The House of Doors - 01 (5 page)
Read The House of Doors - 01 Online
Authors: Brian Lumley
With the voice of an angel her mother had told Rod that Angela was in the southwest of England, Torbay, with friends of hers. That was all she could say; Angela hadn’t told her any more than that; why didn’t Rod just give it a rest now and let things work themselves out in their own good time?
It had been a clever move, for it had given Angela another ten days of peace and quiet. Oh, the phone would ring every now and then but she’d trained herself not to answer it. She could make calls if she wanted to, keeping them short, but she must never answer one. She’d come to an agreement with her parents that they wouldn’t call her; any legitimate calls she might ignore probably wouldn’t be important anyway.
After ten days, and no telephone calls at all for the last three, Angela had really started to relax, even to blossom a little. It had been the quietest and the best holiday of her life—until this morning, half an hour ago, when she’d been dragged out of bed by the telephone’s insistent ringing, ringing, ringing. She’d had a letter yesterday from her folks; they would be back Monday; she was left with a last weekend to herself. This would be them on the phone, she’d thought, making sure all was well. But it hadn’t been them, and all was far from well.
Rod’s
hiss
of discovery, of—anticipation?—when she answered the phone had almost made her drop the thing. And when he’d spoken, she’d recoiled from his voice like it was a snake.
hiss
of discovery, of—anticipation?—when she answered the phone had almost made her drop the thing. And when he’d spoken, she’d recoiled from his voice like it was a snake.
“Angela, you’ve cost me a lot,” he said, slurring his words. “My job, my friends, my pride—everything. My job through my absenteeism while I’ve been chasing around after you, my pride because you’ve driven me lower than any man should go, and my friends because they were screwing you. But now—”
“Rod,” she’d cut him off, her voice a gasp, “there’s no way I’m coming back to you. It’s over.”
“—now we’re going to have it out,” he’d continued as if she hadn’t even spoken. “The Great Lay of Edinburgh and London, eh? Well,
sweetheart
, before we’re through you’re going to know what screwing is all about!” And that was all, for then
he
had put the phone down. Angela had known that Rod’s cracks had opened into chasms. There was no more pretending now, for his threat had sounded very real. Possibly he was only trying to frighten her; well, if so he’d succeeded.
sweetheart
, before we’re through you’re going to know what screwing is all about!” And that was all, for then
he
had put the phone down. Angela had known that Rod’s cracks had opened into chasms. There was no more pretending now, for his threat had sounded very real. Possibly he was only trying to frighten her; well, if so he’d succeeded.
But she had one more place to run to: her uncle’s house in Killin. If Rod followed or threatened her there … then it would be time to call in the police, and to hell with him!
So now she scribbled a note to her parents saying she’d gone down south (they’d guess she hadn’t, and would understand), went out and locked the door, hugged her parka to herself, and climbed into the driving seat of the Volvo. Her parents had left the car for her use.
Crusty snow crunched under her tyres as she turned right out of the drive into the road and headed west for Comrie and Killin. She didn’t notice the battered VW Beetle that stayed back a hundred and fifty yards to her rear, sticking there like glue as she picked her way through the light, early-morning traffic and out of town … .
T
urnbull’s Minister, David Anderson, had arrived to pick up Turnbull and Gill at 7 A.M. sharp. He’d had coffee with them before they’d trooped out to his car. Over their coffees, Turnbull had shown him the finger. The big minder had tried often enough in the past to shock his boss (it was a thing they had between them) but he’d never quite succeeded. While Anderson had nothing of Turnbull’s military background, still he didn’t shock very easily. All a matter of being in control, Turnbull supposed. Anderson had picked up and studied the digit in its jar, shook it pale and stiff this way and that, and gone on drinking his coffee.
urnbull’s Minister, David Anderson, had arrived to pick up Turnbull and Gill at 7 A.M. sharp. He’d had coffee with them before they’d trooped out to his car. Over their coffees, Turnbull had shown him the finger. The big minder had tried often enough in the past to shock his boss (it was a thing they had between them) but he’d never quite succeeded. While Anderson had nothing of Turnbull’s military background, still he didn’t shock very easily. All a matter of being in control, Turnbull supposed. Anderson had picked up and studied the digit in its jar, shook it pale and stiff this way and that, and gone on drinking his coffee.
