Maitland nodded. He stepped over to the operator as if to hear the scrambled signal more clearly, and slowly eased his torch out of his hip pocket, clasping the heavy cylinder with its steel-encased reflector firmly in his right hand. He edged between the operator and the compass, which was still revolving. When he was satisfied that the operator would no longer remember the precise bearing, he raised the torch and with a quick backhand stroke tapped in the glass screen.
Quickly he began to hammer away at the set, smashing in the compass and plunging the torch into the valve-crammed cabinet. Shouting to Halliday, the operator struggled to his feet and tried to pull Maitland away. Then Halliday swung back from the periscope and flung his arms around Maitland’s shoulders. The three men wrestled together, their blows muffled by the swaying vehicle and their heavy clothing, then fell to the floor.
As they struggled onto their knees, the tractor, still following the circular course Halliday had been giving to the driver, tipped over sharply as it left the roadway and ran rapidly down the incline.
Halliday pulled Maitland to his feet, his face thick with anger. Lanyon had joined them, and helped the radio operator to rise. The corporal stumbled over to the set and stared blankly at the wrecked console, his fingers numbly tracing the ragged outlines of the compass.
He looked wildly at Halliday. “The set’s a write-off, Captain, a total wreck! God knows what our bearing was! We were moving around that bend. I wasn’t watching it.”
Halliday wrenched at Maitland’s jacket. “You damn fool! Do you realize we’re completely lost?”
Maitland shook himself free. “No you’re not, Captain. I hate to force your hand, but it was the only way. Look.”
He reached across to the vhf set and turned up the volume, so that the staccato gabble of the mysterious station sounded out into the compartment over the noise of the wind beating against the tractor. With one hand he rotated the set in its bearings until, at an angle of 45° to the lateral axis of the tractor, it was at maximum strength.
“Our new direction beam. Follow that and it should take us straight to Hardoon Tower.”
“How can you be sure?” Halliday snapped. “It could be anything!”
Maitland shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s our only chance.” He turned to Lanyon, quickly explained what had happened to Andrew Symington.
Lanyon pondered this for a few minutes, then turned to Halliday, who was peering through the periscope.
“Seems as if we’ve no alternative, Captain. As it’s only a few miles away, a short detour won’t hurt us. And there’s always the chance that if this fellow Hardoon is planning some sort of takeover when the wind blows out, we may be able to anticipate him.”
Halliday clenched his fists, scowling angrily, then nodded and swung back to the periscope.
Five minutes later they reversed onto the highway and moved off down a side road toward Leatherhead, following the vfh signal. Maitland had expected that they would have difficulty in locating Hardoon Tower, but Halliday soon noticed something that confirmed his suspicions about Hardoon.
“Take a look for yourself,” Halliday said. “This road has been used regularly all through the last four or five weeks. There’s even wire mesh laid down at the exposed corners.”
Lanyon took the periscope, confirmed this with a nod. “Heavy tracked vehicles,” he commented. “Must have been carrying some really big loads.” Grinning, he added: “Looks as if Pat may get a story after all.”
They followed the signal, steadily increasing in strength, toward the Hardoon estates at Leatherhead, as much guided by signs of recent activity along the road as by the radio beam, the wind pushing them on at a steady 25mph.
Two hours later they had their first sight of Hardoon Tower.
Maidand was doing his 15-minute turn at the periscope when the operator told him that they had entered the zone of maximum signal strength.
“Could be anywhere within a couple of square miles of here,” be reported, swinging the direction-finder aerial without influencing the volume. “From now on we’ll have to make visual contact.”
Maitland peered through the periscope. Ahead the roadway had broadened into a furrowed band of shattered concrete and wire mesh about 100 yards wide, stained with huge white and gray patches which suggested some enormous roadwork had recently been in progress. The tractor edged forward along the center at 15mph, tacking from left to right across the band. Two hundred yards away the road disappeared into the dim whirling mass of the wind stream. Beside the roadway the ground was black and dark, devoid of all vegetation, dotted with a few huge rolling objects, stumps of giant trees, blocks of masonry, all moving from left to right across their path.
