The Touch of Death (15 page)

Banister saw that he was trying to twist, to break Anak's neck. It would need only seconds, if he could maintain the grip. The guards were already on the move, but hadn't time to save Anak. Klim uttered a cry, jumped forward – and kicked against a chair and went sprawling.

The Professor's fingers were buried in the Leader's throat. He was writhing, gasping with the effort, seemed to be drawing in the air and praying for strength to do this thing.

Here was a chance that would never come again, to put Anak in his debt.

Banister moved swiftly, struck the Professor savagely on the side of the jaw, struck him again until he released his hold.

He fell; and Anak fell, also.

The guards reached Anak, but they might well have been too late. Klim got unsteadily to his feet. Rita ran to Anak, dropped on to her knees and raised his head. He was breathing as heavily, almost as laboriously as the Professor.

One guard stood over the old man.

Klim said to Banister: “Anak will never forget his debt,” in a quivering voice.

Banister thought: “And nor shall I. Nor shall I. I ought to have helped to kill him.”

He could have screamed.

The door opened and several other people hurried in, looking alarmed; frightened. The television screen flickered; of course, all this had been watched. Among the newcomers was Sophie, who looked so much like Marion.

“I shall get up,” Anak said, deliberately.

He stood up with Rita's help, and while the others stood in a ring round him. Within the ring were Banister, Klim, Rita, the two guards – and the Professor who had nearly succeeded in breaking the Leader's neck.

“How shall we kill him?” Sophie asked.

 

 

The effort had drawn all the strength out of Morris-Jones. He was shaking as he rose to his feet. He looked at the girl who had spoken so casually, then at Anak, as if he knew what to expect – and was ready to die.

The guards held him.

“Release him,” Anak said.

He was massaging his neck gingerly.

The guards obeyed.

“Anak—” began Sophie.

Anak waved her to silence, and she dropped back into the circle.

Banister thought: “He's going to kill himself, he's going to show what a perfect human being he is – Lord, and Lord High Executioner too.”

He felt his own hands clenched by his side; felt his fingers tense, as they would if they were encircling that red and puffy neck. He wished that Morris-Jones had succeeded, could curse himself for robbing the man of the chance of success.

Anak smiled.

There was nothing savage or gloating about it, it was just a smile – without real humour, perhaps with a tinge of admiration.

“At least when you believe you believe fiercely,” he said to the scientist. “When you've had a few days' rest you may feel better. Sophie, have him taken away, and look after him. I'll tell you when he is to be questioned again.”

If the fair-haired woman resented being chosen for that task, she said nothing. She and a man led Morris-Jones out. He didn't speak, didn't struggle or shout or show defiance.

 

The door swung after him.

“All right, I'm all right,” said Anak, and waved his hand. Everyone else who had hurried in went out, and the guards took up their position by the door. “Rita, send for a masseuse, or I shall get a stiff neck.” He looked at Banister with a kind of heavy humour. “It wouldn't do for perfect men to get a stiff neck, would it?”

Banister said: “I'm beginning—to see.”

“I felt that you would,” said Anak quickly, as if pleased. “I have the same feeling about Palfrey, too. That's why I've always been lenient with Palfrey – although to give him his due, he's often managed to outwit me.” He gave a laugh that was really a rattle of incredulity. “It's one reason, anyhow. Palfrey has the ear of governments. He has a lot of influence. He might make some of the people down below
listen
,
I think. Do you?”

“If he thought it justifiable,” Banister agreed.

“That is what I mean,” said Anak. “If he thought it was worthwhile, he could probably arrange for some of the Governments to work
with
us. He could fool them – because they trust him. Supposing, for instance, he was to suggest to Washington and London that I'm only waiting until the time is ripe to pounce on Russia, they wouldn't exactly be averse, would they? And if he whispered to Moscow that I am just as much a Communist as anyone there, and am only waiting for the right moment to pounce on the Western powers – what do you think would happen, Banister?”

Banister thought: “You crafty devil.” He said aloud: “They'd wait.”

