The Project Gutenberg EBook of Twelve Times Zero, by Howard Carleton Browne
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Title: Twelve Times Zero
Author: Howard Carleton Browne
Release Date: May 28, 2010 [EBook #32564]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWELVE TIMES ZERO ***
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
TWELVE _times_ ZERO
By Howard Browne
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science
Fiction March 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _It was a love-triangle murder that made today's headlines
but the answer lay hundreds of thousands of light years away!_]
[Illustration: _Police grilled him mercilessly, while eyes from a
hundred worlds looked on._]
Chapter I
They brought him into one of the basement rooms. He moved slowly and
with a kind of painful dignity, as a man moves on his way to the firing
squad. A rumpled shock of black hair pointed up the extreme pallor of a
gaunt face, empty at the moment of all expression. Harsh light from an
overhead fixture winked back from tiny beads of perspiration dotting the
waxen skin of his forehead.
The three men with him watched him out of faces as expressionless as his
own. They were ordinary men who wore ordinary clothing in an ordinary
way, yet in the way they moved and in the way they stood you knew they
were hard men who were in a hard and largely unpleasant business.
One of them motioned casually toward a straight-backed chair almost
exactly in the center of the room. "Sit there, Cordell," he said.
A quiet voice, not especially deep, yet it seemed to bounce off the
painted concrete walls.
Wordless, the young man obeyed. Sitting, he seemed as stiff and
uncompromising as before. The man who had spoken made a vague gesture
and the overhead light went out, replaced simultaneously by strong rays
from a spotlight aimed full at the eyes of the seated figure.
Involuntarily the young man's head turned aside to avoid the searing
brilliance, but a hand came out of the wall of darkness and jerked it
back again.
"Just to remind you," the quiet voice continued conversationally, "I'm
Detective Lieutenant Kirk, Homicide Bureau." A pair of hands thrust a
second chair toward the circle of light. Kirk swung it around and
dropped onto the seat, resting his arms along the back, facing the man
across a distance of hardly more than inches.
In the pitiless glare of the spotlight Cordell's cheekbones stood out
sharply, and under his deepset eyes were dark smudges of exhaustion. His
rigid posture, his blank expression, his silence--these seemed not so
much indications of defiance as they did the result of some terrible and
deep-seated shock.
"Let's go over it again, Cordell," Kirk said.
The young man swallowed audibly against the silence. One of his hands
twitched, came up almost to his face as though to shield his eyes, then
dropped limply back, "That light--" he mumbled.
"--stays on," Kirk said briskly. "The quicker you tell us the answers,
the quicker we all relax. Okay?"
Cordell shook his head numbly, not so much in negation as an effort to
clear the fog from his tortured mind. "I told you," he cried hoarsely.
"What more do you want? Yesterday I told you the whole thing." His voice
began to border on hysteria. "What good's my trying to tell you if you
won't listen? How's a guy supposed--"
"Then try telling it straight!" Kirk snapped. "You think you're fooling
around with half-wits? Sure; you told us. A crazy pack of goof-ball
dreams about a blonde babe clubbing two grown people to death, then
disappearing in a ball of blue light! You figure on copping a plea on
insanity?"
"It's the truth!" Cordell shouted. "As God hears me, it's true!"
Suddenly he buried his face in his hands and long tearing sobs shook his
slender frame.
* * * * *
One of the other men reached out as though to drag the young man's face
back into the withering rays of the spotlight, but Kirk motioned him
away. Without haste the Lieutenant fished a cigar from the breast pocket
of his coat and began almost leisurely to strip away its cellophane
wrapper. A kitchen match burst into flame under the flick of a thumb
nail and a cloud of blue tobacco smoke writhed into the cone of hot
light.
"Cordell," Kirk said mildly.
Slowly the young man's shoulders stopped their shaking, and after a long
moment his wan, tear-stained face came back into the light. "I--I'm
sorry," he mumbled.
Kirk waved away the layer of smoke hanging between them. He said
wearily, "Let's try it once more. Step by step. Maybe this time...." He
let the sentence trail off, but the inference was clear.
An expression of hopeless resignation settled over Cordell's features.
"Where do you want me to start?"
"Take it from five o'clock the afternoon it happened."
The tortured man wet his lips. "Five o'clock was when my shift went off
at the plant. The plant, in case you've forgotten, is the Ames Chemical
Company, and I'm a foreman in the Dry Packaging department."
"Save your sarcasm," Kirk said equably.
"Yeah. I changed clothes and punched out around five-fifteen. Juanita
had called me about four and said to pick her up at Professor Gilmore's
laboratory."
"At what time?"
"No special time. Just when I could get out there. We were going to
have dinner and take in a movie. No particular picture; she said we'd
pick one out of the paper at dinner."
"Go on."
"Well, it must've been about quarter to six when I got out to the
University. I parked in front of the laboratory wing and went in at the
main entrance. I walked down the corridor to the Professor's office. His
typist was knocking out some letters and there were a couple of students
hanging around waiting for him to show up. How about a smoke,
Lieutenant?"
Kirk nodded to one of the men behind him and a package of cigarettes was
extended to the man under the light. A match was proffered and the young
man ignited the white tube, his hands shaking badly.
The Lieutenant crossed his legs the other way, "Let's hear the rest of
it, friend."
"What for?" Bitterness tinged Cordell's voice. "You don't believe a word
I'm saying."
"Up to now I do."
"Well, I said something or other to Alma--she's the Prof's
secretary--and went on through the door to the hall that leads to the
private lab. When I got--"
* * * * *
Kirk held up a hand. "Wait a minute. Your busting right in on the
Professor like that doesn't sound right. Why not wait in the office for
your wife?"
"What for?" Cordell squinted at him in surprise. "He and I get ... got
along fine. When Juanita first went to work for him he said to drop in
at the lab any time, not to wait in the outer office like a freshman or
something."
"Go ahead."
"Well...." The young man hesitated. "We're back to the part you _don't_
believe, Officer. I can't hardly believe it myself; but so help me, it's
gospel. I _saw_ it!"
"I'm waiting."
Cordell said doggedly: "The lab door was open a crack. I heard a woman's
voice in there, and it wasn't my wife's. It was a voice like--like
cracked ice. You know: cold and kind of ... well ... brittle and--and
deadly. That's the only way I can describe it.
"Anyway, I sort of hesitated there, outside the door. I didn't want to
go bulling in on something that wasn't none of my business ... but on
the other hand I figured my wife was in there, else Alma would've said
so."
"You hear anything besides this collection of ice cubes?"
The young man's jaw hardened. "I'm giving it the way it happened. You
want the rest, or you want to trade wise cracks?"
One of the men behind Kirk lunged forward, "Why, you cheap punk--"
Kirk stopped him with an arm. "I'll handle this, Miller." To Cordell: "I
asked you a question. Answer it."
"I heard Professor Gilmore. Only a couple words, then two quick flashes
of light lit up the frosted glass door panel. That's when I heard these
two thumps like when somebody falls down. I shoved open the door fast
... and right then I saw _her_!"
Kirk nodded for no apparent reason and was careful about knocking a
quarter inch of ash off his cigar. "Tell me about her."
The young man's hands were shaking again. He sucked at his cigarette and
let the smoke come out with his words: "She was clear over on the other
side of the lab ... standing a good two feet off the floor in the middle
of a big blue ball of some kind of--of soft fire. _Blue_ fire that sort
of _pulsed_--you know. Anyway, there she was: this hell of a
good-looking blonde; looking right smack at me, and there was this funny
kind of gun in her hand. She aimed it and I ducked just as this dim
flash of light came out of it. Something hit me on the side of the head
and I ... well, I guess I blanked out."
[Illustration: _She was standing a good two feet off the floor in the
middle of a glowing bubble that pulsed and wavered around her._]
"Then what?"
"Well, like I said yesterday, I suppose I just naturally came out of it.
I'm all spread out on the floor with the damndest headache you ever saw.
Over by the window is the Prof and--" he wet his lips--"and Juanita.
They're dead, Lieutenant; just kind of all piled up over there ... dead,
their heads busted in and the--the--the--"
* * * * *
He sat there, his mouth working but no sound coming out, his eyes
staring straight into the blazing light, the cigarette smouldering,
forgotten, between the first two fingers of his left hand.
Almost gently Kirk said: "Let's go back to where you were standing
outside the door. You heard this woman talking. What did she say?"
Cordell looked sightlessly down at his hands. "Nothing that made sense.
Sounded, near as I can remember, like: 'Twelve times zero'--then some
words, or more numbers maybe--I'm not sure--then she said, 'Chained to a
two hundred thousand years'--and the Professor said something about his
colleges having no idea and he'd warn them--and the blonde said, 'Three
in the past five months'--and then something about taking in washing--"
The detective named Miller gave a derisive grunt. "Of all the goddam
stories! Kirk, you gonna listen to any--"
Kirk silenced him with a gesture. "Go on, Cordell."
The young man slowly lifted the cigarette to his mouth, dragged heavily
on it, then let it fall to the floor. "That's all. That's when the
lights started flashing in there and I tried to be a hero."
"Sure you've left nothing out?"
"You've got it all. The truth, like you wanted."
Kirk said patiently, "Give it up, Cordell. You're as sane as the next
guy. Give that story to a jury and they'll figure you're trying to make
saps out of them--and when a jury gets sore at a defendant, he gets the
limit. And in case you didn't know: in this State, the limit for murder
is the hot seat!"
The prisoner stared at him woodenly. "You know I didn't kill my wife--or
Professor Gilmore. I had no reason to--no motive. There's _got_ to be a
motive."
The police officer rubbed his chin reflectively. "Uh-hunh. Motive. How
long you married, Cordell?"
"Six years."
"Children?"
"No."
"Ames Chemical pay you a good salary?"
"Enough."
"Enough for two to live on?"
"Sure."
"How long did your wife work for Professor Gilmore?"
"Four years next month."
"What was her job?"
"His assistant."
"Pretty big job for a woman, wasn't it?"
"Juanita held two degrees in nuclear physics."
"You mean this atom bomb stuff?"
"That was part of it."
"Gilmore's a big name in that field, I understand," Kirk said.
"Maybe the biggest."
"Kind of young to rate that high, wouldn't you say? He couldn't have
been much past forty."
Cordell shrugged. "He was thirty-eight--and a genius. Genius has nothing
to do with age, I hear."
"Not married, I understand."
"That's right." A slow frown was forming on Cordell's face.
"How old was your wife?" Kirk asked.
The frown deepened but the young man answered promptly enough. "Juanita
was my age. Twenty-nine."
Martin Kirk eyed his cigar casually. "Why," he said, "did you want her
to walk out on her job; to give up her career?"
Cordell stiffened. "Who says I did?" he snapped.
"Are you denying it?"
"You're damn well right I'm denying it! What _is_ this?"
* * * * *
Kirk was slowly shaking his head almost pityingly. "On at least two
occasions friends of you and your wife have heard you say you wished
she'd stay home where she belonged and cut out this 'playing around with
a mess of test tubes.' Those are your own words, Cordell."
"Every guy," the young man retorted, "who's got a working wife says
something like that now and then. It's only natural."
Kirk's jaw hardened. "But every guy's wife doesn't get murdered."
The other looked at him unbelievingly. "Good God," he burst out, "are
you saying I killed Juanita because I wanted her to stop working? Of all
the--"
"There's, more!" snapped the Homicide man. "When you passed Professor
Gilmore's secretary in his outer office yesterday, what did you say to
her?"
"'Say to her?'" the prisoner echoed in a dazed way. "I don't know that I
... Some kidding remark, I guess. How do you expect me to remember a
thing like that?"
"I'll tell you what you said," Kirk said coldly. "It goes like this:
'Hi, Alma. You think the Prof's through making love to my wife?'"
Cordell's head snapped back and his jaw dropped in utter amazement.
"_What!_ Of all--! You _nuts_? I never said anything like that in my
_life_! Who says I said that?"
Without haste Kirk slid a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and
brought out two folded sheets of paper which he opened and spread out on
his knee.
"Listen to this, friend," he said softly. "'My name is Miss Alma Dakin.
I reside at 1142 Monroe Street, and am employed as secretary to
Professor Gregory Gilmore. At approximately 5:50 on the afternoon of
October 19, Paul Cordell, husband of Mrs. Juanita Cordell, laboratory
assistant to Professor Gilmore, passed my desk on his way into the
laboratory. I made no effort to stop him, since my employer had
previously instructed me to allow Mr. Cordell to go directly to the
laboratory at any time without being announced.'" Kirk looked up at the
man in the chair opposite him. "Okay so far?"
Paul Cordell nodded numbly.
"'At the time stated above,'" Kirk, continued, reading from the paper,
"'Mr. Cordell stopped briefly in front of my desk. He seemed very angry
about something. He said, "Hi, Alma. You think the Prof's through making
love to my wife?" Before I could say anything, he turned away and walked
into the corridor leading to the laboratory. I continued my work until
about five minutes later when Mr. Cordell came running back into the
office and told me to call the police, that Professor Gilmore and Mrs.
Cordell had been murdered.
