The Touch of Death (16 page)

 

Banister stood quite still.

He was halfway between the outcrop and the chalet. A dozen or more people were near him. All turned and looked towards the aircraft. One man was within two yards, and Banister heard him muttering to himself, almost in supplication, as if frightened.

Everyone had stopped moving.

The aircraft sped on between the mountain peaks, a silver fish which appeared to go steadily and smoothly, not swaying from side to side. The black “thing” which had come from its belly was still a falling dark shape, but above it a parachute had mushroomed out, and the great silk envelope swayed gently in the wind, checking the fall of the man who came down.

Was
it a man?

Banister's jaws hurt because he was clenching his teeth so tightly; the palms of his hands were sore because of the same kind of pressure. He began to move forward. It was a man, there was no doubt about that; and soon he would be on the ground, buried in the snow that would break his fall. His chief danger was that he might strike a rock, but he seemed to be falling on to the ski-run.

The silence and the tension in everyone around him troubled Banister most.

Then someone screamed.

The aircraft burst into flames.

One moment it was flying straight ahead, with the sun glistening on its silvered wings and fuselage and showing the windows like tiny little black dots; the next, it was just a great ball of flame which seemed to hang in the air for a few awful seconds – and then fell, with a cloud of smoke ballooning upwards.

It disappeared behind a ridge, and smaller balls of flame flew in all directions, the smoke became a huge black ball, which gradually began to settle and disperse.

Now the people who were near Banister, and Banister himself, looked at the falling man. He was close to the ground. Some people started to move towards him, and that was a signal for everyone to start going forward. Banister went with them.

The parachutist hit the ground and fell flat; he was dragged through the snow for a few yards, and then lay still. He was not still for long. Banister was some distance away, but others reached the man, and helped him up. These were quickly shouldered aside by the guards who had come from High Peak.

Then Banister drew near enough to see the parachutist, who now stood between two guards.

It was Palfrey.

 

The sky was a bright blue and the snow virgin-white and sparkling; yet to Banister, everything was dark. Until this moment, he had not realised how much Palfrey meant; how powerfully the man's image had been built up in his mind. Palfrey had become a legendary figure: Palfrey was the man who at once troubled, harassed and impressed Anak. With Palfrey “down below” there had been reason to hope. Now he was here, and the aircraft which had brought him had turned into a ball of fire; everyone else in it must have perished.

Banister pushed past the others, shouldering some aside. Most of them were recovering from the shock of surprise, although it still lay upon them. The most natural man among them seemed to be Palfrey, who was smiling faintly as he looked at him.

He saw Banister.

“Hallo, Neil,” he said.

“Sap, you fool!”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Palfrey. “After the last spot of bother, I thought I'd better come and see whether we could agree terms of some kind. How are you?”

“I'm—all right.”

“Good.”

Palfrey and the others began to walk towards the main gates of the city. Banister took off his skis and caught up with them. Palfrey looked about him with lively interest. A crowd followed. The guards kept on either side of Palfrey, but did not object to Banister walking with them.

“Have you heard about Morris-Jones?” Palfrey asked.

“Yes. He's here.”

“I know,” Palfrey said. His smile grew broader. “We followed him!”

That was the second time that Banister began to hope; the first time had been when it had seemed possible to him that he would be able to fool Anak.

In a different way, Palfrey seemed to be as confident as the Leader.

Banister found himself aching for the moment when these two men would meet. Everything else faded into insignificance; even the destruction of the aircraft, and all it meant.

He wondered if he would be allowed to be present; he kept close to the guards as they went through the gates, and then stopped to take off their thick, outer clothes. One helped Palfrey off with his.

Klim and Rita appeared.

“How did you get here?” Klim demanded harshly.

Palfrey looked at him.

“Why, hallo! Rotorua last time, wasn't it?”

“I asked—”

A television screen nearby began to flicker. Palfrey glanced at it, in surprise; it was the first one he had seen here. The shadowy figure of a man appeared, just head and shoulders; then Anak's face.

Banister saw Palfrey's smile fade, saw his jaw set, guessed that he sensed the truth about Anak.

“Bring Palfrey here at once, Klim.”

“Yes—yes, of course. Come along,” Klim said to Palfrey.

He had been rebuked, and showed that he felt it. He did not take Palfrey's arm, but walked beside him, with guards on either side; Rita and Banister were just behind.

Rita was staring at Palfrey's back, with the same look of disbelief as Klim had shown; a kind of awed wonderment.