“Now that is why I want Palfrey on my side, and why it is a nuisance that we've been skirmishing as we have,” declared Anak. “It's a waste of time, energy, everything. It isn't as if Palfrey can
do
anything to stop me. He simply has a nuisance value. But I think he'll come to heel if you'll convince him that I'm quite prepared to spread
fatalis
among the people of a big city – London, say, or New York. Don't you think he will, Banister?”

Banister had to answer, had to make the answer sound reasonable.

“He might.”

“I think perhaps you will have a slightly more optimistic outlook a little later,” Anak said. “I shall almost certainly want you to go down and convert Palfrey. But we'll talk about that later. I want you to catch the spirit of the place first, I want you to
feel
the magnificence of it. Move about freely, go where you like.”

A picture flashed into Banister's mind: of a door opening, and old men and old women, naked to the waist; toiling, with a slave-driver standing over them, and the whips cracking. He could have said: “To the slave camps, too?”

He said: “Thank you,” stiffly.

Now, all he wanted to do was to get away; to be free from the very stench of horror which seemed to come from Anak's lips.

“Anak,” Rita said quietly, “there is the Council meeting, soon.”

“Oh, yes, I'd better tell them what's been happening. They'll want to see the pictures, too. Very impressive, weren't they, Banister?”

Anak stalked out.

Klim and Rita followed him.

Banister watched the door swinging, gritted his teeth, then turned slowly towards the other doors and, eventually, reached his own room. He dropped into the easy-chair. This was a moment of solitude, giving a kind of peace, but it wouldn't be enough. He could not lock the door. He could not prevent the television screen from lighting up. He could only sit back and long for this silent solitude to go on and on, so that he could be free from the need for acting, free from the dread of making a single slip.

A door opened.

Banister had been alone for a little while, but not for long enough. The same thoughts, the same images, had been passing through his mind, and they were starting again. Now, he made himself look up.

“Tired, Neil?” asked Rita.

“Yes.”

“It's not surprising. You've had a great deal to absorb in a little while. It takes some men a year to get used to it.”

“Rita,” he said, chokily, “it's absolutely crazy!”

“Is it?”

“He
believes
all that.”

“So do I,” she said. “So does Klim. So do all—” She stopped, and smiled faintly. “So do most of us.” She lay on the bed, facing him, her knees drawn up, her body twisted at the waist, so that she was thrusting towards him provocatively; and he knew that she was doing what woman had done from the beginning of time. “Neil, it's true, you know. Have you seen anything but perfect human beings here? Even mentally perfect – like Anak. We haven't all reached that stage yet, but think of the magnificence of his gesture. The compassion and tolerance he felt for Morris-Jones – when a lesser man would have demanded some kind of punishment.”

Banister made no comment.

“Anyone else would have,” she insisted. “He didn't. After this, I think Morris-Jones will help in every way he can.”

“And what if he doesn't?”

She said flatly: “He'll be put to work. Practically all those people you saw were men who refused to co-operate. They can't be sent home. They must perform some useful task. So . . .”

And she lay there, talking like that yet expecting to move him, to draw him to her. That was the first time he had felt that he could hate her. The softness of her voice and the beauty of her body and her face made it so much worse; she could lie there and talk about men being flogged into working, men who were almost dropping, whose bodies were sheathed with sweat wrung out by agony.

“But remember, you've never seen them,” Rita said. “Klim and Anak simply mustn't know. They're very pleased with you. You've been frank with us. We believe all you've said. They'd hoped to learn a lot, but as you're not a scientist – I was able to tell them that! – and your immunity is natural, there's only one real purpose you can serve, now – to convert Palfrey. Keep Anak and Klim pleased, Neil. Soon, they'll want you to take a message back to Palfrey.”

“Is that all?” asked Banister, heavily.

She stretched her arms above her head, and his gaze fell upon her, but in that slow, seductive movement she reminded him of a cat – a cat which arched its back.

“Pretty puss.”

“Hi, puss!”