"'Since there is an automatic closer on the corridor door, I did not see
Mr. Cordell enter the laboratory itself. I do know, however, that
Professor Gilmore and Mrs. Cordell were alone in the laboratory less
than ten minutes before Mr. Cordell arrived, as I had just left them
alone there after taking some dictation from my employer. Since I went
directly to my desk, and since there is no entrance to the laboratory
other than through my office, I can state with certainty that Mr.
Cordell was the only person to enter the laboratory between 5:00 that
afternoon and 5:55 when Mr. Cordell came out of the laboratory and told
me of the murders.
"'I hereby depose that this is a true and honest statement, to the best
of my knowledge, that it was given freely on my part, and that I have
read it before affixing my signature to its pages. Signed: Alma K.
Dakin.'"
* * * * *
There was an almost ominous crackle to the document as Lieutenant Kirk
folded it and returned it to his pocket. Paul Cordell appeared utterly
stunned by what he had heard and his once stiffly squared shoulders were
slumped like those of an old man.
"I don't have to tell you," Kirk said, "that the only window in that
laboratory is both permanently sealed and heavily barred. No one but you
could have murdered those two people. You say you saw them killed by
some kind of a gun. Yet a qualified physician states both deaths were
caused by a terrific blow from a blunt instrument. We found a lot of
things around the lab you could have used to do the job--but nothing at
all of anything like a projectile fired from a gun."
The prisoner obviously wasn't listening. "B--but she--she lied!" he
stammered wildly, "All I said to Alma Dakin was a couple of words--three
or four at the most--about not working too hard. Why should she put me
on a spot like that? I just--don't--get--it! Why should she go out of
her way to make trouble...." Dawning suspicion replaced his
bewilderment, "I get it! You cops put her up to this; that's it! You
need a fall guy and I'm elec--"
"Listen to me, Cordell," Kirk cut in impatiently. "You knew, or thought
you knew, your wife was having an affair with Professor Gilmore. You
tried to break it up, to get her to leave her job. She wasn't having any
of that; and the more she refused, the sorer you got. Yesterday you
walked in on them unannounced, found them in each other's arms, and
knocked them both off in a jealous rage. When you cooled down enough to
see what you'd done, you invented this wild yarn about a blonde in a
ball of fire, hoping to get off on an insanity plea."
"I want a lawyer!" Cordell shouted.
Kirk ignored the demand. "You're going back to your cell for a couple
hours, buster. Think this over. When you're ready to tell it right, I
want it in the form of a witnessed statement, on paper. If you do that,
if you co-operate with the authorities, you can probably get off with a
fairly light sentence, maybe even an outright acquittal, on the old
'unwritten law' plea. I don't make any promises. Gilmore was a prominent
man and a valuable one; that might influence a jury against you. But
it's the only chance you've got--and I'm telling you, by God, to take
it!"
Cordell was standing now, his face working. "Sure; I get it! All you're
after is a confession. What do you care if it's a flock of lies? My wife
wouldn't even _look_ at another man, and not you or anybody else is
going to make me say different. That blonde killed them, I tell you--and
I'll tell a jury the same thing! They'll believe me; they're not a bunch
of lousy framing cops! You'll find out who's--"
Lieutenant Martin Kirk wearily ground out his cigar against the chair
rung. "All right, boys. Take him back upstairs."
Chapter II
It was a gray chill day late in November, and by 4:30 that afternoon the
ceiling lights were on. Chenowich, the young plain-clothes man recently
transferred to Homicide from Robbery Detail, stopped at Martin Kirk's
cubbyhole and slid an evening paper across the battered brown linoleum
top of the Lieutenant's desk.
"This oughta interest you," he said, jabbing a chewed thumbnail at an
item under a two-column head half-way down the left side of page one.
CORDELL DRAWS DEATH NOD
Killer of Wife and Atom Wizard To Face Chair in January
Paul Cordell, 29, was today doomed by Criminal Court Justice Edwin
P. Reed to death by electrocution the morning of January 11, for
the murders of his wife, Juanita, 29, and her employer,
world-famous nuclear scientist Gregory Gilmore.
A jury last week found Cordell guilty of the brutal slayings
despite his testimony that it was a mysterious blonde woman,
floating in a "ball of blue fire," who had blasted the victims with
a "ray gun" on that October afternoon.
Ignoring the "girl from Mars" angle, alienists for the prosecution
pronounced the handsome defendant sane, and his attorneys were
powerless to offset the damage.
The final blow to Cordell's hopes for acquittal, however, was
administered by the State's key witness, Alma Dakin, Gilmore's
former secretary. For more than three hours she underwent one of
the most grilling cross-examinations in local courtroom....
Kirk shoved the paper aside, "What could he expect when he wouldn't even
listen to his own lawyers? They'll appeal--they have to--but it'll be a
waste of time."
He leaned back in the creaking swivel chair and began to unwrap the
cellophane from a cigar. "In a way," he said thoughtfully, "I hate to
see that kid end up in the fireless cooker. In this business you get so
you can recognize an act when you see one, and I'd swear Cordell wasn't
lying about that blonde and her blue fire. At least he thought he
wasn't."
Chenowich yawned. "I say he was nuts then and he's nuts now. What do
them bug doctors know? I never seen one yet could count his own
fingers."
The telephone on Martin Kirk's desk rang while he was lighting his
cigar. He tossed the match on the floor to join a dozen others, and
picked up the receiver. "Homicide; Lieutenant Kirk speaking."
It was the patrolman in the outer office. "Woman out here wants to see
you, Lieutenant. Asked for you personally."
"What about?"
"She won't say. All I get is it's important and she talks to you or
nobody."
"What's her name?"
"No, sir. Not even that. Want me to get rid of her?"
Kirk eyed the mound of paper work on his desk and sighed. "Probably a
taxpayer. All right; send her back here."
A moment later the patrolman loomed up outside the cubbyhole door, the
woman in tow. Lieutenant Kirk remained seated, nodded briskly toward the
empty chair alongside his desk. "Please sit down, madam. You wanted to
see me?"
"You are Mr. Kirk?" A warm voice, almost on the husky side.
"Lieutenant Kirk."
"Of course. I _am_ sorry."
* * * * *
While she was being graceful about getting into the chair, Kirk stared
at her openly. She was worth staring at. She was tall for a woman and
missed being voluptuous by exactly the right margin. Her face was more
lovely than beautiful, chiefly because of large eyes so blue they were
almost purple. Her skin was flawless, her blonde hair worn in a medium
bob fluffed out, and her smooth fitting tobacco brown suit must have
been bought by appointment. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and was
probably thirty.
Her expression was solemn and her smile fleeting, as was becoming to
anyone calling on a Homicide Bureau. She placed on a corner of Kirk's
desk an alligator bag that matched her shoes and tucked pale yellow
gloves the color of her blouse under the bag's strap. Her slim fingers,
ringless, moved competently and without haste.
"I am Naia North, Lieutenant Kirk."
"What's on your mind, Miss North?"
She regarded him gravely, seeing gray-blue eyes that never quite lost
their chill, a thin nose bent slightly to the left from an encounter
with a drunken longshoreman years before, the lean lines of a solid jaw,
the dark hair that was beginning to thin out above the temples after
thirty-five years. Even those who love him, she thought, must fear this
man a little.
Martin Kirk felt his cheeks flush under the frank appraisal of those
purple eyes. "You asked for me by name, Miss North. Why?"
"Aren't you the officer who arrested the young man who today was
sentenced to die?"
Only years of practise at letting nothing openly surprise him kept
Kirk's jaw from dropping. "... You mean Cordell?"
"Yes."
"I'm the one. What about it? What've you got to do with Paul Cordell?"
Naia North said quietly, "A great deal, I'm afraid. You see, I'm the
woman who doesn't exist; the one the newspapers call 'the girl from
Mars.'"
It was what he had expected from her first question about the case. Any
murder hitting the headlines brought at least one psycho out of the
woodwork, driven by some deep-seated sense of guilt into making a phony
confession. Those who were harmless were eased aside; the violent got
detained for observation.
But Naia North showed none of the signs of the twisted mind. She was
coherent, attractive and obviously there was money somewhere in her
vicinity. While the last two items could have been true of a raving
maniac, Kirk was human enough to be swayed by them.
"I'm afraid," he said, "you've come to the wrong man about this, Miss
North." His smile was frank and winning enough to startle her. "The case
is out of my hands; has been since the District Attorney's office took
over. Why don't you take it up with them?"
* * * * *
Her short laugh was openly cynical. "I tried to, the day the trial
ended. I got as far as a fourth assistant, who told me the case was
closed, that new and conclusive evidence would be necessary to reopen
it, and would I excuse him as he had a golf date. When I said I could
give him new evidence, he looked at his watch and wanted me to write a
letter. So I wrote one and his secretary promised to hand it to him
personally. I'm still waiting for an answer."
"These things take time, Miss North. If I were you I'd--"
"I even tried to see Judge Reed. I got as far as his bailiff. If I'd
state my business in writing.... I did; that's the last I've heard from
Judge Reed _or_ bailiff."
Kirk picked up his cigar from the edge of the desk and tapped the ash
onto the floor. "Shall I," he said, his lips quirking, "ask you to write
_me_ a letter?"
Naia North failed to respond to the light touch. "I'm through filling
wastebaskets," she said flatly. "Either you do something about this or
the newspapers get the entire story. Not that I'll enjoy being a public
spectacle, but at least they'll give me some action."
"What do you want done?"
She put both elbows on the desk top and bent toward him. He caught the
faint odor of bath salts rising from under the rounded neckline of her
blouse. "That man must go free, Lieutenant. He didn't kill his
wife--_or_ Gregory Gilmore."
"Who did?"
She looked straight into his eyes. "I did."
"Why?"
Slowly she straightened and leaned back in the chair, her gaze shifting
to a point beyond his left shoulder. "Nothing you haven't heard before,"
she said tonelessly.
"We met several months ago and fell in love. I let him make the
rules ... and after a while he got tired of playing. I didn't--and I
wanted him back. For weeks he avoided me."
"So you decided to kill him."
She seemed genuinely astonished at the remark. "Certainly not! But when
I saw him take this woman--this assistant of his, or whatever she
was--into his arms ... I suppose I went a little crazy."
"Now," Kirk said, "we're getting down to cases. You know the evidence
given at the trial--particularly that given by Gilmore's secretary?"
"Of course."
"Then you know this Dakin woman was in the laboratory until a few
minutes before Cordell showed up. You know that nobody could have gone
into that laboratory without her seeing them. You know that Alma Dakin
testified that there were only two people in there: Gilmore and Juanita
Cordell. So, Miss North, how did you get in there after Alma Dakin left
and before Paul Cordell arrived?"
"But I didn't."
The Lieutenant's air of triumph sagged under a sudden frown. "What do
you mean you didn't?"
"I didn't enter the laboratory after Greg's secretary left it. _I was
there all along._"
* * * * *
Kirk's head came up sharply. "You _what_?"
"I was there all the time," the girl repeated. "Since noon, to be exact.
I planned it that way. I knew everybody would be out to lunch between
twelve and one, so I went to the laboratory with the intention of facing
Greg there on his return. When I heard him and Mrs. Cordell coming along
the corridor, I sort of lost my nerve and hid in a coat closet."
Martin Kirk had completely dropped his air of good-humored patience by
this time, "You telling me you were hiding in there for almost five
hours without them knowing it?"
Naia North shrugged her shoulders. "They had no reason to look in the
closet. I'll admit I hadn't intended to--to spy on Greg. But I kept
waiting for him to say or do something that would prove or disprove he
was in love with Juanita Cordell, and not until his secretary left and
he was alone with her did I discover what was between them. I must have
come out of that dark hole like a tiger, Lieutenant. They jumped apart
and two people never looked guiltier. He said something particularly
nasty to me and I grabbed up a short length of shiny metal from the
workbench and hit him across the side of the head before he knew what
was happening. He fell down and the Cordell woman opened her mouth to
scream and--and I hit her too."
She paused as though to permit Kirk to comment. "Go on," he said
hoarsely.
"There's not much left," the girl said. "I was standing there still
holding that piece of metal when the door crashed open and the dead
woman's husband ran in. He started to lunge across the room at me and I
threw the thing I was holding at him. It struck him and he fell down. My
only thought was to hide, for I realized I couldn't go out through the
outer office, and the only window was barred. So I hid in that closet
again.
"It was only a few minutes before Paul Cordell regained consciousness.
He staggered out of the room and down the hall and I could hear a lot of
excited talk and Greg's secretary calling the police. Then I didn't hear
anything at all for a moment, so I came out of the closet and looked
down the hall. The office door was closed, but it seemed so quiet in
there that I tiptoed quickly to the inner door, opened it a crack and
peered through. The office was deserted; evidently Cordell and Miss
Dakin had gone out to direct the police when they showed up.
"When I saw there was no one in the main hall of the building itself, I
simply walked out and left by another exit. No one I passed even noticed
me."
* * * * *
For a long time after Naia North had finished speaking, Martin Kirk sat
as though carved from stone, staring blindly into space. She knew he was
thinking furiously, weighing the plausibility of what he had heard,
trying to arrive at some method of corroborating it in a way that would
stand up in a court of law.
"Miss North."