They went into the house where Rita lived, and up a flight of stairs into a room where Banister had not been before. It was large and very plainly furnished; a big table, chairs round it, and maps, not pictures, on the walls. It wasn't until afterwards that Banister studied the maps, but he saw Palfrey's gaze flickering over them.

Anak sat at the head of the table.

He pointed towards a chair at the far end, and Palfrey was led to it. Palfrey seemed to fall into the flow of events easily. He sat down, and smiled at Anak across twenty feet of polished table. Rita, Klim and Banister sat down about halfway along the table. There was a small machine in front of Anak, another in front of Palfrey; they reminded Banister of microphones.

Anak said abruptly: “How did you get here?”

“I flew,” murmured Palfrey.

“I know you flew,” said Anak roughly. “You know what happened to the pilot and crew of the aircraft. We brought them down with a light ray, our Project Twenty-one – an unfailing means of destroying
all
aircraft which come into forbidden territory.”

Anak seemed to be fighting for his self-control; to find it difficult to speak calmly. Palfrey's arrival had shaken them down to the very foundations of their belief in themselves. Nothing was the same as it had been – and belatedly Banister began to realise why.

Palfrey had known where to come; and if Palfrey knew, so did others.

“How did you find out how to get here?” Anak went on brusquely.

“We followed Morris-Jones,” Palfrey said. “You ought to know—”

“That was impossible.”

“Oh, no,” Palfrey protested. “Nothing is impossible, you ought to know that. You also ought to know—”

“Palfrey,” Anak said harshly, “we have perfected practically every form of human behaviour, the good and the bad. You once thought that you would be able to persuade Rita to speak, by torture or torment. You know
nothing
about the methods we can use, if necessary. We don't like using them, but—”

Palfrey said gently: “So you don't like using them.”

That was all. He didn't even sneer – and yet the words were one great sneer, might almost have been a whip slashing across Anak's face.

Banister found himself thinking, praying: “Don't upset him for the sake of it, Sap, don't anger him.”

“But we shall use them,” Anak repeated.

“Oh, I'm sure,” said Palfrey. He took a cigarette-case out of his pocket, a swift movement which brought the two guards forward, as if they were touched with fear because this was something which they could not understand. He lit a cigarette. “All the same, I followed Morris-Jones, by instruments. We took bearings, and discovered precisely where he landed. So I came to see what was going on.” He drew lightly on the cigarette, then glanced at the glowing tip. “The ‘plane I came in was guided by remote control. I didn't fly it, there were no other passengers and no other crew. You didn't really do much damage. Now that we have bearings and are quite sure where you are, we could blast this place to smithereens.” He smiled. “Remote control war-heads and rockets, all that kind of thing. Even an atom bomb.” He kept smiling, but there was no humour in his eyes, they were as cool and calm and deadly as Anak's. “You might stand up to ordinary bombardment, but you couldn't withstand the atom bomb, could you?”

Anak was very pale, his teeth clamped together; Banister was alarmed by the expression in his eyes.

Palfrey did not appear to be frightened.

“But we're all civilised people, aren't we?” he went on. “We don't want to talk about blasting each other to pieces. We'll have to talk terms. We—”

Anak raised his hands, and even Palfrey stopped, as if instinctively obeying a command. Anak stood up, slowly. In Rita's eyes there sprang an expression almost of pleading, but in Klim's it was nearer exultation.

“I shall not come to terms with you or with anyone down below, Palfrey. Before doing that I would wipe out your silly civilisation. It would be quite easy.
Quite
easy. You and your threats of atom bombs and hydrogen bombs which cost a fortune in money and in men's time – what do they mean? We could destroy New York overnight without affecting anywhere outside – we could destroy Manhattan and leave Brooklyn intact; or destroy Westminster and leave the City of London unscathed. You don't know what destructive weapons are down there, you've only just begun to use them.”

Palfrey didn't speak.

Banister felt himself losing that glow of hope, giving up all thought that he might be able to fool, to defeat Anak.

“That is the big trouble down below,” Anak went on impatiently. He didn't move away from the end of the table, looked as if he were addressing a multitude again; and the glow of exultation was in his eyes for Palfrey as well as for Banister to see. “You can't control your weapons. We can. We shall want to clear away some cities and towns, as I've told Banister, but we don't want destruction to be haphazard. This shall go, and that shall stand –
look
!”

He strode towards the long wall, and pressed a bell-push. The map hanging there, of the southern hemisphere, rolled itself up. Behind it was a screen. Anak pressed another button; lights glowed in the screen, and then a picture gradually appeared – a picture of London.

