The Touch of Death (10 page)

He felt less tense as the day wore on, although he heard nothing from Rita or from the man who had delivered that ultimatum. Palfrey seemed more himself.

There was a conference of agents at Palfrey's hotel, but little came of it. The uranium source and the
fatalis
activity region were taken over, scientists were already on their way from England. The dog had been
killer
for an hour after it had been put in the car; so they learned something from it.

There would be an inquest, of course, and the real cause of death would have to be disguised. There would be difficulties with the local police, the coroner and the local authorities, but everything would be smoothed out.

But they hadn't really made progress. They knew more of the horror of the thing; and now Banister knew that because of his immunity he was wanted by Rita's friends. He knew how much depended on him; and at times the burden was intolerable.

After the third day Palfrey called Banister and asked him to go and see him. Banister had been about to take Marion to a film.

“All right,” he said promptly. “Now?”

“Please.”

“I'll be right over.” Banister rang off, and looked at Marion, whose hair wasn't so fluffy because it had just been set, and who looked a delight. “You'll have to go by yourself,” he said, “the oracle wants me.”

“I'll stay here and read,” Marion said, “you may not be long.” She stood up, and moved towards him. “Neil,” she went on, slowly, “don't ever make the mistake of scoffing at Sap. Don't ever do that. Above everything else, you must have faith in him.”

“I think I see what you mean,” Banister said.

But had he that faith?

 

Palfrey looked as if he had also had a rest. His eyes were clearer, his cheeks hadn't that almost frightening pallor; there was no tension in him. He was alone, sitting at a desk in his bedroom, smoking, with a typewriter in front of him and dozens of sheets of paper littering the desk.

“Come in, Neil – sorry if I spoiled the evening.” He shook the papers into position and laid them in a neat pile by the side of the typewriter. “I
think
I know where they are.”

Banister broke the quiet of his own tension.

“You only think?”

“I can't be absolutely sure, yet. I'd like to use you to act as bait again. I don't know why, but I've a strong feeling that they really want to win you over to their side. I think they'll try to kidnap you. I'd like you to move around a bit on your own. Stage a quarrel with Marion, then with me, and then rush off by yourself. We'd follow, although you wouldn't be able to detect us, and nor would Rita or her friends.”

He stopped.

Banister drew his hand over his forehead. He felt a sudden quickening of his heart, and knew why – at the possibility that he would see Rita again. He had tried to tell himself that it didn't matter; but it mattered much more than he could ever say.

“Prepared to do it?” Palfrey asked.

Banister said slowly: “I'll do it, yes. I don't know that “

He paused, then began to move about the room. “Sap, I'm in love with Rita. I can't say what will happen if I ever see her again. If they should decide to kidnap me and take me to this place alive, then—I may not want to come back.”

“I'll take the risk,” Palfrey said. “Will you act as bait?”

“Yes,” Banister said again.

Not until he'd gone did he realise that he had called Palfrey “Sap”.

 

The swoop came a week later, when he was in Auckland, walking beneath the shade of the trees in the road outside the University. He had almost forgotten danger. He had almost given up hope that he would be able to do anything useful. Most pictures had faded, except that of Rita – and of the dead Indian village.

That was more on his mind than anything else.

He saw two men coming towards him without giving them a second thought. It wasn't until they stopped that alarm flashed through him.

They were like the stranger who had visited them in Rotorua – not unlike in feature, each was taller, but their complexion was the same; they were hardy, weather-beaten, sun-tanned. Healthy.

They ranged themselves on either side of Banister.

“Don't shout, don't attract attention, or I'll stick a knife in your ribs,” one man said in a quiet voice. “Walk towards that green Chrysler there.”

“Why, hallo, Banister,” said the other man, as two couples drew near. “Fancy meeting you.”

They got into the green Chrysler.

No one seemed to be watching as one man drove off and the other sat in the back, with Banister.