She came out of a reverie with a start, to find the Lieutenant's eyes
boring into hers. "This shiny hunk of metal you used: where is it now?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know. Probably some place in the laboratory, unless
somebody took it away. I do seem to remember picking it up and tossing
it back with several others like it on the bench."
"Then it's still there," he said slowly. "Judge Reed ordered the room
sealed up until after the trial. And then there's the closet.... Were
you wearing gloves that afternoon, Miss North?"
She said, "No. You're thinking of fingerprints?"
"If you're telling the truth," he said, "there's almost certain to be
some of your prints on the inside of that closet door--maybe even on
that length of metal, if we can find it."
She said almost carelessly: "That's all you'd need to clear Paul
Cordell, isn't it?"
"It would certainly help." He swung around in the chair, scooped up the
telephone and gave a series of rapid-fire orders, then dropped the
instrument on its cradle and turned back to where she sat watching him
curiously.
He said, "A few things I still don't get. Like this business of your
standing two feet off the floor in a ball of blue light. And the flashes
of light just before Cordell heard his wife and Gilmore fall to the
floor. Even the snatches of conversation he caught while still in the
hall. He couldn't have dreamed all that stuff up--at least not without
_some_ basis."
She had opened her bag and taken out a cigarette. Kirk ignited one of
his kitchen matches and she bent her head for a light. He could see the
flawless curve of one cheek and the smooth cap of blonde hair, and he
resisted the urge to pass a hand lightly across both. Something was
stirring inside the Lieutenant--something that had long been absent.
And, he reflected wryly, all because of a girl who had just finished
confessing to two particularly unpleasant murders.
Naia North raised her head and their eyes met--met and held. Her lips
parted slightly as she caught the unmistakable message in those
gray-blue depths....
The moment passed, the spell was broken and she leaned back in the chair
and laughed a little shakily. "I read about those statements of his in
the papers, Lieutenant. I think perhaps I can at least partially explain
them. As I remember it, there were several Bunsen burners lighted on the
laboratory bench near that window. They give off a blue flame, you know,
and I must have been standing near them when Paul Cordell came charging
in. In his confused frame of mind, he may have pictured me as being in a
ball of flame."
"Sounds possible," the man admitted, frowning. "What about those flashes
of light?"
"You've got me there. Unless they were reflections of sunlight through
the window--from the windshield of a passing car, perhaps."
"And the things he heard you and Gilmore saying?"
She shook her head regretfully.
"There I'm simply in the dark, I don't see how he could have twisted
what little we said into the utterly fantastic nonsense he claims to
have heard."
* * * * *
Kirk rubbed a hand slowly along the side of his neck, still frowning.
"He _could_ have confused that length of metal in your hand as a gun....
Well--" his shoulders lifted in the ghost of a shrug--"it all seems to
add up. Except one thing: Cordell had been tried and convicted, leaving
you in the clear. Why come down here voluntarily and stick your lovely
head in a noose?"
The girl smiled faintly. "'Lovely head', Lieutenant?"
Kirk flushed to the eyebrows. "That slipped out.... Why the confession?"
She said soberly: "I was so sure they'd let him off. When you _know_
someone's innocent you can't realize that others won't know it too, I
suppose. But when I learned he'd been found guilty and actually
condemned to die ... well, I know it sounds noble and all that but I
couldn't let him go to his death for something I'd done. Surely such a
thing has happened before in your experience, Lieutenant."
He watched as she drew smoke from the cigarette deeply into her lungs
and let it flow out in twin streamers from her nostrils. Only rich men,
he thought, could afford a woman like this, and somehow it made him
resentful. What right did she have to walk in here and flaunt a body
like that in his face? She went with mink stoles and cabin cruisers and
cocktails at the Sherry-Netherland, and her shoe bill would exceed his
yearly salary. She would be competent and more than a little cynical and
not too concerned with morals or the lack of them. That kind of woman
could kill--and would kill, on the spur of the moment and if the
provocation was strong enough.
"Well, Lieutenant?" She said it lightly, almost with disinterest.
Then Kirk was all right again, and he was looking at a woman who had
just confessed to murder.
"You heard the phone call I made a moment ago, Miss North. Two men from
the Crime Lab are already on their way to the University. If they find
your fingerprints inside that closet, if they can turn up _anything_ to
prove you've been in Gregory Gilmore's laboratory, then you and that
evidence and your confession get turned over to the D. A. and Paul
Cordell will be on his way to freedom."
"And if those men don't find anything?"
"Then," he told her rudely, "you're just another crackpot and I'm
tossing you _and_ your phony confession out of here."
* * * * *
They found the fingerprints: several perfect ones on the inner door of
the laboratory coat closet. But even more conclusive was their discovery
of a short length of polished metal pipe among the dismantled parts of a
Clayton centrifuge. At one end of the pipe were the imprints of four
fingertips--at the other a microscopic trace of human blood.
"We had no business missing it the first time, Lieutenant," the Crime
Laboratory technician told Kirk ruefully. "I'd a sworn we pulled that
place apart last month. But this time we got the murder weapon and we
got the prints--and those prints match the ones we took off that blonde.
Hey, how about that, Lieutenant? I thought this Cordell guy did that
job?"
Slowly Kirk replaced the receiver and eyed Naia North across the desk
from him. "Looks like you're elected," he said somberly. "I'm telling
you straight: the D. A. isn't going to like this at all--not even any
part of it."
Her brow wrinkled. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Doesn't he want
murder cases solved?"
Kirk smiled crookedly. "You're forgetting this case _was_ solved--over a
month ago. You any idea what it can mean to a politician to have to
admit publicly that he's made a mistake? Especially a mistake that's
going to get all the publicity this one's bound to? 'District attorney
railroads innocent man!' 'Tragic miscarriage of justice averted only by
chance!' Stuffy editorials in the opposition press about incompetence in
high offices and how the voters must keep out anybody who goes around
executing the innocent and helpless. Looks like Arthur Kahler Troy is
going to be a mighty unpopular man around these parts--and election less
than five months away!"
He glanced up at the office clock. It was nearly nine o'clock in the
evening, and both of them were showing signs of wear. Kirk left his
chair and went over to the water cooler, drank two cupfuls and brought
one back to the girl. She thanked him with a wan smile and gulped down
the contents.
He took the empty paper container and crumpled it slowly. "Might as well
get hold of him," he muttered. "It's going to be mighty damned rough,
sister. You sure you want to go through with it?"
She lifted an eyebrow at him. "That's a peculiar question for a homicide
officer to ask, isn't it?"
"I suppose so." His eyes shifted to the phone on his desk, stayed there
for a long moment. Then he shrugged hugely and picked up the
receiver....
* * * * *
It was well after two in the morning before Martin Kirk reached his
apartment. He showered and got into a fresh pair of pajamas and went
into the small, sparsely furnished living room. He moved slowly and with
no spring in his step, and the set of his features was harsh and
strained in the soft light from the floor lamp.
Troy had been even more difficult than he'd feared. What had begun as
plain irritability at being disturbed, had passed by successive stages
to amused disbelief, open anger and finally reluctant conviction that
Paul Cordell was innocent of the crimes for which he had been sentenced
to die.
A male stenographer from his staff was called in and Naia North dictated
a complete statement which she signed. Troy questioned her for nearly
two hours, getting in every possible angle of her private life as well
as minute details of her actions on the day of the murders. Kirk had not
been present during that part of the night, but he figured it wouldn't
be much different from what he'd heard many times before.
He mixed himself a drink, and was surprised to discover that his hands
were shaking noticeably. Well, why not? A day like the one he'd just
been through would put the shakes in Grant's Tomb. Even as he made the
excuse, he knew it wasn't the real reason. There had been cases that had
kept him on his feet for as much as forty-eight hours--cases where men
had pointed guns at him and pulled the triggers--and the shakes never
came.
No, it was the girl. Naia North. Naia--a strange name. But no stranger
than the girl herself. Now how about that? Why should he think her
strange? Because she'd taken a life or two? Hell, lots of people did
that and no one called them strange. Criminal or unmoral or greedy or
angry, yes. But not strange. She looked like other women--only a lot
better. She dressed like them, walked like them, talked like them. So
why strange?
Because she _was_ strange. Nothing you could put your finger on made her
that way, but that's the way she was.
He threw his cigar savagely into the fireplace. He went over and made
another drink and poured it down fast and another one after it, right on
its heels. Then he went to bed. Tomorrow--today, rather--was a work day
and work days were tough days and he needed his rest.
He didn't get much of it, though. The phone woke him a few minutes after
seven o'clock. It was Arthur Kahler Troy at the other end and the D. A.
was too angry to be coherent.
It seemed Naia North had disappeared from her locked cell during the
night.
Chapter III
"I don't give a triple-distilled damn _what_ you say!" Troy snarled.
"Nobody's got enough money to make that kind of payoff. Five men,
Lieutenant--five men and five locked doors stood between that girl and
the street. And you sit there and try to tell me somebody bought all
_five_ of 'em off!"
"Then," Kirk said heatedly, "what's _your_ explanation?"
It had been going on this way for over an hour. The morning sun came in
weakly at the window behind Troy's huge polished mahogany desk, picking
up random reflections from the collection of expensive gadgets littering
the glass top.
Troy began to wear another path in the moss-colored broadloom carpeting.
He was big and broad and getting puffy around the middle, like a
one-time halfback going to seed. His round, heavy-featured face was even
more florid than usual, and his heavy growth of reddish-blond hair
needed a comb.
Martin Kirk pushed himself deeper into the depths of a brown leather
chair and watched the D. A. through brooding eyes. He wanted a cigar but
it was too early in the morning for that kind of indulgence. You needed
a good breakfast and a couple cups of coffee before--
"I don't explain it," Troy said in quieter tones. He was standing by the
window now, staring down into the boulevard passing that side of the
Criminal Courts Building. "It's one of those things that make me think
my sainted mother wasn't so wrong when she used to tell about elves and
gnomes and leprechauns and fairies and--"
Kirk made a sound deep in his throat, "Naia North was a hell of a long
way from being a leprechaun. Somebody wanted her out of here for some
reason--and they got her out. I want to know who took her out, why she
was taken, and where she is now. And I'm going to find out the answers
to all three if I have to turn this town on its ear."
"Go ahead," Troy said. "Hop right to it and I wish you luck. Only leave
me and my people out of it."
"Seems to me you're mighty damned anxious _to_ be left out."
Arthur Kahler Troy turned on his heel and strode toward the Lieutenant
until he was towering over him. "Just what," he said between his teeth,
"do you mean by _that_ crack?"
"Figure it out for yourself," Kirk snapped. "And I'm sure you can."
Troy reared back as though the police officer had pulled a gun on him.
"Why--why you--I'll have you busted for making a dirty insinu--"
"You couldn't bust a daisy chain at the police department," Kirk
growled. "The Commissioner hates your guts and you know that as well as
I do. Now let's cut out all this hokey-pokey and pick up a few loose
ends, The first thing: what about Paul Cordell?"
All the wide-eyed fury seemed to go out of Troy's face like water down
the bathtub drain. He turned away and walked slowly back to his desk
chair and sat down.
He said, "What about Cordell," in a soft voice.
"The morning paper," Kirk said, "reports he was taken up to Hillcrest
last night. The warden out there's probably got him in Death Row
already."
"Uh-hunh."
"Well, let's get him out of there. With the evidence we've got, plus
Naia North's sworn statement, Judge Reed will have to bring him back
down here and release him--at least on bail until we can find the girl.
The man's innocent, Mr. D. A.; have you forgotten?"
"Yes."
"'Yes'? Yes, what?"
"I've forgotten he's innocent," Troy said quietly. "Matter of fact, he's
guilty as hell."
* * * * *
The Lieutenant half rose from his chair. "Now wait a minute! You heard
that girl's story and you've got the evidence I turned over to you right
here in this office last night. What more--"
"I'll tell you what more," Troy snapped. "That girl was a fraud, her
story was a downright lie and that evidence was faked. Let me tell you
something else, Mister: within five minutes after the guard downstairs
reported your girl friend missing, I had five squads of my men out
running down the personal information she gave me a few hours before.
And you know what they found out? _Every bit of what she told me was
false!_ Hear that? False! It took my men about one hour to prove as
much, for the simple reason that not one lead panned out. Not one! And
you know what _I_ think?"
Martin Kirk opened his mouth but nothing came out but a strangled croak.
"I think you and this dame worked out the whole thing between the two of
you to save Cordell's neck. Who could do a better job of faking evidence
than a crooked cop? What's more, you might have gotten away with it,
too--only it suddenly dawned on the girl that she was getting in too
deep."
"And so," Kirk cut in hotly, "she calmly walked through five locked sets
of iron bars and went back to Mars!"
He stood up and crossed to the desk and leaned down with his palms in
the center of the brown blotter. "You won't get away with it, Troy. You
didn't want any part of this new development from the minute I called
you on the phone last night. You knew it could show you and your whole
organization up as a bunch of bunglers and incompetents. So you got rid
of the girl, thinking that without her the truth of those murders would
never get out to the voters.
"Well, it won't work, Fatso! The evidence I dug up is strong enough to
reopen the case _without_ Naia North. All I have to do is put that
evidence in front of Judge Reed, and--"
Troy was smiling wolfishly. "_What_ evidence, Lieutenant?"