Banister held his breath.

He saw Palfrey gripping the arms of his chair.

There was the heart of London, on relief-map scale; St. Paul's stood out, with the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace – all the famous landmarks showed, and the streets were there, the spacious stateliness of Whitehall and the Mall. There were people, too, and cars – it was a perfect scale model, and appeared to be bathed in sunlight.

Anak pressed a third button.

Banister found himself rising from his chair.

Parts of London began to crumble. There was no noise, no sign of bursting bombs, nothing to suggest an explosion; but buildings just crumpled up. Some were in the middle of the city, others were on the outskirts. After a few seconds, a kind of dust or smoke rose above the ruins; gradually this spread, and the whole of the city was blacked out.

They waited, in tense silence; but the end of Palfrey's cigarette glowed bright as he drew at it.

The smoke cleared.

The greater buildings, nearly all the landmarks, remained.

The Thames wound its way slowly and gracefully among other buildings, which had never been there before; a new concept of London. There were many open spaces; all the parks and many others, where there had been houses or factories or shops. Great areas near the stations, crowded if not overcrowded with factories standing cheek-by-jowl with homes, had vanished; and parks were there instead, or tall modern blocks of flats.

The last of the smoke seemed to drift away.

“That is what we can do,” Anak said. “Destroy the worthless and preserve the beautiful. Is there a weapon in the whole world below that can do anything like that?”

The picture on the screen faded, and the light came on. Palfrey was stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another. He must have felt much as Banister had – touched with the horror of the realisation of what Anak could do. If he were, he didn't show it.

“Not yet,” he said. “Not quite.”

“If it were necessary,” Anak said, “I could begin that destruction, the tearing down of your cities, tomorrow. Don't talk to
me
about terms.”

 

 

Banister dropped back into his chair and watched the protagonists; and wondered why, if Anak were so sure of himself, he had been shaken out of his usual almost contemptuous calm.

It was a fleeting thought.

At the back of Banister's mind was the question – why had Palfrey come? He could see little chance that Palfrey would ever be able to escape. He had deliberately sacrificed himself – but why? What point or purpose could there be in it?

Anak said abruptly: “Why did you come, Palfrey?”

Palfrey answered promptly, and convincingly; at least, the others seemed convinced.

“After the death of the village in England, I had to try to make terms. It wasn't a job I could let anyone else handle.”

After a pause, Anak said raspingly: “I will see you later. Take him away.”

He waved his hands, and two guards came forward. Palfrey stood up. Neither man laid a hand upon him. They went out, and the door swung behind them, soundlessly, until it came to a standstill. That was no signal for anyone else in the room to move or to talk. Rita looked at Anak as if everything depended on his next words; as if the fate of the world were in the balance.

He said: “How
did
he get here?”

No one spoke.

He banged the table.

“I say it is impossible, he could not have followed Morris-Jones!”

Still no one spoke.

Anak swung round on Banister, passed the table, gripped the lapels of Banister's coat. The physical strength of the man was enough to put fear into Banister. The aggressive face with the magnificent features was thrust forward, and Banister could almost feel the burning power of those dark eyes.

“
You
are a friend of his.
You
will find out.
You
will persuade him that you are still with him and tell us how he got here. Do you understand?”

“I—yes,” Banister said, and could not find words to refuse. “Yes, I—”

“And if you fail,” Anak growled, “you will know what pain can be. You will suffer more pain than anyone in the world has ever known.”

He pushed Banister away from him.

 

This was another room which Banister hadn't seen before. There was the usual television screen – one on each side, in fact – a small table and several chairs. There were a number of instruments which he couldn't identify on either wall, and one or two fixtures in the floor. The only thing which really meant anything was the ring fastened to the floor; it was obvious that men could be tied to that.

Was this a torture chamber?

It was warm and well lit like the rest of the mountain city; and there was no stir of wind.

The door opened.

A man came in; it was Doggett. He went across to the television screen on the right, pressed a button, and made it glow. He was testing it; and it worked both ways. He tried the other. He hardly looked at Banister, hardly seemed to know that he was in the room. His lank hair needed cutting, and he looked sour and surly.

He switched off the second screen, then dropped a small screw.

He bent down to pick it up.

“Both screens will be off for ten minutes starting at four o'clock
,” he whispered.
“No tricks, quite safe, say what you like
.”

He went out.

Palfrey came in.