Ahead, high in the air, something loomed for a moment, a lighter patch of sky, apparently an interval in the dust cloud. Maitland ignored it, searching the ground carefully for any hidden side turning.
A few seconds later he realized that the strip of lighter air was still in front of him.
Straight ahead, its massive bulk veiled by the duststorm, an enormous pyramidlike structure reared up, its four-angled sides 100 feet across at the base, tapering to the apex 80 feet above. The tractor was now about a quarter of a mile away and, although partly obscured, the pyramid was the first structure Maitland had seen for weeks which retained hard clean outlines. Even at this distance he could see its straight profiles, the perfectly pointed apex, cleaving the dark air stream like the prow of a liner.
He gestured Halliday over to the periscope. As the captain whooped in surprise, Maitland gestured to Lanyon.
“It looks as if Hardoon’s strongpoint is up ahead. About three or four hundred yards away. A huge concrete pryamid.”
“It’s fantastic,” Halliday said over his shoulder, centering the periscope. “Who does the maniac think he is—Cheops? Must have taken years to build.”
He handed over the periscope to Lanyon, who nodded slowly. “Either years or thousands of men. The roadways indicate there’s been a pretty big construction force on the job.”
They edged nearer the pyramid; its great bulk rising above into the flickering sky. Two hundred yards away the tractor struck a low obstacle with its offside front track, and they looked down at a low wall, ten feet high, rising out of the ground and running in the direction of the left-hand corner of the pyramid. The wall was ten feet wide, a massive reinforced concrete buttress. As they moved along it, a second rampart appeared out of the gravellike soil on their right, and they found themselves entering a long approach system of parallel concrete walls, partly intended as windbreakers for the pyramid, and partly to screen entering vehicles.
Maitland searched the face of the pyramid for apertures, but its surface was smooth and unbroken. Gradually, as the height of the supporting walls increased, it was lost from sight and they entered a narrow ramp that led below an overhanging shoulder and then around a right-angle corner into what appeared to be a dead end.
Halliclay tilted back the periscope, craning to look up at the great bulk of the pyramid obscured by the stream of dust and gravel cascading across its surface.
“Looks as if this isn’t an approach road after all,” Halliday commented. “No entrance bays or locks. We’ll have one hell of a job reversing out of here. Why don’t they put up some signs?”
Suddenly they swayed on their feet, grabbed at the ceiling straps. The tractor had dropped abruptly, was moving steadily downward like an elevator.
Maitland dived for the periscope, just in time to see the walls around them soar upward into the air, the apex of the pyramid disappear. Seconds later the rectangular outlines of an elevator opening rose above them. The black sides of the shaft ran past, then slowed down as the elevator reached its floor. A horizontal lock slid across the opening and sealed it, shutting out the daylight.
“Well, they must be friendly,” Halliday decided. “I was beginning to wonder how we’d get in if they didn’t want us.”
The driver cut the engines, and as the di
n subsided they heard mechanics outside the tractor shackling exit ladders to its turret. Halliday began to unlock the hatchway, motioned to the others to get to their feet.
“Stretch your legs, everybody. May be our last chance for days.”
He opened the hatch, raising it a few inches, and someone on the roof pulled it back. He climbed out, followed by Maitland and the radio operator.
The tractor was at the bottom of a large freight-elevator shaft, part of an underground bunker from which high driveways led off to dark transport bays. Men in black plastic suits and helmets stood around the tractor, most of them with holsters on their belts. Maitland recognized the uniforms he had seen in Marshall’s Park Lane basement.
As he swung down, a tall, rough-featured man with a white pyramid-shaped triangle on the front of his helmet stepped over to him.
“What are you clowns playing at?” he snapped. “Why the hell aren’t you using your radio?”
His voice was a snarl of irritation and violence. He looked at Maitland, then grabbed him in surprise, glancing up at Halliday, who was helping the radio operator out of the turret.
