rhythm, went through his body and, it seemed, through his mind. What should he do? Which course was the right one? Was it right to allow the world to go on as it was doing? Look at the facts. There were sickness, pollution, hatred and greed. There was envy, cruelty and malice. Crime was rife in every country, even in those where social standards were good and few if any were hungry. The moral standards which had lasted for centuries were breaking, yes, but – had they been the right ones? Was it time they broke down? Wave after wave of eroticism, of drug taking, of promiscuity followed each other. Whole generations, it seemed whole nations, succumbed to them. The family as a family was being broken up, derided and despised and rejected. There had never been such a complete breakdown of accepted standards, since the days of Nero’s Rome.
‘Love’ had become a word used simply to mean sexual intercourse; ‘love’ as a permanent feeling was gone.
Such as his for his wife, Drusilla . . .
Oh, God! How the loss of her hurt, even today.
Love was not a fleeting thing, the old standards, traditions and habits were gone. In wars between nations other nations supplied the warring groups and gained more profit from the war than from the peace. Civil wars could divide a nation, whole tribes, whole races threatened with extinction while powerful nations stood aside and washed their hands in the way of Pontius Pilate.
What was the use of fighting for good if the bad was so often triumphant?
What was the use of fighting for the freedom of man’s mind if man himself enslaved that mind by drugs or drink, or else destroyed the freedom by turning it into licence, abusing all that the great men and the meek men of the ages had wrested from the tyrant and the weakling kings.
How right was he to continue to fight for the old gods?
And conversely, how wrong were men like the impersonators he had seen and talked to? Men who had contrived to control power by violence and deception, and who argued so speciously, even convincingly, for imposed goodness, not goodness won out of the blood and the slaughter and the starvation and the slavery of the centuries.
Here were men who had power and had demonstrated it; and these same men in the high places of authority could say to the world: “Do good, or you shall perish.”
Was it, faced so coldly, different from the old laws?
Was it so different from the Commandments of the prophets – even, he thought in anguish, from Christ?
Were these new holders of power the true gods or the false?
These were the questions that formed in his mind and turned over and over in it as the firm hands moulded and pushed and pinched and slapped the flesh.
At last, the masseur said: “All finish now, sir. I help off table?” His small arm was like steel. He gave Palfrey another gentle rub and then rebandaged the leg, which had healed much better than he had dared to hope. It was still tender to the touch and he had to put his foot down gingerly, but the rest of his body glowed with well-being.
“You’re a man of magic fingers,” he declared.
“Very grateful for compliment,” the man replied. “It is easy to make magic in magic place. Now—” he helped Palfrey on with a lightweight jacket taken from some unseen wardrobe. “I see if Mr Andellivich ready, yes? To go up to patio and bathe the sun, eh?”
Stefan, wearing his own jacket and trousers, also looked as if he too were glowing with health. At this realisation, Palfrey caught his breath. Apart from his wounds, he had never felt better. Jane Wylie looked as if she had just come off a health farm. Stefan, pale and troubled until now, had a clear complexion and clear eyes; he was the picture of health, as if all the fatigue and the anxiety had been drawn out of him. These thoughts were vivid in Palfrey’s mind as he walked towards the closed glass doors of an elevator, which opened as they approached.
The masseur bowed. “Good appetites,” he said. “I hope to see again.”
The doors closed. They had an immediate sense of movement in the softly lighted cage but could not see through the walls of the elevator. Stefan was studying Palfrey as if he, too, were aware of something different. There was the faintest sensation of slowing down, and then the doors opened silently on to a world of sunlit beauty, as if it were touched with heaven. Awestruck, Palfrey stepped out onto a paved terrace, beyond which were waist-high wrought-iron railings, but he was oblivious of these, aware only of the vista. It stretched into illimitable distances beyond twin peaks, each snow-capped and brilliant in the sunshine.
Like silver crystals . . .
Beyond these peaks mountains seemed to spill, each range more magnificent than the other, each with its own colouring and its trees, its shapes and its sharp outline. He had seen such views only two or three times, in Wyoming, in the Himalayas, in Switzerland; but none surpassed this.
He went forward very slowly, staring out, until Stefan joined him.
“Have you never been here before?” he asked.
“Never,” said Palfrey. “It’s beyond words to describe.” He gulped. “Have you been here before?”
“In a place like it, during the war. There were some Germans up here, showing the aircraft the way to the big industrial belts of the Urals, and I was one who had to seek them out. It was only a few months before we first met, Sap. And that seems a lifetime ago.”
Palfrey made himself turn away from the vista, and say in a baffled way, not intending to be facetious: “Only one lifetime?”
Stefan shrugged: “Sometimes it has seemed a dozen.”
“And the past few days a lifetime in itself. Do you feel like that, too?”
“Yes,” Stefan answered. “Sap—” there was a shadow on his face despite the wholesomeness, the glow of health; his eyes were slightly narrowed, his hands raised in front of his chest as if he were trying to use gestures to explain what words alone could not say. “Sap, are you at the crossroads?”