Palfrey moved very slowly. His eyes were different from what they had been in the other room; dazed, shadowed. He walked more slowly. At first, Banister thought that they had been torturing him already, but there was no outward sign of injury, and his clothes were quite unruffled; so was his hair. It was so silky and curly and fair, like the golden hair of a child.

He looked at Banister, nodded but didn't speak, dropped into a chair, and sat back.

The door closed.

The two television screens were beginning to glow, but no shapes appeared on them, it simply meant that they were being watched.

“Sap,” Banister began, awkwardly.

Palfrey didn't speak.

“Palfrey—”

“I know,” Palfrey said, very quietly. “Just keep quiet a minute, will you? I've seen—some horrors. Have you heard about this Age of Destruction?”

“Only today.”

“Odd thing,” Palfrey said, and his lips twisted as if he were in pain. “I hadn't heard of it before, either. A nice thought on the part of Great God Anak. We've had the Stone Age, the Iron Age, the Water Age, the Bronze Age, the Ages of Steam, Electricity and Atomic Energy. Anak has a pretty notion – that all these are steps in the evolution of the perfect human species, but before perfection becomes universal, there must be an Age of Destruction. You saw—London?”

“Yes,” said Banister; the word seemed to stick in his throat.

“He can do it. No reasonable doubt. He's much more powerful than I thought—than you thought. Thing is, I don't see how to stop him.”

That explained the dark horrors in Palfrey's eyes.

Banister said: “I don't think you can. What brought you here, Sap? Why did you have to sacrifice yourself?”

Palfrey looked up sharply.

“I told Anak.”

“Yes, I know, to fool him.”

“Oh, no,” Palfrey said softly. “I told him the truth. I thought the time had come to force terms. I thought he would be ready when he knew that we could find him. I hoped I'd find a way to fool him, but he's too strong. And you think so, too – you don't see how to stop him, either.”

This was the kind of talk Anak would want to hear, surely; it was safe to keep it up.

“No,” Banister said gustily. “He's too strong. He's everywhere. Look at the way he blew up your aircraft! There wasn't a shot, not even a guided missile, just a ray which disintegrated it. I suppose it's the same thing as he plans to use for the Age of Destruction.”

Palfrey said slowly: “Yes. Probably.”

“Come to terms,” Banister urged, fiercely. “At least we'll get part of what we want that way. I'm not sure what he's really after, but I think you'll find that he wants to select the best humans, physically and mentally, and build them up into—perfection. Has he told you about his three grades?”

“He's shown me them,” Palfrey said. “He's Grade One, with Rita and Klim and others, just a ruling class. Scientists and what they call Project Leaders are Grade Two. Below that, there are the ordinary work-people, Grade Three. Then – the slaves.”

So he had seen those old men and old women.

“Listen,” Palfrey burst out, “I
can't
compromise with a man who's capable of doing this.”

“If you don't, what will happen?” Banister tried to sound rational. He kept glancing at his watch, and was conscious of the unseen eyes watching him through the television screen; if he looked at it too often, he might be suspected. “Universal destruction, no one will have any chance. Sap, you
must
work with him.”

Palfrey didn't answer.

It was two minutes to four.

“How
did
you get here?” Banister asked, as if it were a casual question, just an odd item of incidental information that hardly mattered.

Palfrey's lips twisted.

“I followed Morris-Jones.”

“Oh, that—” Banister shrugged. “It doesn't matter, if you don't want to tell me—”

“But I did follow Morris-Jones. I had him followed from the Cotswolds to the field where the helicopter he was taking off in was waiting. I had the helicopter trailed, by a form of radar, to the valley in the Pyrenees, where the other craft was waiting. I didn't know about the other craft until the helicopter landed. I knew from what had happened before that at some stage there would be faster-than-sound aircraft, and so one was hovering round above the helicopter. In spite of what Anak thinks, we have made some progress down below. We traced you a long way, too.”

Banister looked at his watch; it was half a minute to four. He would have at most ten minutes to use; how could he use them best?

“So a faster-than-sound machine was waiting, equipped with cameras in the nose, everywhere, and it flew at a greater height than the ‘plane they took Morris-Jones off in,” Palfrey said. “We had plenty of pictures, and could pin-point the spot. That's the simple truth, and—”

The light at the screens flickered; and died.

As the glow faded on the screens, Banister moved forward, gripped Palfrey's arms and said in a voice so low pitched that for a moment he was afraid that Palfrey would not understand: “We're alone for ten minutes. They can't see or hear. Did you really follow Morris-Jones?”

A glint of understanding sparkled in Palfrey's eyes.