 

THE STRONGHOLD

 

 

Banister heard a sound, a low-pitched, droning sound which seemed to come from a long way off. He didn't move. He did not seem to be moving, either. Wherever he was, it was very still – yet he had an odd sensation, of motion.

He opened his eyes.

He saw nothing, because it was dark – and then he realised that a hood of some kind had been put over his head. He tried to raise his hands, to get it off, but his arms were fastened to his side. They didn't hurt, but he couldn't move.

He tried to turn his head, but could not.

The droning sound went on and on, until there was movement, a sudden fall, a change in the monotony of the droning before the smooth stillness again. Then he knew that he was in an aircraft.

Someone came near him. He heard the rustling sounds of movement, felt someone brush against his shoulder, and touch the hood over his head, but that was all. Then two men spoke, but he could hear only the sound of their voices, not what they said. That didn't seem to matter. He was glad to sit and relax, although it occurred to him that there should be no reason to rest, he hadn't exactly exerted himself.

He remembered the two men with the glowing complexions and the keen eyes, the green Chrysler, and the start of a journey down the hill towards Queen Street. The sharp prick in his arm had taken him by surprise – it wasn't until he had seen the man by his side smiling that he had realised that he had been jabbed through his sleeve with a hypodermic needle.

It had been his one moment of panic, when he had been tempted to try to open a window, to shout, to attract attention from the people in the busy street.

He had conquered that.

Then he had fallen asleep; it might have been an hour or a day or a week ago.

He began to wish that they would take the thing off his head; or that they would talk so that he could understand what they were saying. The droning, the men's voices, the occasional sway or fall of the aircraft created a monotony of its own peculiar kind.

Then he felt movement near him again. A moment later, the hood was lifted.

“Oh, he's awake,” a man said in surprise.

“Hallo, Banister,” said the other man.

These were the two whom he had seen walking towards him along that shady street within the shadow of the university.

“We didn't think you'd be round yet – sorry.”

They spoke good, fluent English; colloquial, too. He did not doubt that they were English. Neither was particularly good-looking, neither was in the slightest degree vicious-looking, either. They looked like men who lived an open-air life.

“Like a drink? We could manage tea and biscuits, if you feel like that.”

“It's a good idea,” Banister said, calmly enough. “You might untie my arms.”

“Don't get violent this time,” the nearer man warned. “You go and get the tea, Ted.”

“All right, Jim.” The other went off.

“Violent?” echoed Banister.

“When you first came out of the barbiturate we pumped into you, you were ready to fight the world,” said the man named Jim. “You look calmer now.” He unfastened the cords which bound Banister's arms to his sides. “Cigarette?”

“I'll have the tea first.”

“Good thought.”

The man glanced out of the window, and Banister found himself doing the same, while wondering why the man named Ted and the man named Jim were exerting themselves to be so pleasant. Did the answer matter, yet? He saw clouds drifting by, revealing patches of clear blue sky, the kind of picture he was likely to see on any fine day when in the air. Then he looked down and saw they were above the cloud bank; not far below it was ten-tenths cloud.

“We'll soon be landing,” Ted said.

“Oh!” Banister found it possible to smile. “I suppose I shouldn't ask where we are.”

“You can ask!”

The man turned as the other came along the narrow passage carrying a tray with tea, biscuits and bread and butter. They were the only passengers in the aircraft, which could carry twenty or more. Banister began to count the seats, then gave up.

The tea was hot, fresh, welcome.

The bread and butter was fresh; the biscuits crisp.

Afternoon tea at ten thousand feet or so, flying – where?

“We won't be long,” said Ted.

Then they broke through the cloud.

Banister felt his heart turn over; felt that stab of fear which set him quivering. For as the cloud parted, a great snow-capped peak thrust its grandeur through the gap. The peak could not be far away. All Banister could see was the snow, broken here and there by the black darkness of rocks.

The aircraft swayed.

