Your loving (a word X-ed out, but it looked like grand-) sidekick, Alan
P.S. S/C stands for Space Cadet, of course.
“I’m finding a way, son,” Quy murmured. He started to write a reply, but couldn’t find ways of explaining what he was doing, why he was here under a false name, without complicating things or worrying the boy. He had Chosen his path. Funny, but he had got into uniform after all—and he felt a nostalgia for his own long-distant youth and the way one’s views changed so rapidly then. But if that was what the boy wanted, he could do without distractions from him for a while.
He went on laying his plans, getting books and papers out of the University library, wangling requisitions. By the end of the winter term his plans were complete. He took the final steps carefully, telling Herd that since he had no relatives or friends to go to for Christmas he would come in and get everything in order for the new term. Word must have got around, because two of the students invited him to their respective families for the holiday. He politely declined, but his heart was warmed.
A few of the postgraduate workers stayed behind to finish up experiments, then they too were gone, and the whole big shining building was his.
Now he marshaled everything to its place—near the cat-cracking furnace. The books, the electron microscope, the tanks, the materials. That took him two days—for he had to keep to normal hours for fear of arousing suspicion with the skeleton staff of porters and maintenance men.
And then he was ready. This was only going back to Square One, preparing another batch of the superconductor. But with that in his possession there was hope. He began to assemble the long and complicated molecule, using techniques that he had picked up when he was with Hypertronics and in three months study here. He was in a new universe—his own private universe…
He was brought back to reality by the sound of footsteps outside. He straightened hurriedly, switched off the furnace and the electron microscope. He was making his way to the sink, rolling up the sleeves of his, brown coat when the doors were flung open. In the doorway stood Rogers, Herd, and Miss Cairns, the woman from the bursar’s office.
“What’s going on here?” Herd demanded.
“How do you mean? I was just checking equipment.”
“I don’t think so,” said Herd grimly, taking in the unusual disposition of the apparatus. “I’ve been doing some checking myself these past twenty-four hours. One of the men in another department thought he recognized you from somewhere. I discovered the books you were getting from the library.”
He strode to the bench and turned over the pile of books there. “Odd reading for a mere technician, aren’t they? Then there were certain appropriation forms I couldn’t account for. All right, what’s the game, Quy?”
The old man’s air of injured innocence evaporated.
“Very well, you’ve caught me in the act. And you know my real name. I was just doing some private research. It won’t have cost the University much.”
Herd was going round the laboratory.
“Is that right, Mr. Herd?” Miss Cairns asked.
“It seems so. I think we got here in time. The appropriations only amount to a hundred pounds or two at the most, and they’re things that will probably come in useful some time. He hasn’t damaged any of the apparatus. He’s no fool with that, but it beats me how he ever thought he could get away with it.”
“He might have if it hadn’t been for your quick action.”
“Thank you, Miss Cairns.”
“All in all, as long as we’ve discovered it in time, I think we can consider the matter closed. Perhaps we can lock the place up now and get some peace. Mr.—whatever your name is—kindly regard your employment by this University as closed forthwith.”
There was nothing else for it. Quy took one last regretful look about him, then he took off his brown coat and was shepherded out of the building and toward the gate by Rogers.
As he passed the concrete chapel he heard the sound of voices raised in song. It must be local school kids rehearsing, by the sound of them. It was only when he was being escorted out through the gates that the words impinged, and his lips freaked in a smile as bitter as they.
“In the bleak mid-winter…”
Fifteen
He came out of Charing Cross station. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and the streets were full of shoppers. He started to elbow his way to a phone box, then changed his mind and hailed a taxi. At the seventh attempt he got one.
“Three two five Clargies Street,” he told the driver.
Maggie herself opened the door to him.
“Surprise!” He tried to smile. “What’s this, staff shortage?”
“Sophia’s gone home to Italy for Christmas. Come in, you look frozen stiff.”
She took his overcoat, looking sadly on him, and led the way into a fireless drawing room. “Sit down. I was just leaving. The Hon. Mrs. Keld-Horsham has invited me to Christmas on her Hampshire estate. The spirit of the festive season, and all that.” She prattled on, somewhat nervously, as she went .around plugging in electric fires. “But I think that before it’s over she’s going to ask me if there’s a place on the board of Wentworth’s for her husband. I’m afraid she’s going to be disappointed.”
She brought over two glasses of scotch. She handed one to him.
“Happy Chr—” she began, and stopped at the look on his face. “Ah well, the old year will be over in a few days’ time, so say we drink to the new one right now.”
Quy nodded dumbly, raised his glass and gulped at the whisky.
“It’s all right,” said Maggie. “I can guess why you’ve come. So I’d better say here and now that it’s impossible, Ado. I just haven’t got the money.” Her laugh wavered briefly between apology and bitterness. “I know that sounds like the rich person’s traditional excuse. But it’s true. I haven’t got all that much money of my own. It’s all tied in with the company, in trusts and that kind of thing. If I died tomorrow, the accountants would wrestle with figures for six months and finally arrive at a statement that would show that I was a millionairess. But, living, I have to go over my checks every quarter with them, and if I—”
“It’s all right, Maggie. You don’t have to justify yourself with me. You’ve been more than good. I did come here looking for more money. I’m past pride now. God knows I never had very much when I needed money for anything. But I had to try.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Her next words were at an odd tangent. “How’s your wife, Ado?”