Anderson was jowly and overweight, wore fancy, almost feminine spectacles with ornate wings, and a white silk handkerchief flopping from his pinstripe pocket.
“Probably the index finger,” he’d finally commented, taking out his handkerchief and dabbing at his thick lips, his voice dry, well-bred, but not especially superior. “See how the tip is tilted to the right, inclining inwards towards the nail? Compare it with your own. Yes, right-hand index, I’d say. His trigger finger. So he’ll not be shooting at anyone for a while—unless he can grow a new one!”
“He didn’t shoot,” Turnbull had reminded him. Anderson had been told the details, but the finger looked so human it was easier to connect it to an orthodox weapon.
“This is what he used,” said Gill, producing the dented silver cylinder.
“Alien?”
“Yes,” said Gill. “I … caused it to work. For a few seconds, anyway.” He indicated the cleanly sliced tabletop.
The Minister had looked—looked under the table, too—and frowned. “Have you tidied up since last night?”
“No.”
“No sawdust,” Anderson had pointed out. “No … debris? And yet there’s a slice an eighth of an inch thick missing from the table. This—well, whatever it is—disintegrates, totally. Can you dismantle it?”
“I haven’t tried.” Gill had shrugged. “If it will X-ray, that might give us a clue. I didn’t want to do it any more damage.”
“Good!” Anderson had nodded. And he’d pocketed the thing. “I’ll get it right back to you.”
“You should have some top people look at the finger, too,” said Gill. He placed the jar and contents in a plastic bag, handed it over.
Anderson placed the bag between his feet, nodded his agreement. Then, hurrying now, he’d said to Gill, “Listen, Spencer, things are happening. Our monitors have been picking up an all-round increase in activity. And you?”
“For seven or eight days now,” Gill had answered. “I told you about it.”
“Hmm. Well, give yourself a pat on the back. You twigged it before the instruments. Right now it’s hitting a new peak of activity. Any ideas?”
Gill shook his head. “I can’t say,” he said. “Not for certain. But—”
“But?”
“I’ve had this feeling it was gearing itself up.”
For a little while there had been silence; then Anderson had grunted, nodded, and that had seemed to be that.
Through all of this Turnbull had been all ears but hadn’t made a lot of what was said. But as Anderson had stood up, ready to leave, he’d blurted, “Can you break that down into tiny little words for me?”
Anderson had looked at Gill. “He’s your man. It’s up to you.”
Getting their coats on and as they went out in the frosty morning to Anderson’s car, Gill had explained, “We have monitors, up there on Ben Lawers behind the perimeter fence. Dug in. Unobtrusive. If you look hard, you can make out their aerials.”
“Monitors?”
“Ultrasonic, infrared, radio, other radiations—anything we know how to measure. The harder a machine works, the more energy it consumes—and the more it radiates. Heat or whatever. As you rev a car, so its engine runs faster, gets hotter.”
Turnbull had nodded. “Or as a mass of fissionable material moves towards critical, so the radiation levels go up.”
“Right,” said Gill. “
Exactly
right.”
Exactly
right.”
“And we’re going up there—now?”
“The Castle isn’t a bomb,” said Gill.
The Minister got into the driving seat, said, “I want to have another look at it. It fascinates me. But it’s not just idle curiosity. I want
you
to have a look at it, Gill. See if there’s anything at all—anything new—you can tell us. Then I’m off back down to London. They’re very concerned about things down there. Evacuation models I have to check over, you know?”
you
to have a look at it, Gill. See if there’s anything at all—anything new—you can tell us. Then I’m off back down to London. They’re very concerned about things down there. Evacuation models I have to check over, you know?”
“He said it wasn’t a bomb,” Turnbull pointed out.
In his ear, Gill quietly said, “In case we need to use ours.”
“By the way,” said Anderson too loudly as Gill and Turnbull got into the back of his Mercedes, “this gentlemen is Jean-Pierre Varre.” His voice returned to its normal tone, became dry as tinder as he added, “Er, from France. He’s here to see you, Spencer. But I don’t have to remind you—or you, Jack—that the Castle is a sensitive subject.”