Ted and Jim did not speak. Banister glanced round, and saw that they were staring out of the window; they had almost forgotten him, seemed to be touched by fear.

Banister looked out of the window.

Below was a scene of bewildering grandeur. The snow lay thick and virgin white and smooth save where the jagged rocks pierced its breast, as if to threaten with impaling any who dared fly within its reach. Great ravines were like ugly, gaping mouths, filled with snow and yet with room for more and yet more – mouths that would swallow the aircraft and not notice that it was there. The snow looked so thick and white and still – it could cover the aircraft and forever keep its secret. More than all else, the snow seemed to draw Banister and the other men downwards with an irresistible attraction.

They flew farther along a valley, with great peaks rising on either side; and there was less snow here. Banister could see the green of grass or some mountain growth, and the blackness of the rocks – even stunted trees, a long way down. Then he saw something else, which stabbed through him like the final harbinger of disaster.

There lay a wrecked aircraft.

He saw the broken wings and the crumpled fuselage and the lost or buried nose. One engine lay some distance from the heart of the wreckage; black, burned.

They flew over it.

Banister watched until it was out of sight.

There was snow, desolation, the harshness of rocks, a great silence rising out of the valleys below them.

Then, quite suddenly, they flew within the shadow of a range of peaks, and below them the ground, although rocky and split with crevices filled with snow, did not look so hostile. Soon Banister saw what seemed to be a long stretch of flat table-land. Two aircraft stood against the snow; there were hangars; black dots that might be people.

They
were
people.

“Better put some warm clothes on, Banister,” said the man named Ted.

He was holding out a fur-lined coat.

 

Banister waded unevenly through the snow. He wore heavy fur-lined boots, and they made him stagger from side to side, but he needed them, for the snow was nearly a foot deep. It was all about him on the mountain-side, just here an unsullied field of snow. Ravines and gullies slit the mountain-side above his head, but not here.

He had no idea where he was.

In the south island of New Zealand? In one of the great mountain ranges of the Antarctic? He kept thinking of that, but not very deeply. It was all he could do to breathe and keep moving. Soon he had to concentrate on those two things.

They neared the mountain-side, and climbed steeply for thirty or forty yards; then the man in front of Ted disappeared into the side of the rocks.

Banister stopped.

His mind flashed back to the moment when Pam Smith had hurried away from him and walked
through
a wall. In exactly the same way the man in front had walked
through
snow-covered rock.

The man behind bumped into him.

“Go on, get a move on,” he said, “let's get inside.”

The second man in front of Banister disappeared. Banister made himself go on, then saw that there was a hole, like a doorway, in the rock. The hole led into a tunnel; at the end there was actually a door. The man behind Banister said: “Just push – where the handle is.”

Banister pushed.

Warm air swept out and about him, and he stepped inside a brightly lighted
street
.

That was the odd thing; it was as if he had come out of doors, into the street of some city built of pale stone, in graceful lines. Here were houses; buildings; shops; and the light was like the light of day.

“Straight on,” the man said. “You can take your hat off and loosen your coat, now.”

Banister obeyed, and just walked on, dazed, bemused, but beginning to understand what had happened. There was a kind of city inside the mountains. City – town – village, what did it matter?

Hallucination?

Ted, still leading, turned a corner and entered a tunnel. Ahead was a door in a wall of rock; and beyond it steps, hewn out of the solid rock; and at the top of the stairs another door, which opened into a square room which might have been found in any large house.

The man who had taken Rita away was there.

So was Rita.

 

“Hallo, Neil,” she said, “I'm glad you've come.”

Her voice was quiet, and the words were simple. She smiled as she spoke, and took Banister's hand. It was cold from the bleak air of the mountain outside, and hers were warm.

“Let me help you off with your coat,” she said. “Then we'll have something to eat. Would you like a drink?”

“Er—please.”

“Mix him a whisky-and-soda, Klim, will you?”

Rita spoke to the man who had taken her away from Rotorua. He was talking to Ted; the other men hadn't come in here.