“Yes,” he said, and went on very quickly, urgently: “Things are bad at home. You saw that London picture. Several small towns have collapsed like that. India, South America and Europe. Anak just said: ‘If you don't do it my way, I'll do this to big cities.' We don't know exactly what he wants, yet, but—” Palfrey paused, gripped Banister's arm, and went on tensely: “Can we break him? Is there a chance? I came to find out, to see you.”

“There's a group planning escape.”

“Escape?” Palfrey echoed. “Oh, no. We've got to stay here, smash Anak, smash—”

“This is one of a dozen cities,” Banister said. “It isn't the only one.”

Palfrey didn't speak, but new horror crept into his eyes. That was the last thing he had expected; seemed to kill his fleeting hope.

Banister stirred himself to speak.

“We can try to organise, but need time. Take my advice, tell Anak that you'll go back and intercede with the Governments. His one big weakness is vanity. He's convinced that he can convert you and me and everyone, can't believe that anyone could possibly withstand his vile Perfection.”

Palfrey watched, as if trying to see beyond the actual words.

The screen was still dull. The door was still closed.

“I'll try,” Palfrey said. “Listen, Neil. Your job now – to find out what he uses, try to destroy it before it can be used—anywhere else.”

“Right, yes.”

“Try to destroy his supplies of
fatalis
.”

“Right.”

“I'll stall,” Palfrey said. “I—”

“Not for too long. He won't be patient – no megalomaniac ever is. Do what he asks.”

“All right – I'll try to stall until you can act on the destructive agent and the
fatalis.
Also, find out how many spies he has down below.”

“I will.”

“Locations of the other cities, too,” Palfrey said. “Vital.”

“I know.”

“I think that's all.” Palfrey's voice was pitched as low as Banister's. He had the same kind of desperate eagerness. Hope had come back to each of them – born out of faith, out of a conviction that the destruction which Anak planned could never really take place. “Wonderful. Neil. Marion sends her love.”

Banister didn't speak.

There was a flicker on the screen.

Banister said gruffly: “Well, all right, if you really followed Morris-Jones, I suppose he'll believe you. You
can't
hide anything from him, it's—uncanny. The only word.” He passed a hand in front of his eyes. The screens were bright again now; Banister didn't think they had been off for ten minutes, but that didn't matter. “If you followed Morris-Jones that way—”

“I did,” Palfrey said.

Images appeared on the screen; Klim's first, and then Anak's.

“We shall find out,” Anak said.

 

Banister was alone in a room; he didn't know where the room was. He did not know how long he had been here. He could not think – not really think. He was a creature of emotions and sensations, he could feel, he could experience pain and fear, horror and dread, but could not really think – although somewhere, deep in his mind, there was the capacity to reason – there was the realisation that he would never have withstood the onslaught had he not believed that Palfrey had followed Morris-Jones.

He was stark naked.

He stood upright, without any wall to lean on, without any support, except a cord tied to his wrists above his head, and fastened to the ceiling. He was secured to the floor by a ring tied to his ankles.

He croaked words: “Stop—it—now—stop—it—”

A voice came:
“How did Palfrey find us, Banister?”

Banister's voice was just a voice, drained of everything but empty sound.

“He trailed Morris-Jones. He—”

“Don't lie. How did he find us, Banister?”

“He followed—”

Banister felt himself turning round; it had happened before. He wanted to scream, beg, pray for mercy. He was standing on a small turn-table, which would whirl him round faster and faster. He could not stop it. He felt the speed quickening.

He screamed: “Don't do it, don't do it!”

Faster, faster . . .

He felt himself falling; he never did fall, but he felt himself falling. Wind rushed past his body. He was held down by his feet, but the cord above was slack. He was going round and round as if he were caught up in a gigantic whirlpool. Round and round, his body falling lower and lower, round and round, lower and lower, faster and faster.

He screamed.

His body screamed through the air.

He felt sudden torment; as if a million red-hot needles were sticking into him; at his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his tongue, the roof of his mouth – pins and needles, pins and needles, red hot pins and needles, red hot needles, stabbing in and out, in and out, needles stabbing in and out, burning, tearing him to pieces, blinding him, stabbing at the root of his tongue.

Round and round, faster and faster, stabbing, burning, tearing . . .

The motion began to slacken, although at first he was hardly aware of it. He felt pain, but had no conscious thought. The pain eased. At last he knew that he was moving much more slowly. He felt himself pulled upright. He found himself standing upright, with his wrists tied together above his head, and the cord which tied them fastened to the ceiling.