Waiting for them in the front passenger seat, Varre nodded curtly. He was small, slim, looked a little peeved. “Talk all you wish,” he said. “About whatever subject. I am not interested in your Castle—not especially. But as the Minister said, I am here to speak with you, Mr. Gill.”
Since talking about the Castle was now out, Gill said, “Fire away. How can I help you, Mr. Varre? Except, well, don’t take that as a promise.”
“Mr. Gill is a very busy man,” Anderson added. “And his time is limited.”
Gill stared at the back of Anderson’s neck but said nothing. He knew—hoped—Anderson hadn’t meant it that way. On the other hand, he knew he wasn’t much for mincing his words, either.
They drove northeast out of the village to the first barrier on the loch road. As they went, Varre started to explain what he wanted. “Mr. Gill, I’m told you have a rare talent.”
“Unique, we think,” the Minister corrected him.
“Very well, unique.” Varre nodded. “Some few years ago your government opted out of the European Space Programme. It had to do with finance—a certain tightness of the purse strings? They couldn’t see their way clear to put up the necessary funds. Also, since the USA and USSR were already in the driving seat, as it were … well, there’s no use shutting the gate after the horse has bolted. This was their reasoning. Some decisions of this sort might be seen as reasonable, others as sheerest folly—like abandoning HOTOL.”
“Go on,” said Gill.
“During the course of the last twelve months, however,” Varre continued, “your government has been trying desperately to get back in. The so-called Castle may have much to do with that; it is generally accepted as an alien artifact, some sort of spaceship; it begins to seem likely that in the not too distant future intercourse with alien worlds is to become a reality—and of course Great Britain would not wish to be emasculated in that area.”
“Not in
any
area!” Turnbull muttered, but to himself.
any
area!” Turnbull muttered, but to himself.
Gill had already decided he didn’t much care for Monsieur Varre. There was something overly unctuous about the little Frenchman; he spoke openly enough, and his accent was only faintly French, but still it was as if his words sidled, instead of coming head-on. Politicians can be like that and get away with it, but Varre wasn’t a politician. His eyes, like Turnbull’s, were heavy-lidded—but that was where any similarity ended. For the eyes themselves were too bright, shifty, possibly devious. A snake’s eyes, or those of a clever cardsharp. In any event, a sharp operator.
“Get to the point,” said Gill.
“So far,” said Varre, “the efforts of your government to get back into space have proved futile: ESP’s contributors have put in a lot of trust, goodwill, money, and success can’t be too far away. In less than three years our shuttle will be a reality—and far and away superior to the current American vehicle. But … of course there are problems. Not insurmountable. Time, alas, is the great enemy. Technical problems, yes: small faults in ballistics, in computer linkage, perhaps even in basic engine design. In many instances our only recourse is to a system of trial and error. And time slips by, and costs rise. If we could enlist your aid, however, and if your, er,
rapport
with machines is all they say it is …” He let it tail off.
rapport
with machines is all they say it is …” He let it tail off.
Gill stared again at the back of Anderson’s neck, and this time the Minister must have felt it. “Not my line, I’m afraid,” he said, without looking back. “Hardly SDI, is it? Not yet for a while, anyway.” And to Varre: “You realize of course that Mr. Gill’s fees would be quite astronomical?”
Varre smiled, and Gill felt sure that if he’d had moustaches he would have rolled their ends in his fingers. “His fees and the difference between what ESP members have put in and what Great Britain has not put in might easily balance themselves out—er, if his work in this respect is fruitful, of course.”
Gill thought:
The Frog is assuming that it’s all over bar the shouting, that he’s made me an offer I can’t refuse. If I’m lucky, I have maybe two years left, and even now I don’t have enough time to do my own things. If it wasn’t that the Castle fascinates me, I’d be out of here. Why should I waste what time’s left skipping to and fro between here and Paris?
What was more, he knew he couldn’t help. And so out loud he said:
The Frog is assuming that it’s all over bar the shouting, that he’s made me an offer I can’t refuse. If I’m lucky, I have maybe two years left, and even now I don’t have enough time to do my own things. If it wasn’t that the Castle fascinates me, I’d be out of here. Why should I waste what time’s left skipping to and fro between here and Paris?