Kirk stiffened. "You know damned well what evidence. It's in your files
right now: Naia North's statement, the strips of paneling from that coat
closet, the murder weapon. I turned the whole works over to you."
The D. A. was shaking his head. "We don't keep worthless junk around
here, my boy. The Cordell case is closed; the guilty man is awaiting
execution. Sure, you run along and tell the Judge all about it. Tell the
newspapers, tell Cordell's defense attorneys, tell the world for all I
care. See who'll touch it without something more concrete than your
highly imaginative day dreams. For all you can prove, the girl might
have confessed the whole thing was a hoax and we tossed her out of here
last night....
"I'm a busy man, Lieutenant. Good morning--good luck--and kindly close
the door on your way out."
Chapter IV
Lieutenant Martin Kirk shoved the pile of mimeographed pages aside.
Three hours spent in going through the complete transcript of the
Cordell trial and nothing to show for it but stiff muscles and an aching
head.
Give it up, a small voice in the back of his mind urged. You haven't got
a leg to stand on as far as getting any action out of the authorities.
Troy and his gang put the fear of God in that purple-eyed dame and
shipped her out of the State. You lose, brother--and so does that poor
devil up in Death's Row.
He drummed his fingers over and over on the arm of his chair and
listened to the every-day sounds of a normal day at the Homicide Bureau.
A new day, a new set of problems, and why knock yourself out over
something that doesn't concern you? Thing to do was go down to the
corner tavern and have a couple of fast ones and watch an old movie on
television. Yes sir, that's exactly what he'd do!
He went back to the mimeographed pages.
For the fourth time he read through Cordell's testimony of what had
happened that October afternoon. And it was there that he came across
the first possible break in the stone wall.
Once more Martin Kirk went over the few lines, although by this time he
could have come close to reciting them from memory. It was an excerpt
from Arthur Kahler Troy's cross-examination of the defendant after
Cordell's counsel, in a last desperate effort to swing the tide of a
losing battle, had placed him on the stand.
Q: (by Troy): Now, Mr. Cordell, I direct your attention to the
point in your testimony at which first entered Professor Gilmore's
outer office. At what time was this?
A: At about 5:45 p.m.
Q: Who was in the office at that time?
A: Alma Dakin, the Professor's secretary. And a couple of
students--although they were at the other end of the room and I
didn't pay much attention to them.
Q: But you did pay attention, as you call it, to Miss Dakin?
A: Well, I spoke to her, if that's what you mean.
Q: That's exactly what I mean, Mr. Cordell. And what was it you
said to her?
A: Something about it was too late in the day to be working so
hard.
Q: That was all?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Remember, Mr. Cordell, you're under oath. Now I ask you again:
Was that all you said to her at that time?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: It isn't possible you've forgotten some additional remark? Think
carefully, please.
A: No, sir. That's all I said. I swear it.
Q: Very well. Now how well do you know Miss Dakin?
A: Just to speak to.
Q: Have you ever seen her outside Professor Gilmore's office?
A: No, sir.
Q: Ever ask her for a date?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you ever have an argument with her? A discussion of any kind
that may have become a bit heated?
A: No, sir.
Q: Then to your knowledge she'd have no reason to dislike you?
A: No, sir.
Q: Very good. Now, Mr. Cordell, I want to read to you an excerpt
from the testimony given by Miss Dakin in this court. "Mr. Cordell
was looking very angry when he came in. He came up to me and bent
down over the desk and said so low I could hardly hear him: 'Hi,
Alma. You think the Prof's through making love to my wife?'" I now
ask you, Paul Cordell, isn't that what you said to Alma Dakin? Not
that she was working too hard, or whatever it was you claimed to
have said.
A: No, sir. I didn't say anything like she said I did. I wouldn't
insult my wife by saying such a thing to a third--
Q: Just answer the questions, Mr. Cordell. Then you contend that
Miss Dakin deliberately lied in her testimony.
A: She was mistaken.
Q: Oh, come now! Miss Dakin is an intelligent girl; she couldn't
misunderstand or twist your words to that extent. Now could she?
A: Then she lied. I never said anything like that.
Q: What reason would she have for lying, Mr. Cordell? By your own
statement she hardly knew you, always greeted you pleasantly on the
times you came to the office, never got into any arguments with
you, and never saw you outside the office. She had worked for
Professor Gilmore for five or six months, has excellent references,
and is well liked by her friends. Yet you're asking us to believe
that she coldly and deliberately lied to get you into trouble. Is
that true?
A: All I know is she lied.
* * * * *
The break was there all right, Kirk thought grimly. For if Cordell was
innocent, then he had told the truth during the trial. And if he had
told the truth about his remark to Alma Dakin, then, automatically, Alma
Dakin's testimony was untrue.
Kirk ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture of bafflement. What
possible reason could Gilmore's secretary have for going out of her way
to lie about Cordell's remark? Was it because she was so certain he had
killed her employer that she wanted to make sure he would be punished?
Or was it because she wanted to shield the real killer? Maybe she was a
friend of Naia North's and had known the blonde girl was in Gilmore's
laboratory all along. She might even have deliberately steered everyone
out of her office after Cordell discovered the bodies, making it
possible for Naia to slip out unseen.
It was a slender lead, but the only one large enough to get even a
fingernail grip on. He drew the phone over in front of him and began a
series of calls designated to give him more information about Alma
Dakin.
A call to the University took him through a couple of secretaries before
he reached the right person. Her name was Miss Slife, personnel director
of all non-teaching employees. Miss Dakin? Why, of course! A lovely girl
and very dependable. She had come to the University in search of a
position only a day or two before Miss Collins, Professor Gilmore's
previous secretary, had resigned. Since Miss Dakin's references showed
that she had worked for a short time as secretary to Dr. Karney, one of
the co-discoverers of the atom bomb (according to Miss Slife), she had
been engaged to take Miss Collins' place. Professor Gilmore, poor man,
had been very pleased with the change and everybody was happy: Miss
Collins at inheriting a vary large sum of money from a relative she'd
never even heard of, Miss Dakin at being able to get such a nice
position, and _dear_ Professor Gilmore at finding such a satisfactory
replacement.
When Miss Slife had run down, Kirk said, "This Dr. Karney. Why did Miss
Dakin leave him?"
The woman at the other end of the wire seemed astonished by Kirk's
ignorance. "Why, I assumed _everybody_ knew about Dr. Karney. He died of
a heart attack about eight months ago."
"_What!_"
"Goodness, there's no need to shout, Mr. Kirk. He was connected with
Clement University, out in California, and suffered a stroke of some
kind while at work."
Kirk thanked her dazedly and broke the connection. This, he told
himself, is too much a coincidence to _be_ a coincidence! Two prominent
nuclear scientists dying suddenly within seven months of each other at
opposite ends of the country--and both of them with the same secretary
at the time of their deaths!
A sudden thought sent him leafing rapidly through the trial transcript
to the place where Paul Cordell had told of the disjointed phrases he
claimed to have heard before he pushed into Professor Gilmore's
laboratory. The words he sought seemed to stand out in letters of
fire: "... three in the past five months...."
* * * * *
Again he caught up the telephone receiver, aware that his heart was
pounding with excitement, and dialed a number.... "_Bulletin?_ Hello;
let me talk to Jerry Furness.... Jerry, this is Martin Kirk at Homicide.
Look, do something for me. I want to find out how many top nuclear
fission boys have died in the past four or five months.... No, no;
nothing like that. Some of the boys down here were having an argument
about.... Sure; I'll hold on."
He propped the receiver between his ear and shoulder and groped for a
cigar. In the office beyond the partition of his cubbyhole a woman was
sobbing. Chenowich went past his open door whistling a radio commercial.
The receiver against his ear began to vibrate. "Yeah, Jerry.... Four of
'em, hey? Let's have their names." He picked up a pencil and took down
the information. "_Uh-hunh!_ Three heart attacks and one murder.
Check.... You mean _all_ of them? Tough life, I guess.... Yeah, sure.
Anytime. So long."
He replaced the receiver with slow care and leaned back to study the
list of names. Not counting the last name--Gilmore's--three
world-renowned men in the field of nuclear physics had dropped dead from
heart failure within the designated span of months.
Coincidence? Maybe. But he was in no mood for coincidences. If the
deaths of these four scientists was the result of some sinister plan,
who was responsible? Some foreign power, concerned about this country's
growing mastery of nuclear fission? Was it his duty to notify the FBI of
his findings and let them take over from here?
He shook his head. Too early for anything like that. He needed more
evidence--evidence not to be explained away as coincidence.
Once more Lieutenant Martin Kirk went back to analyzing the broken
phrases Cordell had picked up while eavesdropping that October
afternoon. _Twelve times zero_ made no sense at all ... unless it could
be the combination of a safe...? Hardly possible; no combination he'd
ever heard of would read that way. The next one, then ... _chained to
two hundred thousand years_.... Another blank; could mean anything or
nothing. Next: _A: ... sounded like the Professor said something like
his colleges had no idea and he'd see they were warned right away._
Kirk bit thoughtfully down on a corner of his lip. Gilmore didn't own
any colleges and how do you go about warning one? Maybe the word was
_college_, meaning the one where he had his laboratory. But actually it
wasn't a college at all; it was a university. Not much difference to the
man in the street, but to the Professor.... Wait a minute! Not
_colleges_! _Colleagues!_ It was his colleagues Gilmore had promised to
warn. And the word meant men and women in the same line of work as the
Professor--nuclear physics. Things, Kirk told himself with elation, were
looking up!
The business about "three in the past five months" was next, but he felt
sure of what that had meant. But the last of the quotations went nowhere
at all.
"Something about _taking in washing_--" Under less tragic circumstances,
a nonsense line. But Cordell hadn't actually heard the words clearly
enough to quote them with authority. That could mean he had heard words
that sounded _like_ "taking in washing."
Taking, baking, making, slaking, raking--the list seemed endless.
"Washing" could have been the first two syllables of Washington--and
Washington would be the place where the Atomic Energy Commission hung
out.
Still too hazy. He leaned back and put his feet up and attacked the
three mysterious words from every conceivable angle. No dice.
* * * * *
Sight of the ambling figure of Patrolman Chenowich passing the office
door caught his eye, reminding him that two heads were often better than
one. "Hey, Frank."
Chenowich came in. "Yeah, Lieutenant. Somethin' doin'?"
"I'm trying to figure out a little problem," Kirk explained carelessly.
"Let's say you hear a guy talking in the next room. You can't really
make out the words he's saying, but right in the middle of his mumbling
you hear what sounds like 'taking in washing.' Now you know that can't
be right, so you try to think out what he actually _did_ say...."
It was obvious Chenowich had fallen off on the first curve, so
completely off that Kirk didn't bother finishing what was much too
involved to begin with. The patrolman was staring at him in monstrous
perplexity.
"Jeez, Lieutenant. I don't get it. 'Less the guy's goin' to open up one
of these here laundries. That way he'd be takin' in washin'. But I don't
know what else--"
Kirk's feet hit the floor with a solid thump and he grabbed Chenowich's
wrist with fingers that bit in like steel. "Say that again!" he shouted.
"Say it just that way!"
The patrolman recoiled in alarm. "What's got into you, Lieutenant? Say
_what_?"
"Taking in washing!"
"Takin' in washin'? What for?"
Kirk's grin threatened to split his face, "The same words," he said,
"but you say them different. Only your way's the right way! Thanks, pal.
Now get out of here!"
Chenowich went. His mouth was still open and his expression still
troubled, but he went.
The last of the killer's cryptic remarks was now clear. For Kirk
realized that "takin'" rhymed with words you'd never associate with
"taking." "Bacon", for instance--or "Dakin"! Alma Dakin, former
secretary to two widely separated, and now dead, nuclear scientists. Her
name had been mentioned by the slayer of Professor Gilmore only seconds
before she had clubbed the savant to death.
But now that "taking" had come out "Dakin"--what did the rest of the
phrase mean? _Dakin in washing_ made no sense. What sounded like
_washing_? Washing; washing ... _watching_? It was close; in fact
nothing he could think of came closer.
All right. _Dakin in watching_; no. _Dakin is watching_--that made
sense. But Alma Dakin hadn't been watching anything at the time of the
killing; she, according to Cordell, was at her desk in the outer office.
That would leave _Dakin was watching_ as the right combination. Watching
for the right opportunity for murder!
What did it mean? Well, assuming from her past record that Alma Dakin
was mixed up in the deaths of two prominent men of science, it argued
that she and Naia North were accomplices in a scheme to rid America of
her nuclear fission experts. The nice smooth story of killing Gilmore
because of unrequited love was probably as much a lie as the personal
information Naia North had given Arthur Kahler Troy.
The North girl had confessed to murdering Gilmore and Juanita Cordell.
As a confessed killer she must be taken into custody and booked on
suspicion of homicide. Taking her was Martin Kirk's job--and it seemed
he had a contact that would lead him to her. Namely Alma Dakin.
Lieutenant Kirk grabbed his hat and went out the door.
Chapter V
The address for Alma Dakin turned out to be a small three-story walk-up
apartment building on a quiet residential street near the outskirts of
town. At two in the afternoon hardly anyone was visible on the sidewalks
and only an occasional automobile passed.