“Yes,” Palfrey responded. “I didn’t think I could ever be, but I am.”
“So here we are,” Stefan said, and after a long pause, went on: “And we have to go one way or the other.” He put a hand at Palfrey’s elbow and led him away from the twin peaks and the view which might so easily be of Shangri-La, and then towards a narrow passage alongside a covered patio. “Jane Wylie told me to come here,” he said, and opened a tall wooden gate which was on a latch. He stepped aside to allow Palfrey to pass, and Palfrey saw yet another range of mountains.
These were in shadow, for the sun was behind the snow-capped peaks. And they were dark, almost black, as if this were the scene of some volcanic eruption which had left only devastation in its wake. Beyond these nearer slopes were others just as dark; sulphurous. Palfrey hesitated then went on, towards a gap between two peaks on which was stunted, blackened vegetation. There was a vista beyond the peaks, of darkness and smoke, of fires, like the blazing of great lakes of oil. Near him was a telescope, one fitted to a pedestal as at a seaside resort or on a mountain overlook where many people went to gaze into the valleys. Almost as if he was acting under some strange compulsion, Palfrey bent his head and put his eye to the glass. It was already focused.
He seemed to be looking down at hell. There were great factories, chimneys belching fire and smoke; there were huge steelworks; there were rows upon rows of tiny blackened houses. There were cranes and derricks working, huge lines of railways trucks, waiting to be filled, workers by the thousand who worked as if they were slaves.
Then out of the floor on which Palfrey stood came Joku Oboku’s voice, very quietly but unmistakably. “That is today’s world. You see but a picture, but it is the world our generation is making: poisoned air, poisoned rivers, poisoned oceans, corrupted minds. Which way are you going to choose, Palfrey?” And, as if he could see the expression on Palfrey’s face he went on with a soft laugh. “You have to make the choice, you know, and make it for mankind. Where are you going to lead the
m, Palfrey? To bright heaven or dark hell?”
When Palfrey did not answer, the other man went on: “If you still have doubts, let me recreate the sounds you hear. It will be from a soundtrack but you will recognise each one and know that it is the kind of sound which is possessing the earth.”
19: To Heaven or to Hell
Oboku’s voice faded, and Stefan stood close to Palfrey’s side. As they stared out over the pictures of dark valleys, a sound began, coming from the spot where Oboku’s voice had been. It was at first distant and confused, but gradually it became a throb; of great generators working, of pistons thrusting, furnaces roaring, machines clattering, whistles piercing, steam hissing. And all of these grew louder, and added to them were great crashing sounds, as of cars smashing into one another at high speed, of trains hurtling, of tanks rumbling.
The air about the platform seemed to shudder with the din.
Other sounds followed.
A siren, wailing – people, screaming – the unmistakable crashing of exploding bombs – the rattle of machine guns and of rifle fire, of mortars and grenades.
And women, crying.
And children, wailing.
All these noises merged together in one horrendous cacophony. Each sound was distinct and recognisable yet all of them merged together made a great roaring and rushing; as if the earth itself were hurtling out of its orbit into space. The ground on which they stood began to tremble as if the eye of this maelstrom of noise was not out in the distance but close by, beneath them.
Palfrey felt Stefan’s hand on his shoulder. Neither moved, except with the vibrating earth. And as their bodies shook so did their minds, until the screaming and the wailing seemed to come not from the bowels of the earth but from their heads; a concentrated fury of sound not only deafening but tearing their brain cells apart.
Nothing was still.
The near mountains were blurred in indefinable outline, there were no shapes except moving ones, above and all around them. The hand on Palfrey’s shoulder pressed in like a steel claw, harder and harder.
Suddenly, Palfrey cried: “Stop it! Stop!”
He wrenched himself free and glared at Stefan, and saw Stefan’s eyes closed and his great body hunched as if he were trying to fight away the noise, the horror of it all. Stefan’s face quivered, his body shook, as Palfrey’s was shaking, but his mouth was set as if it were a trap.
“Stop it!” cried Palfrey. “Stop!”
On the instant the noise fell away to silence and the quivering fell away to stillness. His head and his body ached but slowly the aching eased. Stefan opened his eyes and his mouth slackened; all the glow of health had gone from him and there was sweat on his forehead and greyness on his cheeks.
Oboku’s voice sounded with its reassuring warmth. “Walk back to the patio, Dr Palfrey. It is much more peaceful there.”
Palfrey took Stefan’s arm and they turned their backs on the valleys of turmoil and walked, very slowly, to the patio where they had first come. Here the sun shone, pleasantly warm. A child laughed; a man chuckled; a woman gave a sigh as of contentment. There was more, distant laughter, the sound of a cascading waterfall; a choirboy, singing; and far distant the sound of a jazz drummer playing as if his heart and soul as well as his hands and arms, his whole body, were obsessed by the joy of his playing.