“All right, my dear.”

Klim moved towards a cabinet at the side of the room. Ted followed him, talking, reporting what had happened, going into detail.

“No, we weren't followed . . .”

Was he sure of that? He seemed sure; and if he were right, then Palfrey had failed. Was that surprising, Banister wondered dully.

Rita helped Banister off with his coat, and folded it over a chair. He sat down heavily. She would have gone down on her knees to pull the fur-lined boots off, if he had let her. He didn't. He pulled them off himself, and she picked them up, took them to the door and put them just outside. When she came back, the man named Klim was handing Banister a whisky-and-soda, and saying: “One for you, Ted?”

“Do you mind if I skip it?” Ted said. “I haven't seen Lorna for a week!”

“Off you go,” said Klim. “We'll leave together, I want to have a look at the lower-level laboratory.” He glanced at Rita and Banister, smiled faintly, and added: “I'll be about twenty minutes, Rita – don't let him run away!”

He chuckled, Rita smiled, Ted grinned.

The two men went out; the door closed. Banister saw it swinging to and fro, before it settled and stood still. He finished his whisky-and-soda.

He was wearing the clothes he had worn in Auckland's summer, and they were warm enough. Rita wore a linen dress of wine red, trimmed with white. Her eyes had the brown beauty that meant so much to him, and her hair was a mass of rippling black. The dress clung to her figure.

“Like another?” she asked.

“No—thanks.”

She took cigarettes from a small table, and lit one for him, then put it between his lips; there was a mark of the red of her lipstick on it. He looked round the room. It had a low ceiling, in spite of the warmth the air was very clear. The furniture was light – light-coloured pine or larch or birch, he thought, rather like Dutch or Swiss furniture; as mountain chalets might be furnished. The floor was of some kind of composition, made to look like parquet flooring; but he could tell that it was imitation. There were a few skin rugs, the largest of a huge black bear, its back towards Banister.

Rita drew up a chair.

“The surprise will wear off,” she said.

“Where are we?”

“You can't really expect me to tell you that, yet! I think Klim will, as soon as he feels sure that you won't want to go back and join Palfrey and his well-meaning helpers. But don't think about Palfrey or the outside world yet. You must be tired.”

“I've been worse.”

“You'll be much better! I don't know why it is,” Rita said, shaking her hair back from her face, “but up here we always feel much less tense. Nothing is so desperate as it seems down at sea-level. I suppose it's something in the air. And the height gives a sense of—” her eyes danced—”supremacy.”

“I see,” Banister said.

“On some days, when we can go out, it's magnificent,” Rita told him. “Until you've lived here, you've never known what winter sports are really like. You'll find out, before long, I think the weather's soon going to break.”

Banister didn't speak.

“I'm not going to worry you with too much argument for a start,” went on Rita, “but I have to say this again, Neil – I hope you will decide to join us. I'm sure that we're right. Klim will tell you more about what we're doing, later on. I'd like to tell you about this place, High Peak.”

“High Peak,” Banister echoed, because she seemed to expect it of him.

“Yes, that's what we call it. There are seven thousand people here, men and women and children. It's a perfect city. We have no sickness, no ill-health, no social problems. Food is grown in artificial soil, without difficulty. Black, white and yellow people live here in perfect amity. Everyone has enough to eat and drink, has sufficient comfort. There are films – from the world outside, of course, with all its incredible folly – and we have our own amateur dramatics, our own Literary Societies, everything. I really mean that.
Everything
.”

Banister looked his scepticism.

She smiled.

“All right, wait a minute.” She leaned forward to a television set, and pressed a button; it began to hum, but no light appeared. “Everything is a long way ahead of yours, up here,” she said. “What you think might come in the future, we have as a commonplace today.” The screen began to glow, then a face appeared; a face of a Chinese girl. “Oh, Yun Lin,” said Rita, “ask Klim if I can take Neil round the community, will you?”