“Puthy, puthy.”

He was stony-faced.

“Come and rest,” she whispered.

 

Each day, Banister was allowed to go out to the ski-run. Each day for four days, the clouds kept away and the weather was perfect.

The invigoration of the run, five or six times each day, was still the same. Banister found the other way up to the chalet and the top of the run, and so the guides were never sent after him again.

He had all his thoughts to brood over.

He had one new fear, too.

Mick didn't turn up. The man who had dared to confide in him, the man who had told him of the resistance movement within High Peak, didn't appear. His wife – or the woman who had been with him – and the two children were usually at or near the chalet, and the boy was beginning to ski very well. But apart from that, Banister saw no one in whom he could confide.

Was the resistance movement still in existence?

On the fourth day he walked out into the snow, and as he neared the chalet, saw a man coming towards him. It was the lank-haired, thin-cheeked man who was always so vicious about the “fools down below”, and wanted to exterminate them. Banister now knew that his name was Doggett; and Banister disliked him probably more than he disliked any other individual he knew. Dogget always had a chip on his shoulder.

He hoped the man would pass.

Doggett drew level.

“Take the other run today,” he whispered, and his dark eyes flashed at Banister.

Banister caught his breath.

“You mean—Mick—”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

Was it a trick?

He did not make up his mind until he was actually on the way down, sticks behind him, knees bent, chest and head thrust forward into the rushing wind. He saw most of the tracks leading to the right, only one or two to the left.

He swerved left.

Soon he was hidden from the chalet and everyone up there by the great overhanging outcrop of rock. He seemed to be alone. The only noise was of the air rushing past him. He slackened his speed, and came very near the spot which he had reached before.

A voice came out of the whiteness.

“Not that way.”

He stopped.

“Go back the other way. Sit down on a rock and take off a ski – look as if you're having trouble with it.”

“All—right.”

Banister got up, and walked slowly towards several rocks, black on one side but covered with snow on the other, which were within sight of the people at the chalet. He began to take off one ski. He glanced about him, but was careful not to look in the same direction for too long at a time; glasses might be trained on him.

He saw a movement in the snow – as if something beneath it were stirring gently. Then a man's hand appeared by the side of a rock; then a face and shoulders. Banister recognised him, but did not know his name.

“Hi, Banister,” he said, with a pronounced American accent. He looked young, and in spite of the danger, seemed eager, confident. “How you doing up there with the great men?”

“I'm getting along,” Banister said, with an effort. “I haven't broken anyone's neck yet.”

“Keep on not breaking them,” the American said. “I'm Ray Morgue. Isn't that a name to be proud of?” He grinned; but his smile quickly faded, an anxious look came in his eyes. “Banister, do you know where Mick is?”

“I—don't.”

“He's disappeared.”

“I've been here looking for him.”

“They told his wife that he had been moved to one of the other cities for special work,” the American said. “I don't believe it. But—maybe you could find out.”

Banister told him what he thought.”I guess it could be,” Morgue said heavily. “Try to find out, Banister, it could be important. If Mick is coming back, we'll wait for him. If he's not coming back, we'll have to make fresh plans. Can you tell us anything else?”

“No,” Banister said.

He could have told him about Anak's hopes for a deal through Palfrey; but if this were a form of treachery it would be better if he kept that to himself.

Morgue said: “Okay. It's been nice knowing you! If you can find out what's happened to Mick, let Doggett know.”

“How?”

“He'll find a way to talk to you.”

“All right,” Banister said.

The young American ducked beneath the snow. There would be air-holes nearby, for him to breathe in as he made his way back to the chalet or to inside the mountain. One moment his eager, smiling face was there, the next there was just the silence and the snow and distant peaks with their awful grandeur.

Banister stood up.

Then he became aware of the drone of an aeroplane. As he made for the top of the run, he looked into the sky, and soon he saw the silver grey speck. It was coming nearer, but was very high; surely higher than it should have been if it were going to land.

Then he saw something dark fall from its belly.