Kirk parked his car half a block further on down and got out into the
chill November air. He entered the building foyer and looked at the name
plates above the twin rows of buttons. The one for Alma Dakin told him
the number of her apartment was 3C.
He pushed the button several times but without response. The foyer was
very quiet at this time of day, and he could hear the faint rasp of her
bell through the speaking tube.
Kirk was on the point of shifting his thumb to the button marked
SUPERINTENDENT when a sudden thought stayed his hand. It was not the
kind of thought a conscientious, rule-abiding police officer would
harbor for a moment. The lieutenant, however, was fully aware he had no
business working on a closed case to begin with--and when you're
breaking one set of rules, you might as well break them all.
He rang four of the other bells before the lock on the inner door began
to click. Pushing it open, he waited until a female voice floated down
the stairs. "Who is it?"
"Police Department, ma'am. You folks own that green Buick parked out in
front?" There was no Buick, green or otherwise, along the street
curbing, but Kirk figured she wouldn't know that.
"Why, no. Officer. I can't imagine--"
"Okay. Sorry we bothered you, lady," Kirk let the door swing into place
hard enough to be heard upstairs. But this time he was on the right side
of it.
There was a moment of silence, then he caught the sound of retreating
feet and a door closed. Without waiting further, the Lieutenant mounted
the stairs to the third floor, his feet soundless on the carpeted
treads.
The entrance to 3C was secured by a tumbler-type lock. From an inner
pocket Kirk took out a small flat leather case and a thin-edged tool
from that. Working with the smooth efficiency of the expert, he loosened
the door moulding near the lock and inserted the tool blade until it
found the bolt. This he eased back, turned the door handle and, a moment
later, was standing in a small living room tastefully furnished in
modern woods.
His first action was to enter the tiny kitchen and unbolt the door
leading to the rear porch. In case Alma Dakin arrived at an inopportune
moment, he could be half way down the outer steps while she was still
engaged with the front door lock. Since he had pressed the moulding back
into place, there would be nothing to indicate his presence.
* * * * *
Within ten minutes Kirk had ransacked every inch of the living room in
search of something, anything, that would point to Alma Dakin as being
more than a nine-to-five secretary. And while he found nothing, no one,
not even the girl who lived here, could tell that an intruder had been
at work.
The bedroom seemed even less promising at first. Dresser drawers gave up
only the pleasantly personal articles of the average young woman. Miss
Dakin, it turned out, was almost indecently fond of frothy undergarments
and black transparent nightgowns--interesting but not at all important
to the over-all problem.
Kirk, his search completed, sat down on the edge of the bed's footboard
and totaled up what he had learned. It didn't take long, for he knew
absolutely no more about Alma Dakin than he had before entering her
apartment. No personal papers, no letters from a yearning boy friend in
the old home town, no savings or checking-account passbook. Not even a
scrawled line of birthday or Christmas greetings on the fly leaves of
the apartment's seven books.
To Kirk's trained mind, the very lack of such things, the fact that Alma
Dakin lived in a vacuum, was highly significant. It smacked of her
having something to hide--and his already strong suspicion of her was
solidified into certainty of her guilt. But certainty was a long way
from rock-ribbed evidence--and that was something he must have to
proceed further.
He was ready to leave when it dawned on him that he had not yet looked
under the bed. Kneeling, he pushed up the hanging edge of the green
batik spread and peered into the narrow space. Nothing, not even a
decent accumulation of dust. The light from the window was too faint,
however, to reach a section of the floor near the footboard. Kirk
climbed to his feet and attempted to shove that end to one side.
The bed failed to move. He blinked in mild surprise and tried again. It
was only by exerting almost his entire strength that he was able to
shift the thing at all, and then no more than a few inches.
He felt his pulse stir with the thrill of incipient discovery. Once he
made sure nothing was anchoring the bed to the floor, he began to tap
lightly against the wood in an effort to detect a possible false panel.
Within two minutes he located an almost microscopic crack in the
headboard cleverly concealed by a decorative design running along the
base. He ran his fingers lightly along the carvings until they
encountered a small projection which gave slightly under pressure.
Kirk pressed down harder on the knob. A tiny _click_ sounded against the
silence and a section of wood some three feet square swung out. Lifting
it aside, the detective found himself staring at an instrument board of
some kind with a series of buttons and dials countersunk into it. The
board itself formed a part of what was obviously a machine of some sort
which evidently contained its own power, for there seemed to be no
lead-in cord for plugging into a wall socket.
It could, Kirk thought, be a short wave radio transmitter. If it was, it
looked like none he had ever come across before. On the other hand it
could be some sort of infernal machine, ready to blow half the city to
bits at the turn of a dial.
* * * * *
Even as his mind was weighing the advisability of tampering with the
thing, his fingers were reaching for the various controls. Gingerly he
moved one or two of the dials but nothing happened. A little more boldly
now, he began to depress the buttons. As the third sank in, a low
humming sound began to fill the room. Before Kirk could find a cut-off
switch of some kind, the faint light of day streaming through the room's
one window winked out, plunging him into a blackness so infinitely deep
that it was like being buried alive.
Nothing can plunge a man into the sheerest panic like the absence of
light. Even a man like Martin Kirk, who had walked almost daily with
danger for the past fifteen years. And since the form panic takes varies
with the individual, the Lieutenant's reaction was an utter inability to
move so much as a finger.
Abruptly the low humming note ceased entirely, replaced immediately by
the sound of a human voice. "Mythox. Contact established. Proceed."
Almost as though the words had tripped a lever in his brain, Kirk's
paralysis ended. Both his hands seemed to swoop of their own volition to
the invisible control panel and their fingers danced across the dials
and buttons.
"Mythox," said the voice again. It seemed to swell and recede, like a
direct radio newscast from half around the world. "Contact estab--"
The word ended as though it had run into a wall. The humming note came
back, then ceased--and without warning daylight from the window washed
over the bewildered and thoroughly frightened police officer.
Not until five minutes had passed was Martin Kirk sufficiently in
control of his nervous system to even attempt replacing the loose panel
in the headboard. When at last he managed to do so, he returned the bed
to its original position, closed and bolted the kitchen door, took one
last look around to make sure nothing was out of place, then slunk out
of the apartment.
By the time he was back behind the wheel of his car and had burned up
half a cigar, Kirk's brain was ready to function with something like its
normal ability. He sat limp as Satan's collar, trying to piece together
the significance of the last half hour's events.
There was no longer any doubt that Alma Dakin was in this mess up to her
bangs. Linked as she was to the murders (and Kirk was convinced heart
disease had nothing to do with it) of those scientists, he would have
sworn she was a foreign agent bent on weakening America's defenses.
Except for one thing. That machine. The kind of mind that could design
and put together a mechanism like that was not of this planet. No longer
did Paul Cordell's story of a girl who floated in a ball of blue fire
sound like the ravings of a deranged brain. And the seeming miracle of
Naia North's escape from a cell block now passed from fantasy to the
factual.
What to do about it? Martin Kirk, at this moment undoubtedly the most
bewildered man alive, put his head in his hands and tried to reach a
decision. Take his story to the Police Commissioner? It would mean a
padded cell--and without even bothering to see if Alma Dakin possessed a
machine more complicated than an electric iron. Some government agency?
By the time the red tape was unsnarled the former secretary could have
reached Pakistan on foot.
Slowly from the depths of his terror of the Unknown, Martin Kirk's
training in police procedure began to make itself felt. A plan started
to form--hazy at first, then in a sharp and orderly pattern.
* * * * *
He left the car and returned to the apartment building. A glimpse of his
badge and a few incisive orders masked as requests reduced the
superintendent to a state of almost obsequious co-operation. Nor was
the tenant of apartment 3D, a middle-aged spinster, any less anxious to
assist the law. It seemed she had an older sister living on the other
side of town who would be happy to put her up for a few days. She
departed within the hour, a traveling bag in one fist.
Before that hour was gone, Chenowich, in response to a sizzling phone
call, skidded a department car to a stop at the curb a block from the
building. He delivered a dictograph to his superior, listened to a grim
warning to keep his mouth shut about this at Headquarters, asked a
couple of questions that drew no answers, and departed as swiftly as he
had come.
The next step was the dangerous one. The superintendent admitted Kirk to
the Dakin apartment and went down to the foyer to ring the bell in case
the girl arrived at the wrong time. He soothed the Lieutenant's anxiety
somewhat by explaining that she seldom returned to the place before
seven o'clock, over three hours from now, but Kirk was taking no
chances.
By five o'clock he had Alma Kirk's bedroom bugged and the instrument in
working order and thoroughly tested. He was painstaking about removing
all traces of plaster and sawdust and bits of wires before pushing the
dresser back into place to cover the dictograph's receiver.
He found the superintendent stiffly on guard in the foyer and gave him
his final instructions. The man listened respectfully, repeated them
back to Kirk to convince him there would be no slip-up, and the
Lieutenant went back upstairs to 3D to take up his vigil.
He was in the spinster's bedroom, working out a crossword puzzle,
earphones in place, when he heard the sound of the bedroom door closing
in the next apartment.
The time was 7:18.
Chapter VI
It was like being in her room with his eyes shut. The soft scraping of
drawers opening and closing, the creak of a chair being sat in, the
cushioned thump of shoes dropped to the carpeted floor, even the rustle
of a nylon slip as she drew it over her head.
It seemed much too early for her to turn in for the night. Was he going
to be forced to sit there and listen to twelve of fourteen hours of
feminine snoring? It would be damned unlikely in view of what was a
cinch to be running through her mind.
Minutes later he heard her leave the bedroom, followed at once by the
muted roar of a running shower. After that had lasted a normal length of
time, the sound ceased and naked feet were audible on the bedroom rug.
There was more opening and closing of drawers, the whisper of clothing
being donned, and an irregular clicking sound like tapping glass against
glass which he finally interpreted as part of the ritual of alternately
combing and brushing hair while in front of the glass-topped vanity.
If there was anything of a panicky nature in her movements it would take
better ears than his to detect it. But for Alma Dakin to get away with
her kind of job required the nerves of lion trainer no matter what
pressures she was subjected to.
Kirk stretched his legs, dug a cigar from the breast pocket of his coat
and got it burning, then went back to the crossword puzzle with half his
attention, keeping alert for any significant sound from the other
apartment. His years as a minion of the law had adequately conditioned
him to the utter boredom that went with the ordinary stake-out.
Several times the subject left the bedroom, but he was able to pick up
sounds familiar enough to trace as emanating from the living room or
kitchen. But nothing she did was worthy of notice in the home-town paper
or even on the margin of a police blotter.
* * * * *
At 9:24 Alma Dakin again entered the bedroom. A hunch, or a sixth sense,
or whatever years of experience in a single field gives a man, told Kirk
that this time something would pop. He put aside the newspaper, placed a
sheet of blank paper on the cover of a historical romance lifted from
the spinster's nightstand, and got out a pencil.
A motor whined unexpectedly from the opposite side of the apartment wall
and he could hear a heavy object roll with well-oiled smoothness a short
distance across the carpet. He decided it was the bed being moved out
from the wall by mechanical means rather than muscle, and it was clear
to him now how she was able to get at that hidden radio, or whatever it
was.
For the second time that day Kirk heard that eerie humming--a sound, he
realized, that ordinarily would have been completely inaudible beyond
the girl's bedroom walls. Suddenly the hum was chopped off and a
familiar voice spoke familiar words.
"Mythox. Contact established. Proceed."
"A message for Orin. Alma Dakin."
A series of almost undetectable clicking sounds; then:
"Alma?" Despite the fact that the voice was coming through an amplifier,
there was no distortion. "Anything wrong?"
It was a man's voice, clear, vibrant, young, and with no trace of an
alien accent. Kirk's theory of an interplanetary menace lost some of its
strength.
"I--I'm not sure, Orin," the girl said hesitantly. "There was a
policeman at my apartment today--the same one Naia went to: The building
superintendent told me."
"That's odd. There's no way _you_ can be tied in with her. Or is there?"
"Not that I know of, Orin. Unless they've decided to check back on me
just for the sake of something to do. If that's what's happened and
they've learned I was working for Dr. Karney at the time of _his_ death,
they may get an idea the three deaths are related. And once a police
officer gets suspicious, he can hound you unmercifully. That's what
worries me, Orin. You know I'm not really an accomplished liar!"
"Shall we bring you here? At least long enough to build you a new
identity?"
A pause. Then the girl's voice again: "Something else puzzles me, too.
There's no mention of Naia's confession in the newspapers."
"_What?_ You mean they haven't released Cordell? What will Tamu say?"
"If they have, nobody knows about it. I told you Naia should have
remained in their hands until the young man was set free. You don't know
my people as I do, Orin--none of you do."
"But the evidence? Nobody, not even the most stupid of Earthmen, could
have ignored that evidence! Tamu won't like this."
"I can't help it, Orin. I keep telling you, Orin: you must use a new set
of standards for this world. If its people thought as yours do, none of
these unpleasant things would have to happen."
* * * * *
Another pause before the man's voice came over Kirk's earphones. "We
didn't dare leave Naia in their hands. That's why we brought her back
here. Look at the chance we took by permitting them to hold her even
briefly. If only she hadn't blundered in the first place...."