He looked at her in puzzlement, indignation almost, as if fancying that in some obscure way she was trying to confuse him.
“She’s dead,” he muttered. “Didn’t I tell you? She died over ten years ago.”
“No, you didn’t tell me. You also didn’t tell me, fifteen years ago, that you had one, but—”
“To hell with you, woman!” he said savagely. “What are you trying to do?”
“Just making sure, Ado. I can’t let you have any more money.” She hesitated. “But I’ll marry you. And I’m not losing my pride now. Just hiking you up on an old offer that you weren’t in a position to implement then.”
“Go on, reproach me! As if I haven’t enough—” He stopped short. “You’d do that? After all I—?”
“On conditions.”
“Conditions? What, that I dress respectably and—”
“Nonsense. You know how to dress yourself. You’ve got all the social airs and graces tucked up that sleeve of yours, when you want to use them. Though heaven knows when and where you picked them up.” Her face softened. “No, Ado, provided you just stop burning yourself up. Enjoy your last few years in peace. You could—”
“You mean—drop all my work?”
She nodded.
He laughed bitterly.
“My son offered me the same thing. Stop everything that means anything to you and I’ll give you a weekly allowance.”
“But it’s only for your own sake,
dear. God knows how a conniving old rogue like you can inspire such affection, but—”
She got to her feet and paced the room, her arms folded, one hand plucking at the sleeve of her expensive suit. She wheeled on him.
“Pride! You may show it in a peculiar way, but you’ve got more pride than any man I ever knew! Arrogance is probably a better word. I’m not doing you any favors, and you wouldn’t be doing me any. For your own good I wouldn’t give you another penny for your so-called research. Face it, Ado, you’re past it.”
He got to his feet now, trembling.
“Past it! Michelangelo was designing buildings when he was over eighty. Verdi wrote Falstaff when he was seventy-nine. Goethe—”
“Verdi? Goethe? When were you ever that interested in music or literature? What have you been doing, reading texts of consolation for old age? All right, we all read what we need, I suppose. But they were already famous, they’d already laid the foundation. At your age it’s too late. I don’t want to be cruel, you poor dear old bastard, but face it. Take what you can get when it’s offered. God knows I haven’t got anything better to do.”
“Thank you.”
“I meant that literally.” Her voice was very quiet. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”
He drained his glass. “Thanks, Maggie. But I can’t accept it. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But I’ve got to go on.”
He went back to his basement. He had sent his rent to Norman to pay for him, so he had legal rights to somewhere to lay his head—if the bailiffs hadn’t taken up occupation since he had last heard from Norman. But he hoped they had cooled off by now. And he had a few pounds in his pocket.
It was dark when he entered the passageway. He went up to see Norman first.
“Hello, Mr. Quy. Come in quick. Here, have a drop of the hard stuff. Got it in for Christmas.”
“Not just now, thanks, Norman. I haven’t worked up the mood for festivities. But why all the ‘Come in quick’?”
“You tell me. You’ve had several visitors this past day or two.”
“Bailiffs? Police?”
“I don’t think so. Though I can’t have had your experience. No, there were a couple of foreign-looking characters. They’ve been sniffing around more than once. Then this afternoon there was a man I think I’ve seen here before. Civil Service looking type. Bowler hat and dark overcoat and all.”
Quy felt relieved. “Sounds like Preston. That’s my son.”
“Thought I detected a resemblance.”
“Could you? Wonder what he could want.”
“No idea. I kept clear. He had another man with him, an older man.”
“Perhaps it’s somebody from one of the Ministries. I offered my discovery to my son, you know. He turned it down then. Perhaps he’s changed his mind.”
“I thought you hated government departments, the way I’ve heard you talk.”
“I do, Norman, I do.” He sighed. “But I’ve come to the end of the road. I don’t care as long as my discovery gets used. Ah well, I’d better go along and get the place aired.”
“Sure you won’t have that drink?”
“I don’t think so, thanks, Norman. But I’ll have a drop of milk, if you’ve got it to spare. Think I’ll brew up some tea.”
He went downstairs, clutching a half-filled bottle of milk in one hand and his carpet bag in the other. He fumbled in the bag for his key and let himself in.
The basement smelled cold and dank. He shivered. He had never noticed it before. He switched on the light. They hadn’t cut that off, anyway. He plugged in a fire, then lit the Bunsen. He swilled out his water can, filled it up and put it on the tripod. He was just hunting in the cupboard for tea when there was a knock at the door. He shuffled over and opened it.
His son stood in the doorway, more silhouetted against the darkness than illumined from within.
“May I come in?”
Quy held the door open wider for him. Only then did he notice the other man with him, who followed Preston in. This must be the older man Norman had mentioned.
“This is Dr. Stapledon,” Preston said.