What was more, he knew he couldn’t help. And so out loud he said:
“I assume you’ve stolen or cannibalized what you could of HOTOL, and imitated what you’ve had access to of the American designs, right?” And before Varre could wax indignant or whatever: “Two wrongs don’t make a right, Mr. Varre. HOTOL is a solution looking for someone to solve its many problems. The spin-offs will be worth more than the project, if that’s any consolation. The American shuttle is working again now, okay, but it’s still dodgy. I had a look at their launch system for them, and the new one they’re building will be better.”
“Is that classified, Spencer?” The Minister’s voice had a hard edge to it. He’d brought his car to a halt at the barrier. A uniformed policeman was coming forward, clipboard in hand.
“Possibly,” Gill answered. “Will you sue me?” Sometimes the pressure ruffled his fur.
“What?” Varre looked from one to the other of them, his mind trying to catch up with what Gill had said. “Are you trying to say that—”
“Not trying,” Gill cut him short. “I’m saying that if you haven’t radically improved on everything you’ve borrowed so far, then you won’t even get that heap of junk off the ground—with or without my help! And in any case the Minister is right: my time is strictly limited. I don’t believe I have any left over for you.”
Varre’s jaw had fallen halfway open. He slowly closed it, shrugged, and said, “Then I go away empty-handed.”
“Not at all,” said Gill. “You go and tell them to cut their losses, save them billions.”
The policeman had checked Anderson’s pass. He signalled to the barrier’s operator and the red-and-white striped pole began to crank aloft. From here to the second barrier half a mile short of the Castle itself the road was patrolled and strictly out of bounds to unauthorized traffic. There were patrol boats on the loch, too. Across the water some enterprising landowner had opened a restaurant; the sharp winter sunshine glanced from the lenses of a hundred pairs of binoculars all sighted across the water at the Castle’s enigmatic masonry.
The Minister eased his car into first, started to drive forward before the barrier was fully up. As he did so, he became aware of a sudden flurry of exterior activity. On the unrestricted side of the barrier a circular car park with a perimeter track was filling up with the cars of disappointed tourists and sightseers; from here on in, their only route to the Castle lay in climbing Ben Lawers itself. From a vantage point halfway up they could look to the northeast, and if there wasn’t any cloud cover they might even spy it down there. But barbed-wire fences would stop them from getting any closer than that, and from that height and distance even powerful binoculars would only succeed in making the Castle look like a fairly ordinary … castle.
The disturbance had its origin in the car park. A metallic green Volvo had come bursting out of the herringbone patterns of parked cars, slewed wildly onto the loch road and raced up alongside the Minister’s Mercedes as it crept under the barrier. Gill saw a girl, wild-eyed and white-faced, hunched over the steering wheel. The policeman had to jump for it or might well have been struck. Then the Volvo cut. sharply across the road and directly into Anderson’s path, so that he was forced to slam on his brakes.
“What the hell … ?” the Minister had time to gasp, before three things occurred almost simultaneously.
One: the girl lost control of her car, which careened up a steep verge a little way before stalling and tilting over onto its side. Two: there came the sharp
crack!
of an automatic pistol and the rear window of the spilled Volvo became a glass jigsaw puzzle which collapsed in upon itself. And three: a second car, a beaten-up black VW Beetle, came slewing out of the car park to slam side-on into the barrier as it was lowered.
crack!
of an automatic pistol and the rear window of the spilled Volvo became a glass jigsaw puzzle which collapsed in upon itself. And three: a second car, a beaten-up black VW Beetle, came slewing out of the car park to slam side-on into the barrier as it was lowered.
While Anderson, Gill, and Varre sat like lumps of stone, Turnbull was out of his door, kneeling on the tarmac, bringing out his gun. The Volkswagen’s haggard-looking driver staggered from his car, hung himself half over the barrier, began to take aim for a second shot. Turnbull squeezed one off first and hit the man in the upper right arm, which served to pluck him upright off the barrier and toss him facedown in the road.
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