His voice trailed off, then came back suddenly brisk. "Well, too late
for regrets. We won't risk letting them question you. Field Seven in,
say, three hours. Time enough?"
"More than enough!" Her relief was unmistakable. "It'll be wonderful
visiting Mythox again, Orin. I hope Methu will allow me to stay for a
long time."
"I hope so too, darling. But our work comes first; none of us dares let
down for even a moment.... See you soon. And don't neglect to eliminate
the contrabeam."
"It will be gone seconds after we break contact. Field Seven at--let's
see--12:30."
"I'll be there. Farewell, Alma."
The dim humming came back again, followed briefly by no sound at all.
Then there was the noise of drawers being opened and closed with a kind
of brisk and cheerful haste. Alma Dakin was preparing to take it on the
lam!
Martin Kirk knew he had only a limited time to plan his own course of
action. One way was to walk into the adjoining apartment, place Alma
Dakin under arrest and force the whole story from her. A moment's
reflection, however, caused him to abandon the idea. Any such move would
end his chances of getting his hands on Naia North. More than anything
else he wanted her, and he closed his mind to the broader aspects of
what had taken--and was still taking--place.
No, his job was to follow Alma Dakin to her rendezvous with this man
Orin and in some way force the two of them into turning Naia North over
to him. This time she'd stick around long enough to stand trial--even if
he had to handcuff her to the bars of her cell!
From beyond the wall he caught the sounds of suitcases being snapped
shut, followed by the fading echo of footsteps. He jerked the earphones
from his head and went quickly to the hall door in time to catch a
glimpse of Alma Dakin on her way to the building stairs, a bulging
suitcase in each hand.
Kirk raced for the kitchen of 3D, flung open the door and went down the
rear steps with astonishing agility. He was opening the door of his car
by the time the girl came out of the front entrance. He watched her
place the bags in the trunk of a small sand-colored coupe, then slip in
behind its wheel and start the motor.
The coupe passed his parked car, turned the corner and disappeared.
Before it had reached the next intersection, Kirk was rolling smoothly
half a block to her rear.
Two hours later both cars were moving along a winding country road miles
from civilization. Kirk was driving without lights, bad enough under
favorable circumstances but sheer folly considering the sky was
completely overcast, so that he was denied even the faint radiance of
the stars. Fortunately there was no other traffic in this desolate
section at eleven o'clock at night, so that his only danger was in
failing to remain on the twisting road.
* * * * *
Finally, near the crest of a particularly steep hill, two flaring red
lights warned him his quarry was applying the brakes of her car. He cut
his engine long enough to hear the coupe's motor die, then he swung his
wheel to the right and coasted to a halt on the soft shoulder of the
road.
Under cover of bushes and trees, naked of foliage at this time of the
year, Kirk worked his way silently ahead until he could make out the dim
figure of the girl as she dragged the pair of bags from the boot.
Without a backward glance, she turned away from the road and an instant
later was lost to sight among the trees.
There was nothing of the frontiersman in Lieutenant Martin Kirk, but
fortunately the same was true of Alma Dakin. Where anyone accustomed to
moving across natural terrain could have lost the officer with ease, in
her case he need only pause briefly from time to time and use his ears.
At last the seemingly interminable forest ended and the girl sank
wearily down on an upended suitcase. Kirk, perspiring freely under the
folds of his topcoat, halted in the shelter of a tree bole, and waited.
Beyond where the girl sat was a large natural clearing covered with a
fringe of winter grass. The silence was close to being absolute; only
the faint keening of a chill wind and the restless creak of barren
branches kept it from becoming unbearable.
Gradually his eyes became more and more accustomed to the absence of
light worthy of the name, and he began to identify objects as something
more than formless shadows. Alma Dakin appeared to be much closer to
him than he had realized. He eyed her slim back malevolently, and when
she lighted a cigarette, the wind bringing the odor of tobacco to his
nostrils, he could cheerfully have strangled her for adding to his
torture.
Time crawled by. An hour by reckoning was ten minutes by the illuminated
dial of his wristwatch. His leg muscles began to twitch under the strain
of holding the same position. Twice he managed to hold at bay explosive
sneezes; he worried at being able to do so again.
The last five minutes before 12:30 was like being broken on the rack. He
caught himself straining his ears for the sound of a motor, of a faint
humming--of anything to indicate Orin was arriving. Nothing--and at
12:30 still nothing.
Martin Kirk had had all he could take. He was through standing out on a
windy hill like some goddam--
Something seemed to flicker in the night air above the clearing--and he
was staring slackjawed at a circular structure the size of a small house
standing in the center of the clearing as though it had been there for
years.
Before the Lieutenant could get his jaw off his necktie, Alma Dakin had
uttered a cry of relief and was racing toward the nearest edge of the
gleaming vessel. A panel in its side slid noiselessly back and the tall
figure of a man was outlined in the opening.
"Alma!" he shouted and sprang to the ground to meet her.
They came together almost violently midway between the clearing's edge
and the ship. She clung to him as he bent his head to meet her lips.
Kirk glanced past them at the open portal. Dim light from within cast a
soft glow against the night. Nothing moved in the narrow segment of the
interior visible from where he was standing.
And Kirk had a moment of what was as close to fear as he was able to
know. A little time of bewilderment when his guard slipped just a
trifle. What in the hell _was_ all this? Into his solid world had come
strange and unreasonable things. Crazy ships, and people who didn't play
according to the rules he had learned over thankless drudging years as
an honest cop. A few tiny beads of sweat formed on his upper lip.
[Illustration: _Into his solid world had come strange and unreasonable
things._]
Then his stubborn, inherent fatalism came to his aid. He grinned without
humor. The hell with it. Whatever came up--a screwball flying saucer or
a berserk psycho waving a gun. You played it the same; according to your
own rules. This thing, whatever it was, bridged the gap to a killer. And
when you found such a bridge, you crossed it.
* * * * *
Martin Kirk, his gun clutched tightly, moved like a casual shadow, eased
his way along the hull of ship and slipped inside.
He had never seen anything like this. The lighting for one thing. It
came from nowhere and somehow the stuff had a mood. It seemed alive--an
intelligent force watching him, mocking him, sneering at him. And so
potent was the mood of the whole setup, so sharp his need of release
that he muttered, "The hell with you," and softly followed a circular
corridor which curved off the hull.
They were coming toward the ship, Orin and Alma--coming while he still
hunted a hole. He kept on going. If he met anybody they were going to go
down. But he didn't. He found a steel stairway and a pocket at its base
to hold his body. It wasn't a dark pocket. Light was everywhere. But the
stairway hid him and the pair passed by and went on down the corridor.
He realized his right hand was aching and relaxed his grip on the gun
butt he clutched. He straightened up and the tense little mirthless grin
played on his lips.
Okay. Now where was she and how did it work? Could he find her and haul
her off silly tilt-a-whirl? He thought not. Either his eyes were bad or
this thing had appeared from nowhere. Something inside snapped: Quit
thinking that way! Whatever it looked like--_think right_. Follow the
rules. Look for the dame. His grin deepened.
Sure.
He started walking. Around the eerie corridor in the direction opposite
that taken by Orin and Alma Dakin. He walked a long time and there were
no doors or anything else so the only thing to do was keep walking. He
thought: When I come to that stairway I'll be back where I started but
where's that? What good is a hall you keep going around and around in?
The ship lurched and threw him to the floor. It was going somewhere.
But it didn't go anywhere. Of that he was sure. Maybe he'd been fooled
but it seemed the ship settled back after that single lurch and lay
there like a choice segment out of someone's pet nightmare. Kirk got to
his feet and rubbed the place his leg had violently met the floor.
He walked on and there was the steel stairway again and it was all very
damned silly because he knew he'd circled the ship at least three times.
But lucky because the footsteps sounded again and as he dived toward the
pocket, the wall of the ship opened to form a doorway. They forgot
something, he thought. What kind of supermen are these? They can build a
ship that has a stairway every third trip around and still they go away
and forget things.
The grin was tighter than ever. Whistle in the dark, boy, but admit
it--you're scared. Sure, but what's that got to do with it?
Orin and Alma left the ship. Martin Kirk pushed his head around the
staircase. He crouched for sometime, staring through the open segment of
the hull at the outside world. And his poor stupid orthodox mind asked a
pitifully logical question:
How could it get light, with the sun at high noon, in fifteen minutes?
After a long, motionless time, the silence became such a roaring thing
in Kirk's ears he could stand it no longer. He got up and walked to the
doorway.
Something had gone somewhere; either the ship or the world he'd known,
because out there was a different world and he knew damn well he'd never
seen it before.
Chapter VII
Martin Kirk stepped out into a circle of lush vegetation. And in doing
so, he learned something. He learned that the human mind is a far more
adaptable mechanism than most people imagine; that they can pelt you
with goof balls and you get sweat on your lip and have to talk to
yourself to keep from sliding off your rocker, but after a while when
your mind seems half-way over the edge, it straightens up suddenly and
starts going along. A defense mechanism against insanity? He didn't
know.
He only knew that when the tiger roared, he whirled around with his gun
leveled, saw the six-inch teeth, got wholesomely and sanely scared, and
then everything was all right. He knew he was all right when he got the
right reaction from sight of the almost naked girl holding the tiger.
For a long moment it was a frozen-action tableau. The huge orange and
black beast. The wide-eyed young brunette nudist, and the tropical
forest with the great big fat sun overhead. The girl's voice nailed it
all down. "Don't be afraid. Rondo won't hurt you."
Kirk's resentment flared warmly and, had resentment been a tangible
thing, he would have kissed it. "You're tootin' right he won't, sister.
This isn't a toy I'm holding."
"Rondo is very gentle."
Kirk eyed the girl. "Why don't you put some clothes on?"
Her teeth were as bright and even as little white knives but her smile
took the edge off them. "Only people in the city wear clothes. I wear
them when I'm in the city. When I come out here I--"
"--you don't wear any clothes. Tell me--where am I?"
"Don't you know?"
"Let's not play games. If I knew I wouldn't ask you."
"Did you come on the ship?"
"You saw me get out of it didn't you? Now answer my question." And he
realized how certain he was of what her answer would be.
"On Mythox."
"Well fancy that. Now tell me something else. Do you know what language
you're speaking?"
"Of course. English."
"And why should you speak English on Mythox? Haven't you got a language
of your own?"
"Certainly. But you're obviously from Earth. I thought you were a
Watcher. I tried English. If you hadn't responded I'd have spoken to you
in the other Earth languages."
"How many do you know?"
"Eleven hundred and seventeen. With various dialects, four thousand
and--"
"There aren't that many."
She looked puzzled. Then her face cleared. "Oh you mean Earth languages.
I was referring to those of the Five Galaxies."
I'm not going to be surprised at anything, he told himself doggedly. Not
at anything. "Do you know anyone named Naia North?"
* * * * *
There was a childlike seriousness in her manner. It tended to deny the
maturity of her body. Or was it the other way around? Martin Kirk wasn't
sure, and grimly assured himself that he didn't give a damn.
The girl said, "I don't know anyone by that name. But I could find her
for you."
"How would you go about it?"
"I'd go to the city and check the video-directory, naturally."
"Naturally. And you'd put your clothes on before you went?"
"Of course I would. We go without clothing only out here in the
playground."
Kirk realized he'd been holding the gun rigidly in front of him. The
tiger had dropped to the ground and lay outstretched like a lazy,
good-natured dog. Kirk lowered the gun, setting his eyes again on the
girl. "A minute ago you said you thought I was a Watcher. What did you
mean?"
He would have framed his questions with more guile, but something told
him it wasn't necessary. This child of nature was utterly without guile.
She said, "An Earth Watcher. What did you think I meant?"
"I didn't know or I wouldn't have asked."
It clarified. _Dakin is watching._ Sure. What the hell else would a
Watcher do but watch? But why, and for what? Kirk was mystified. But it
didn't matter, he asserted inwardly, and turned his mind back to the
straight line. The cop's line. "Will you put on your clothes and go into
the city and locate Naia North for me?"
"If it will help you."
"It will. Where can I wait for you?"
"If you want to see Naia North why don't you come with me?"
Kirk shrugged. Why not? So long as the score was completely unknown to
him, why not follow the path of least resistance? "Get your clothes on,"
he said.
The girl turned and started leading the tiger back toward a grove of
trees. After a few steps she turned back, a look of sober thought on her
face. "Are all Earthlings so assertive?" she asked. Kirk grinned. As
long as it works, this one is, baby. But what if it stops working? His
reply was not audible and the girl turned finally to disappear into the
bushes.
Kirk then experienced a strange feeling of unreality which persisted
until the girl returned.
* * * * *
"My name is Raima," the girl said solemnly. She wore tight-fitting
trousers, a loose blouse and had a silver colored air car with room in
back for the tiger.
Kirk knew it was an air car when the craft lifted from the ground from
no apparent means of acceleration and skimmed along just above the
trees. He sat beside Raima and asked, "About that ship I came here in?
How fast does it travel and how far is it from Mythox to Earth?"
"The distance is around two hundred thousand light years but the ship
doesn't really travel at all."
"Maybe you could go into a little more detail," Kirk said wearily.