Two comfortable-looking chairs stood near the rail, and they sat down. The sounds ceased but the new look of tranquillity remained and the tension eased out of their bodies. From behind them a Vietnamese girl appeared, wearing long trousers and the long ribbons of cloth which half-concealed them. Smiling but saying nothing, she placed coffee in a china pot, cups and saucers, some orange juice with sugar, and a bowl of fruit on a table between the two chairs. When she had done, her smile became broader and her face prettier as she spread both hands towards the sun-drenched vista, which was still lovely although some of the colour had been drawn out by the sun.
She went off, and the two men were alone; the leader of Z5 and his deputy. That was the moment when Palfrey realised that neither Janey nor Philip were here; it was as if he and Stefan were together and alone on top of the world. It was pleasantly warm, and he sipped the ice-cold orange juice. Already, he felt calmer and already Stefan looked better. It was as if this side of the mountain was an elixir of life, inducing a sense of well-being. Stefan poured himself coffee, and as he was sipping, the lift doors opened and Jane Wylie called. “Good morning. No, please don’t get up.” She hurried to stop Palfrey from rising, and waved Stefan back to his chair. She wore a primrose yellow dress with short sleeves, cut round at the neck and rather low, and a hem which fell just below the knee. It was not the latest but certainly not a dated fashion. She moved freely, drawing up a stool and sitting in front of them. As she leaned forward her bosom showed, and the gleam in her eyes suggested that was intended. “How are you both?” she asked.
“Pensive,” answered Palfrey.
“Inevitably,” said Stefan.
“Not despairing?”
“Not yet,” replied Palfrey.
“Sap,” she said, leaning forward still further and putting out her hands. She used his name as if she were thoroughly familiar with it, and her eyes positively danced. “It’s like heaven up here. Shall I tell you a naughty secret?”
She sounded not only gay but childlike.
And she was pressing some papers into his hand as she held him tightly.
“I would love to hear a naughty secret,” Palfrey declared.
Soon, very soon, he had to make the most vital decision of his life; but he could talk lightly, even facetiously with her. He palmed the paper and, while she still held his hands, worked it up to his wrist and under the sleeve of his shirt.
“This place is heavenly for a honeymoon.”
“What’s naughty about honeymoons?”
She was half-laughing with her eyes, and half-pleading.
“They should come after the wedding!” She leaned further forward so that all he could see was her face; and the glowing and the pleading in her eyes. “Sap—I love Philip so.”
“And Philip loves you,” Palfrey replied, gently.
“Yes, I think he does.”
“So, your honeymoon anticipates the wedding. Is that unique?” Stefan asked.
She glanced at him.
“No,” she replied. “No. Sap—I want to get away from here. I don’t want to have to stay here all my life, even with Philip. We want to get away. I—I hate talking like this but I can’t help myself.”
He had the paper unfolded, now; all he had to do was shift its position so that he could read it as he looked down at her. His heart was beating very fast. He was sure they were watched and that she was aware of it, or she would not have smuggled the message, would not be acting so as to give him a chance of reading it.
“Go on,” he urged.
“Sap,” she said, “do what they ask you.”
He didn’t reply.
“Sap, I beg you,” she went on, and now he could see tears glistening in her eyes. “Do what they want. Then they’ll let Philip and me go back to the world. If you don’t, they’ll keep us here.”
He seemed to be staring into her eyes, and now there was no doubt about the tears; nor of the strength in her hands, reflecting her tension. He eased the paper onto his leg, so that he could read the few words written there in black ink.
“Sap, please—” she was sobbing now.
He read:
They are watching, listening, everywhere. There is a path beyond the railing, your only possible way of escape . . .
So what she was saying was simply to deceive them; she really wanted him and Stefan to try to escape; so, she was still utterly opposed to the leaders of The Project.
He read on:
Philip is a prisoner – a surety for me. But never mind us. Escape while you can. They don’t believe in freedom except for the rulers. They are the worst of tyrants, and even the highest skilled workers are slaves.
“Sap,” she said, fighting back tears which seemed as real as her gaiety had a few minutes before. “Philip and I can marry and live in peace. And the leaders of The Project can control atomic power and atomic radioactivity and noise. They have perfected the manufacture of tiny crystals which can be used as insulators, and if they wish, conveyors. The green crystals cancel out the radioactivity, the pink crystals create a barrier nothing can pass; anything which comes in contact with it disintegrates. They can use them like invisible rays, too; or as rockets which make no sound. They can do everything they say, and if you oppose them then they will simply crush all opposition, destroy great cities – Sap!” she cried. “There is no way of stopping them, you must work with them.”
Now, her lips quivered and tears spilled. As he palmed the note again, sliding it this time into his shirt cuff, she went on: “It—it isn’t just Philip and me. It isn’t just that we want to get married and live together. It will be a better life for all who submit. There will be no hunger left, nor fear, nor ignorance—”
She broke off, placing her hands together in an attitude of prayer, and after a long time continued in a voice from which all strength had been drained. “You can’t prevent them taking over, you can only make it easy, free from slaughter and the maiming of war. Work with them, please.”
They are tyrants, and even the most skilled workers are slaves.
Living slaves; happy, healthy slaves?