“What’s all this?” the big man snapped. He wrenched Maitland around roughly, fingering his navy weather jacket. “Where’s Kroll? He was supposed to bring Symington. Who are all you people?”
“Isn’t Symington here?” Maitland asked him.
The big man stared at him angrily, then looked over his shoulder and gestured toward a squad of guards who were encircling the tractor. At the same time he reached for his holster.
Halliday was still standing on the roof, gesturing back the radio operator, who was about to join Maitland on the ground.
The squad of black-suited guards closed in around the Titan, two or three of them swarming up its sides. Maitland found himself seized by the neck, jabbed an elbow into his attacker and fell backward with him against one of the tracks. He kicked himself loose from the man and struck out at two others who closed in on him, butting them with his head. One of them punched him hard in the face, the other grabbed him around the waist and pulled him downward onto the ground again. As he lay there struggling he saw the big guard backing away from the tractor, a heavy ·45 automatic in his hand. Everyone seemed to be shouting, and then the ·45 roared out twice, the flashes from its barrel lighting up the sides of the Titan.
A figure, apparently Halliday, came lurching down the ladder, stumbled a few feet across the floor and then fell onto its face.
Maitland slammed a fist into the back of one of the men lying across him, managed to free himself for a moment. He was trying to sit forward, when someone ran up and kicked him heavily in the side of the head.
His brain exploding like a roman candle, he fell backward into a deep roaring pool of darkness.
EIGHT
The Tower of Hardoon
As he woke his head was swinging like a piston from side to side.
A dozen arteries pounded angrily inside his skull, rivers of thudding pain. He opened his eyes and focussed them with an effort. A powerfully-built guard in a black plastic uniform, a large white triangle on his helmet, was leaning over him, slapping his face with a broad open hand.
When he saw Maitland’s eyes were open, he gave him a final vicious backhand cut, then snapped at the two guards holding Maitland in his chair. They jerked him forward into a sitting position, then let go of his hands.
Gasping for air, Maitland tried to control himself, spread his legs apart and pressed his shoulders against the stiff backrest of the chair. Above, fluorescent lighting shone across a low bare ceiling. In a few seconds his face had stopped stinging, and he lowered his eyes slowly.
Directly in front of him, across a wide crocodile-skin desk, sat a squat, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit. His head was huge and bull-like; below a high domed forehead were two small eyes, a short stump of nose, a mouth like a scar, and a jutting chin. The expression was somber and menacing.
He surveyed Maitland coldly, ignoring the red-flecked saliva Maitland was wiping away from his bruised lips. Dimly, Maitland recognized a face he had seen in a few rare magazine photographs. This, he realized, was Hardoon. Wondering how long had elapsed since their arrival, Maitland began to glance around the room. He was aware of Hardoon sitting forward and tapping his knuckles on the desk.
“Are you completely with us again, Doctor?” he asked, his voice soft yet callous. He waited for Maitland to murmur, then nodded to the guards, who took up their positions against the rear wall.
“Good. While you were resting your companions have been telling me about your exploit. I’m sorry that your little outing has ended here. I must apologize for the stupidity of my traffic police. They should never have allowed you in. Unfortunately, Kroll—” he indicated the tall guard with the single helmet triangle, lounging against the wall beside the desk “—was somewhat delayed on his return, or you would have been able to continue your journey to Portsmouth unmolested.”
He examined Maitland for a moment, taking a cigar from a silver ashtray on the pedestal behind the desk.
Puzzled why Hardoon was bothering to interrogate him, Maitland massaged his face, peering around the room.
He was in a large oak-paneled office, the heavy walls of which appeared to be completely solid, flatly absorbing the sounds of their voices. Behind him, where the guards stood, were high bookshelves, divided by a doorway. There were no windows, but on the far side of Hardoon’s desk was a shoulder-high alcove sealed by high shutters.