"It's very simple. Distance, as you Earthlings regard it, is not
distance at all. Space bends to a greater or lesser degree depending
upon its immediate function in whatever time-space equation you are
using."
"Thank you very much," Kirk replied and silently added: Keep to the
line. Hold to your own values. On Earth, wherever it is, a man is
waiting to go to the chair for a murder he didn't commit. Use whatever
equation you want to--that still adds up the same. These people may be a
lot smarter than you are, but they can't twist that one and make you
believe it comes out any different.
A strange city of graceful flying spirals was coming over the horizon.
It moved closer and the air car arced in to a halt on a huge cement
landing area punctuated with small circles of a different material.
Raima jumped from the cockpit and Kirk followed to hear the soft thud
of the cat's four paws landing beside him. The cat went over and sat
down on one of the circles. Raima followed, stood beside the animal and
called, "Don't you want to go down to street level?"
"Of course. How stupid of me not to know how."
The circle dropped silently beneath them in a bright metal tube in which
a door soon appeared to let them out into a broad street filled with
casually moving pedestrians. Kirk noted that none of them seemed in any
hurry; that here and there was an individual dressed like himself.
Watchers on furlough or vacation, he thought a trifle bitterly. This
picture was far from complete but enough of it added up to furnish a
name for them. Quizling was a good one. Perhaps traitor was better.
All in all, he found one satisfaction. He could travel about as he
pleased.
A short walk brought them to a huge four or five story wall, the like of
which Kirk had never seen. It was symmetrically covered with small,
opaque, glass windows, beside each of which was a dial not unlike the
ones on Earth telephones. Catwalks of some bright metal covered the
wall. On these catwalks, numerous people were busy with a strange
business Kirk could not follow.
"This is the video-directory," Raima said. She gave no further
explanation, but while Rondo lazily rubbed noses with a bear cub sitting
on its haunches waiting for its master, she spun the dial with practiced
efficiency. "Now, if Naia North is in the city and wishes to see you,
her image will appear in the mirror."
As Kirk watched and the bear slapped the grinning tiger with a playful
paw, the opaque glass cleared and the tall, willowy figure of Naia North
appeared in miniature.
"You may speak in here," Raima said, solemnly indicating a small
screened opening beside the mirror. "My! She's pretty, isn't she?"
Naia North was entirely composed. She wore a pale blue gown and from the
background in the mirror, Kirk gathered that she was at home. "Aren't
you surprised?" Kirk asked.
Now a slight frown creased the lovely Naia's brow. "A little perhaps.
How did you get to Mythox? And why did you come?"
"A slight matter of murder. A murder you confessed to, or has it slipped
your mind?"
"Aren't you being rather absurd? That's all done with."
"Not so far as Paul Cordell is concerned. He's going to the chair--only
he isn't. We're going back and straighten a few things out."
Genuine surprise was reflected now. And possibly a certain contempt. "My
opinion of you lessens. I hadn't rated you as a complete fool. How did
you get here?"
"The same way you did I suppose, is there more than one way?"
Naia's frown deepened. "Do you mean you were _brought_--?"
"Not intentionally, I stowed away on that funny round ship that doesn't
go anywhere and travels far."
The beautiful brow immediately cleared. "Oh, I see," Naia observed with
amusement. "And you know exactly how you'll get me back to Earth I
suppose? Thousands of light years. It's a long walk."
"I'll take one thing at a time and worry about them in order of
appearance. The main thing for you to remember, is this: You may be as
smart as all get out but you broke an American law on American soil by
your own confession and by God you're going back and answer for it!"
"Idiot! I can have you--"
* * * * *
Kirk's mood changed to the quizzical. "It's entirely beside the point,
but still I don't get you, baby. Why the switcheroo? You walked in and
confessed. Then you took a powder. Now you sneer in my teeth. What do
you use for a rudder, sweetheart?"
"I followed orders," Naia flared with a mixture of anger and sullenness.
"I am now free of the assignment."
Kirk pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You wouldn't be sort of a
hatchet-woman for this high-blown outfit, would you? I can think offhand
of a few other names. Karney, Blatz, Kennedy. What gives with knocking
off nuclear physicists, baby?"
Naia did not answer. When she started to turn away from the mirror, Kirk
glanced at the silent Raima standing with her hand on the tiger's head.
"Is there any way I can call on the lady in the mirror personally?"
"Not if she doesn't want to receive you," Raimu said. She was studying
Kirk, with wistful dark eyes.
Naia turned back quickly. "I'll be glad to receive you. It's time I
taught you a lesson."
"Fine. What's your address?"
But Naia was gone. The little mirror turned opaque. Kirk shot a
questioning glance at Raimu. "Does yes mean no on this cockeyed planet?"
"Her car will come." Raima murmured. But the petite dark beauty seemed
interested in other things. "You didn't tell me your name."
"Sorry. Rude of me. It's Martin Kirk. You've been pretty nice to me. I
wish there was some way I could show my appreciation."
"You're going to see Naia North?"
"Yes. She's a murderess. I'm taking her back to my planet."
"I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible."
"You too, honey?" Kirk reached out and flicked one of the raven curls.
"If things were different you and I might be able to have fun."
"I spend a lot of time--where you found me. Maybe--"
"I doubt if I can make it. But keep your clothes on after this--as a
personal favor to me."
She was the very soul of solemnity. "I don't understand you. I really
don't understand you at all."
At that moment, an air car--much smaller than Raima's, dropped gently
into the street beside Kirk. "Good lord! Did this thing smell me out?"
"It came to the mirror on Naia's private wave-length. Get in. It will
take you to her."
Kirk crawled into the car. The last thing he saw before it lifted into
the air, were Raima's dazzling black eyes. The last words he heard were,
"Goodbye, Martin Kirk. I will visualize you."
The car swung up above the graceful, spidery buttresses and moved across
the city. Kirk filled in the time by trying to figure out what made the
thing go. He hadn't gotten to first base when the car lost altitude and
came to rest on a balcony hung with seeming perilousness on a sheer
white wall. Kirk stepped out. A large glass panel had been pushed back
and Naia stood waiting in the opening.
"Nice of you to receive me," Kirk said. "Have you got your bags packed
for a trip stateside?"
"Please come this way."
Naia turned and moved through the room just off the balcony. On the far
side another door gave exit. She passed through it and turned as though
waiting for Kirk. He took one step, two, three, four.
Then something came from somewhere and almost tore his jaw off. He went
out in an explosion of black light.
Chapter VIII
Kirk came to with the feeling that his period of unconsciousness had
been momentary. Naia was standing as she had stood before, just beyond
the inner doorway. The mocking smile was still on her face. "Did you
trip?"
Kirk got groggily to his feet. "No, angel. That's the way I always cross
a room." As he came upright his hand reached toward the bulge made by
his shoulder holster. But it didn't get that far.
He had not seen from whence the first blow came but that was not true
with the second. From a tiny opening in the door jamb, a pinpoint of
light appeared. It hung there for a moment. Then it brightened,
expanded, and shot forth as a slim beam. It contained a silvery radiance
and the kick of a Missouri mule. It slammed against Kirk's jaw, but not
quite so hard this time; only hard enough to send him down again amidst
a cloud of shooting stars.
He shook his head and got to his hands and knees. "Wha's 'at? A trained
flashlight?" He began coming up. As soon as he didn't need his right
hand for rising he reached for his gun. The light beam seemed to resent
this. It hit him in the solar plexus this time; a sickening blow that
fed nausea down through his legs. He tightened his stomach against the
agony and began getting up again.
"You see how useless it is?" Naia asked. "Beside us, you Earthlings are
children. Will you stop being foolish, or must I kill you?"
Kirk squinted craftily at the pinpoint of light with one closed eye.
Clever little devil. What the hell! Nude innocents. Tigers on leashes.
Light beams that knocked your teeth out. Paul Cordell with a shaved spot
on his head.
"You got your bag packed for a little trip, baby?"
For a brief moment, genuine fear flamed in Naia's eyes. And in Kirk's
mind: Dumb babe. What's she got to be scared of? They hit you with
nothing and make it stick. Kirk croaked, "Grab your bag, baby. We'll go
find that flying biscuit. We got a date with Arthur Kahler Troy."
He was really cagey this time. When the light beam shot out, he hurled
himself to the side. But he could have saved the effort. A beam came
from the other door jamb and he stepped right into it. That one really
tore his head off.
* * * * *
Somebody was talking. It was a man and he had a deep resonant voice: a
voice full of authority--and censure. "I'm surprised at you Naia. I
never suspected you of having a sadistic streak."
Naia's sullen reply. "Do you think anyone can do the work I do and
remain unmarked?"
"I suppose not. But as I remember it, you asked to serve."
"As a benefit to humanity."
"We won't go into it."
But Naia pressed the point. "I have always followed orders. I placed
myself in possible jeopardy on Earth by clearing Paul Cordell."
"But Paul Cordell was not cleared."
"Not through any fault of mine."
"But why this? What end does torturing this poor unfortunate serve?"
Martin Kirk cautiously opened one eye. It brought to his brain the image
of a large blue globe. A man of fine and commanding appearance stood
within the globe, suspended about a foot from the floor. The globe and
the man gave every indication of having just come through the opaque
glass wall of the room, and as Kirk watched, the man was lowered slowly
to the floor and the globe became a blue mist that spiralled lazily and
was gone.
Kirk opened both eyes now, stirred, and climbed dizzily to his feet.
"You bump into the damndest things around here," he said, "But let's get
down to the important business. My name is Martin Kirk. I'm an American
police officer. One of your subjects committed a murder on American
soil. I hope you aren't going to be difficult about extradition."
The other could not hide his surprise. Nor did he try to. "Amazing," he
murmured. Then, "I am Tamu, the overlord of the galaxy. I wonder if
Naia's cruelty hasn't affected your mind?"
"If you mean I'm nuts, I think maybe you're right. But it wasn't little
Playful here who did it. I've gone through a lot and I don't speak with
any sense of bragging. I've seen more funny things happen than any one
man should see in so short a time. So maybe I am off my rocker. So I'd
like your permission to take my prisoner back to Earth so I can give all
my time to regaining my sanity."
Tamu regarded Kirk with thoughtful eyes. "I think we should have a
talk."
"I would like a talk. I would like nothing better than to chew the fat
with you for hours on end if my jaw didn't hurt so damned much. So I'll
just take my prisoner and go. Do I have to sign a paper or something?"
The overlord's surprise was fast becoming a kind of fascinated awe.
"Kirk, you said?" He pointed to the door leading to the inner room.
"Please go in, sir. There's no use of our standing out here while we
discuss your problem."
The Lieutenant eyed the door frame warily, "I tried getting through
there before but the light got in my eyes!"
"You can trust me."
The police officer stepped cautiously through the opening and on into a
luxuriously furnished room. Tamu, dressed much the same as one of
Earth's better bankers, followed him in and suggested he sit down.
"Why?" Kirk demanded bluntly. "Let's stop kitten-and-micing around, Mr.
Tamu. I'm not comfortable here and I want to leave. With her." He tilted
his head toward the watching, sullen-faced Naia North. "And now."
Tamu said, "Believe me, it will be as easy for you to return to Earth an
hour from now. You seem weary to the point of exhaustion. I ask you
again: sit down and get back some of your strength. Naia will find you
something to eat."
Kirk's stubborn determination to force an immediate showdown wavered. It
had been born largely of fear to begin with, and the thought of relief
for his burning throat was impossible to resist.
"I could use a drink," he admitted.
* * * * *
Tamu gestured and Naia North turned to leave the room. But Kirk leaped
forward to block her off. "Nothing doing! I don't take my eyes off you,
baby. I'll just pass up that drink."
The girl glanced at the overlord and shrugged helplessly. Tamu said,
"Have a girl bring in something. While we're waiting I suggest all three
of us get comfortable."
While Naia was speaking into a tiny screen set into one of the
silk-covered walls, Tamu and the man from Earth sat down across from
each other on a pair of fragile-legged chairs. The overlord leaned back
and sighed. "You've asked my leave to return to Earth and to take Naia
back with you to stand trial for murder. Have you considered that I may
refuse that permission?"
"I don't think I have to consider it," Kirk said promptly.
"You don't?" Tamu was mystified again. "Why not?"
"You tell me you're the overlord. I take that to mean you're in charge.
That means you have laws to govern your people and _that_ means you
believe in laws. One of your subjects has broken the law of my country.
You can't refuse to let her take the consequences any more than if the
situation was reversed."
Tamu was shaking his head and smiling slightly. "I'm afraid you're not
taking into consideration one fact, Mr. Kirk. Naia North broke your law,
as you call it, on express and definite instructions from me."
Martin Kirk made a show of astonishment. "Let me get this straight. You
_ordered_ Professor Gilmore and Juanita Cordell murdered? Is that what
you're telling me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Exactly the reason I suggested we have a talk. To make you see why
they--and others in the same classification--could not be allowed to
live."
"Men like Karney? Kennedy? Blatz?"
Tamu blinked. "My respect for you increases, Martin Kirk."
"Don't let it throw you. I'm a police officer, and police officers are
trained to do the job right."
The overlord crossed his legs and settled deeper into the chair. "Mythox
needs men like you, Martin Kirk. That is why I'm going to give you a
chance for life. For this you must understand: if I wanted it, you would
be dead within seconds."