“Oh, yes. From the Ministry?”
Preston and the other man exchanged glances.
“No, not exactly. Sit down, father, we want to have a talk with you.”
“Well, all right. I was just going to brew up, but it can wait.” He turned the Bunsen down. “Yes, what is it? If it’s about my invention, I’ve decided that you can have it. We’ll discuss—”
“It’s not your invention we came to discuss,” Preston said, his voice oddly flat. “It’s you. I got wind of your dealings with Biotechnics. That’s a euphemism. I had a private detective call on me. You may be used to that kind of thing happening to you, but I’m not. I came to a decision. That decision was reinforced early this morning when I had a phone call from Midbury University. About a certain J. K. Osborne whom one of their staff had thought they recognized as Mr. Quy.”
“I’d change your name to Smith, then, if I were you,” Quy told him.
“It’s a bit late in the day for that. Or for you. No more false names or false identities. I tried to help you one way. Now it’ll have to be another. Not the way I would have preferred, but there’s no other alternative. You’ve forced it on me. Believe me, I’m only doing it for your own good.”
“My own good! You’re the second person today who’s told me that. What did I do to get surrounded by a lot of do-gooders? I don’t want anybody worrying about ‘my own good.’ Not only don’t want—I’m not going to let anybody. I may be down, but by God, I’m a free agent still. There’s nothing you can do about it, so—”
“You’re wrong, I’m afraid. There is. Dr. Stapledon here—”
“Doctor…”
Quy wheeled on the other man, the significance of the title impinging. He had assumed that, being with Preston, he was a doctor of science. But now—
“I have given Dr. Stapledon full details on your past conduct. He thinks they form sufficient grounds. And your behavior now—”
“Certified?” the old man screamed. “You can’t get away with it, you—”
“That’s not a word we like to use,” Stapledon said hurriedly. “You’d make it easier for everybody, yourself included, if you agreed to become a voluntary patient.”
“Patient? What for? What am I supposed to be suffering from?”
“Do you want me to answer?”
“I wouldn’t bloody well ask you if I didn’t.”
“Very well. From what your son has told me, I should say schizophrenia, paranoia, mental incapacity. I quite appreciate that these may only be symptoms of undue stress, but they seem to be a recurring pattern. At the very least, it seems essential that you be removed from a disturbing environment and—”
“Disturbing environment? Is that what you call it? Liberty’s a very disturbing environment, isn’t it? If you think I’d sign any of your forms and become a voluntary anything you’re the one who’s out of his mind.”
“Well, the alternative is what you call certifying, but which we call committal. I have full powers to—” He jumped to his feet. “Now, now, Mr. Quy. Violence will only prejudice your case.”
He was between Quy and the door. He backed away as Quy came at him, brandishing a wrench snatched up from the worktable, but still barring his way to the door. The wrench swung, catching the doctor a grazing blow on the cheek. He yelped. Quy raised the arm holding the wrench again and shoved with the other.
“Stop him!” Preston shouted.
Quy flung the door open and stumbled out into the yard, hollering like mad. Out in the alley, he made for the main road beyond. Footsteps came thudding after him. He turned wildly and flung the spanner. There was a tinkling crash of glass. Then everything was confused. Somebody grabbed him from behind. A dark shape loomed up in front of him. There was a grunt and the grabbing arms fell away.
Other hands took him—round the shoulder:
“Mr
. Quy? Quick, with us.”
He didn’t question; the world was going crazy around him. He let himself be led along—almost carried—a short way. A car door closed behind him. An engine started up. Lights flashed past the window.
Slowly he got his breath back.
“Who are you?”
“Your friends—I hope. You are Mr. Adolphe Quy?”
“Yes.”
“Good. It would have been unfortunate if we had made a mistake. We want you to come and work for us.”
Quy was conscious now of the slight accent. “Us? Who’s us? What are you—foreign agents or something?”
The shadowy figure by his side laughed softly.
“That phrase has a wide meaning. A commercial attaché is a foreign agent, isn’t he? In a way, Mr. Quy, I suppose you could call us foreign agents. But not in the manner of your James Bond.”
“You seem to be well on the road—body-snatching in dark alleys.”
“We knew you were in all kinds of trouble, Mr. Quy. We were ready to help in less melodramatic ways. Pay your bills, etcetera. We’ve been digging into your background. We know who your visitors were. We had to move quickly.” The man’s face was briefly, garishly illuminated in the neon light of an advertising display. The glimpse gave Quy no clue to the nationality of his companion. “But you’re not being kidnapped. We can easily drop you back home, if you say the word. Though we hope you won’t. And I don’t think you will. That was a very distressing conversation we overheard.”
“You mean, you had the place—?”
“Of course,” said the other, almost apologetically.
“What government are you working for?”
“We’re not working for any government—directly.”
“Silly question, I suppose. All right—what country are you from? It’s not them, is it?”
The smile was evident in the man’s voice. “No, it’s not them.”
“Then who?”
The man told him.
“We think you may have the answer to something we’ve been looking for. In our space program.”
“I didn’t know your country had one.”
The Quy Effect Page 12