Hardoon drew reflectively on his cigar. “I gather that once again I am personna non grata with the authorities,” he went on in his slow leisurely voice. “It was foolish of Kroll to allow Marshall to broadcast our whereabouts to all and sundry. However, that is another matter.”
Maitland sat forward, aware of the guards poised on their toes behind him, the huge figure of Kroll stiffening slightly. “What happened to Halliday?” he asked, tongue tripping inside his bruised mouth. “He was shot as we arrived.”
Hardoon’s face was blank, his eyes narrowing as he considered the interruption. “A tragic misunderstanding. Believe me, Doctor, I abhor violence as much as you. My traffic police assumed that you were Kroll. Your vehicles are of the same type, with identical markings. When they discovered their mistake they were naturally rather excited. These accidents happen.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, but even though his eyes were fixed coldly on Maitland’s face the latter had the distinct impression that most of Hardoon’s attention was elsewhere. His voice seemed to be an agent that was automatically carrying out instructions given to it previously, like the guards standing behind Maitland.
“Where are the others?” Maitland asked. “The two Americans and the girl?”
Hardoon gestured with his cigar. “In the—” he searched for a suitable phrase “—visitors’ quarters. They are perfectly comfortable. Mr. Symington was slightly injured en route, and is now resting in the sick bay. A useful man; let us hope he is soon recovered.”
Maitland studied Hardoon’s face. The millionaire was about fifty-five, still physically powerful, but with curious lusterless eyes. Despite its hard edge, his voice almost droned.
“Now, Doctor, to come to the point. The arrival here of you and your three companions presents me with an opportunity I have decided to make the most of.” As Maitland frowned, Hardoon smiled deprecatingly. “No, I am not in need of medical attention; far from it. We have an ample number of doctors and nurses here. In fact, you will find this one of the most efficiently organized bastions against the wind in existence, if not the most efficient, my traffic police notwithstanding.”
He pressed a button set into a small control panel on the desk in front of him, and then turned slightly in his chair to face the shutters, gesturing Maitland to do the same. The shutters began to retract. Behind Maitland the ceiling lights dimmed, and as the shutters slid into their housings they revealed an enormous block of plate glass, three feet deep and twice as wide, apparently set
into the face of the pyramid.
Sloping away below was the east wall of the pyramid. At its base were the causeways and entrance passage they had taken to the elevator. Beyond, obscured by the storm, was the wide approach road. The wind stream swept directly toward them, the thousands of fragments carried past at incredible speeds, vaulting out of the lowering storm cloud on a thousand trajectories.
At the same time Hardoon had pressed another tab on the desk, and a loudspeaker on the wall above the window crackled into life. Muted at first, and then rising to full volume, was the bare, unalloyed voice of the wind stream, the roaring Niagara of sound that had pursued Maitland in his nightmares for the past month.
Hardoon sat back, watching the wind through the window, listening to it on the speaker. He seemed to sink into some private reverie, his cigar half raised to his lips, its smoke curling away toward a ventilator in the ceiling. An automatic rheostat must have been mounted to the speaker, for the volume rose steadily, until the noise of the storm wind filled the office, a blast of rushing airlike the sounds of an experimental wind tunnel at maximum velocity.
Suddenly Hardoon woke out of his trance and stabbed the two buttons. The sound abruptly fell away, and the shutters glided back and locked across the window.
For a moment Hardoon stared at the darkened panels. “Its force is incredible,” he commented to Maitland. “Nature herself in revolt, in her purest, most elemental form. And where is Man, her prime enemy? For the most part vanquished, utterly defeated, hiding below ground like a terror-stricken mole, or wandering about blindly down dark tunnels.”
He looked at Maitland rhetorically, then added: “I admire you, Doctor, and your companions. You still do battle with the wind, to some extent retain your initiative. You move about the surface of the globe undeterred. I’m sorry that Captain Halliday should have been killed.”
Maitland nodded. His head had finally cleared, the warmth of the office reviving him. He decided to take the initiative in their conversation, and sat forward. “When did you start building this pyramid?” he asked.
The Wind From Nowhere Page 15