A chill slid along the stubborn back of the Lieutenant but nothing
showed in his impassive expression and he did not speak.
"But because we do need you, I am going to tell you things no Earthman
knows. I believe that once you understand why Mythox has undertaken to
meddle in the affairs of another world--and I tell you frankly that our
doing so is as abhorrent to us as anything you can imagine--once you
understand our reasons, you will cheerfully, even eagerly, join us."
"And if I don't?"
"You know the answer to that, I'm sure."
* * * * *
A slim fair-haired girl in a pale green toga-like dress entered the room
carrying a tray holding tall glasses of some sparkling blue beverage.
She offered it first to Kirk, then the others. The Lieutenant removed
one of the glasses, waited until Tamu and Naia had done the same, but
not until they had drunk some of the liquid did he tilt his own glass.
The cold tangy liquid hit him like a bombshell--a bombshell on the
pleasant side. He could almost literally feel his strength flow back,
his senses sharpen and the poisons of fatigue and mental strain
disappear.
"I'm listening," he said.
Tamu set his glass on the edge of a nearby table and bent forward, his
manner earnest. "It won't take long, Martin Kirk. Hear me. We of Mythox
are far in advance of the peoples of Earth--both spiritually and
scientifically. Life on our planet materialized in much the same manner
as on your own world, but countless ages before. Almost the same process
of evolution took place; but somewhere along the line humanity on Mythox
managed to reach full development without the flaws of character found
among so many of Earth's inhabitants. When I tell you that we find it
almost impossible to voice an untruth, that taking a human life
willfully for any reason is equally difficult, that crime of any nature
is almost unknown here--then you will see the difference between the two
planets.
"For ages our scientists have observed the events taking place on Earth.
By perfecting a method for changing matter from terrene to
contraterrene, we have managed to bridge the million light years of
space separating our worlds as we saw fit. Thousands of years ago we
could have gained control of your ball of clay and turned mankind into
any pattern we might choose.
"That is not our way, Martin Kirk. Free will is our heritage too--and we
respect it in ourselves, and for that reason must respect it in others.
So long as Earth's peoples confined their more destructive tendencies to
themselves we kept our hands off--even while we failed to understand
such senseless conduct.
"And then one day we witnessed an explosion on Earth's surface--an
explosion different from any of the countless ones before it. That
explosion was the first man-made release of atomic energy--a process we
had known how to bring about for ages, but one we would never use. For
we have learned the secret of limitless power without the transformation
of mass into energy. Your way is the way of destruction, Martin Kirk;
ours is exactly the opposite.
"For the first time, the leaders of Mythox knew the meaning of
fear--fear that, once Earth's scientists had found the secret of nuclear
fission they would go on to the one extreme forbidden throughout the
Universe itself.
"And so we acted. Not in the way your people would have acted were the
situations reversed. For we were still determined that there would be no
intervention on our part in Earth's affairs--and that is still our way,
just as it must always be. But there must be one exception to this rule:
no one on Earth must be allowed to blunder into the extreme I mentioned
a moment ago."
* * * * *
Tamu, overlord of Mythox, paused to drink from his glass and to cast a
speculative glance at the stolid face of Martin Kirk. He might as well
have studied the contours of a brick wall.
"The road to that blunder had been opened the day your learned men first
split the atom. If they persisted down that path, it was bound to follow
that they would attempt the thing we feared: the splitting of hydrogen
atoms--the hydrogen bomb, as you call it.
"We know what that would mean: a chain reaction that would wipe out an
entire galaxy in one blinding flash. _Our galaxy_, Martin Kirk--yours
and mine! Do you have any thought at all on what that means?"
The question was rhetorical; even before Kirk could shake his head, the
overlord pressed on.
"Mythox and Earth are two grains of dust on opposite sides of a
galaxy--a spiral formation of stars and planets 200,000 light years wide
and 20,000 thick. Between us lie countless other worlds, a vast number
of them supporting life--not always, or even often, life as we know it,
but life nonetheless.
"There is not one of those worlds, Martin Kirk, we do not know as
thoroughly as we do our own. Fortunately for our purpose only a relative
few have progressed along a line which can lead to danger for the rest.
Yours is one of those which has--and that is why we of Mythox have taken
a well-masked place in your affairs _so far as they relate to nuclear
physics_.
"Every scientist of your world, male or female, is constantly under the
eye of a Watcher. These Watchers are members of your own races--people
we have enlisted in the fight to save not just their world or mine--but
millions of worlds.
"When a Watcher learns a physicist is close to the one key to success in
his effort to make a hydrogen bomb--an equation that begins: 'Twelve
times zero point seven nine'--we are notified and a killer from our own
people is sent to execute that scientist. Yes, Martin Kirk, we have
those among us--a very few--who are capable of killing on orders and for
cause. Naia, here, is one of them. She was sent to take the lives of
Gregory Gilmore and Juanita Cordell; but she bungled and instead of
their deaths resembling heart failure, they were obviously murdered.
"Alma Dakin tried to cover up the truth by making it appear both
scientists had died at the hands of a jealous husband. She succeeded,
both because of her perjured testimony and the fact that Paul Cordell
insisted on telling the truth. But when we of Mythox learned what had
happened, Naia was sent back to confess the crime. She entered the
laboratory only a few hours before she came to your office; while she
was in the laboratory the second time, the clues you found were put
there.
"Our mistake was in thinking that, once proof was offered clearing
Cordell, the innocent man would be freed. For once more we credited
Earthlings with the same code of ethics we of Mythox adhere to.
"You succeeded in following Naia here. Only a man composed of equal
parts of Earth bulldog and genius could have done so. Martin Kirk, I
offer you a place among us and a lifetime devoted to making sure the
galaxy of which we both are a part does not perish. What say you?"
Several minutes dragged by. The eyes of both Tamu and Naia North were
glued to the grim visage of Homicide Lieutenant Kirk. It was impossible
for either of them to know what thoughts were churning behind that stone
face.
Abruptly he stood up. "I'm a cop. I leave your kind of problem to the
people who are good at it. My people, Tamu. You see, I belong to my
world, not to yours.
"But you've got a solid argument--one I'd be a fool not to consider. Let
me sleep on it. Tomorrow morning we'll talk about it some more; then
I'll give you my answer. Right now I'm too worn out to think in a
straight line."
"Of course." The overlord rose to his feet. "Find Martin Kirk
comfortable quarters, Naia, and leave orders he is not to be disturbed
until he is ready to join us."
On his way down a corridor behind the same slip of a girl who had
brought him his drink, Martin Kirk was thinking: They didn't even frisk
me for a gun!
Martin Kirk went into his apartment and lay for a while looking at the
ceiling. After a time, he got up and went out again.
Chapter IX
The soft silvery radiance which this planet seemed to feature, bathed
the metal hallway as Kirk marched stolidly toward the slim arcing
stairway that led toward Naia's floor. This was certainly a strange
building, he thought. The architects of Mythox knew how to use curves.
They utilized them for utility and beauty to a point where a straight
line was something to be surprised at. Pretty smart people, the
Mythoxians--in more ways than one.
And Kirk, for no apparent reason, thought of a phrase common among
children during his own childhood, "Who died and left you boss?"
He counted the markings over one door. He had seen those markings
before. Naia North lived here.
And Naia North was in. Kirk walked softly across the large foyer room
and quietly pushed open a door to the left. Naia, clad as always, in
beauty, lay sleeping on a bed that stood out from the wall on two narrow
rods of metal and needed no other support.
As Kirk opened his mouth, Naia awakened, so she was looking calmly at
him as he spoke. "Up, baby. You've got a date with a hot electrode a lot
of light years from here. It's a hike, so rise and shine."
Naia sat up very slowly, very gracefully. She was what men dream of
finding in bed beside them. What they marry to keep in bed beside them.
"You must be mad."
"As a hatter, baby. Into your duds." He saw her glance at the door jamb
of the bedroom entrance, saw the shadow of disappointment in her lovely
eyes. "You didn't put those Joe Louis light rays in your bedroom, did
you?"
Naia set her feet on the floor and drew herself to her full height. She
wore light blue, a gown that hung as had that of Guinevere, as that of
the Maid of Shalot.
But Naia was contempt. She was contempt clothed in cold blue, then
contempt naked as she allowed the gown to fall to the floor. A few
minutes later, she was contempt clothed for the street in tight britches
and a loose blouse.
"You go first," Kirk said. "And do as you're told. You may be a
Mythoxian, but this .45 doesn't know that. It puts big holes in
anybody."
As Mala walked serenely toward the hall door, there was only a touch of
sullenness at the corners of her mouth. She turned her head to speak
over her shoulder. "Hiding behind a woman, brave Earthman?"
"Yes and no. I'm hiding behind a woman from those damn straight-left
rays; and I'm not a brave Earthman. I spend most of my time scared to
death. That's why all of us are getting back to Earth quick, so I can
draw an easy breath."
"All of us?"
"Oh yes. Didn't I tell you? You're taking me to the places I can find
Alma Dakin and Orin. We're going to have witnesses and testimony. And
the party who gets burned isn't going to be Paul Cordell."
"I won't--"
"Hold it, honey."
Kirk had picked up two items upon leaving Naia's apartment. A pair of
filmy silk stockings and a white scarf. He jerked Naia's hands behind
her back in somewhat of a surprise move. Before she recovered, her
wrists were tightly bound. She gasped, "You--madman," just before he
deftly pulled the scarf across her mouth and twisted it into an
effective gag. He stepped back to admire his handywork.
"Now we're all ready. Orin and Alma."
Naia shook her head in a slow negative, Kirk pushed her gently into the
hall and rounded to face her. "Yes, baby," he said. "You ought to know
now I won't be stopped. I need Orin to fly that space buggy. If I don't
get him we can't go. Then there'd be nothing left for me to do but even
the score for Paul Cordell. He'll have to go but you'll keep him
company."
Naia stood like a statue, apparently considering. Then she moved slowly
down the corridor in the opposite direction from which Kirk had come.
Down three curving flights and stopping finally in front of a door
identical to her own. Kirk stepped forward and leaned firmly on the
knob. The door opened. He knew where the bedroom was in these apartments
now. He pushed Naia ahead of him, into the bedroom and saw Alma lying
with her eyes closed.
Kirk whirled, just in time to level his gun and bring Orin to a dead
stop. "Over by the bed, high-born." As Orin complied, Kirk leered at
Naia. "That was clever, but I had it doped. I spotted them for husband
and wife or the Mythox equivalent quite some time back. A good chance
shot to hell."
"What do you want here?" Orin demanded.
"A chauffeur. We're heading Earthward on the first ship. That's the one
out in the jungle."
"But you talked to Tamu. I thought--"
"I'd been suckered? No, no my friend! On the force they called me the boy
with the one-track mind."
"I can see what they meant," Orin sighed.
"I thought you would. Tell your wife to get dressed. We're getting an
air-sled."
"You might have the decency to--"
"I won't turn my back. You can stand between us. That's the best I can
do."
* * * * *
Alma dressed swiftly in a costume similar to Naia's. When they were
ready to leave, Kirk said, "Now let's get it straight once and for all.
I'll stand for no fast moves. It's Earth, or some quick slugs. Do you
follow me?"
They did not speak but they evidently believed Kirk because, fifteen
minutes later, the party of four stood beside the ugly ship while thick
trees and grasses whispered around them.
"Inside."
In the corridor, Orin stopped and turned as though having thought of a
convincing argument he was bent upon trying. Kirk poked him sharply in
the ribs with the barrel of the .45 and he moved on after the women
toward the ladder and thence to the motor room.
Once inside, Orin turned and spoke sharply. "Won't you reconsider?"
"Push the levers, Jack. The right ones."
"Tamu is a reasonable man. We could talk to him again. He would make
even a more generous offer."
"I'm waiting."
"Certainly you did not refute the logic of his argument? We are in the
right. Our case is just. The galaxies must be protected from--"
"The right levers, Jack."
"--from those who through ignorance, stupidity, or ferocity would
destroy it."
"One more minute of this and there'll be dead people aboard this ship."
"You're helpless, really. You can't fly this ship without me. Therefore
my life is safe. I merely refuse to launch it."
"Would you like a dead wife?"
Orin whitened perceptibly.
"She may be a wife to you, but to me she's just a doll who helped lie a
man into the chair."
"You wouldn't do it! You haven't got the nerve to shoot down a man or a
woman in cold blood."
Kirk looked steadily into Orin's eyes. "You don't believe that do you,
bud?"
Orin held the gaze for a long time. Then he dropped his eyes. "No. I
don't believe it."
"Then get to work."
"One last offer. Won't you reconsider. Join us?"
"No!"
"Very well."
And Orin, a fixed, taut look on his face, reached forth his hand and
touched a button on the panel board. It was a very special button.
A button for use only when all hope was gone.
The exploding space-time ship lighted the countryside to blinding
brilliance.
* * * * *
A.P. Jan 21st--Shortly after midnight today, Paul Cordell,
convicted killer in the famous "woman from Mars" case, was put to
death in the electric chair at the state penitentiary.
End of Project Gutenberg's Twelve Times Zero, by Howard Carleton Browne
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