The Touch of Death (11 page)

The Chinese girl smiled.

“Yes, Miss Rita, one moment.”

Her face disappeared; the screen still glowed. Banister looked at it, as if he could not believe his eyes; and he could not. He saw Rita's smile – and the beauty of it, the lovely lines of her lips, meant nothing for the moment. He couldn't think beyond a kind of awed wonder.

The Chinese girl came back.

“Yes, that will be all right, but Klim says please be back by five o'clock.”

“I will—thanks, Yun Lin.” Rita switched off, tossed back her hair again, and said: “That gives us an hour. Or would you rather have a rest?”

He stood up, slowly.

“I'll come with you.”

“I thought you would,” she said.

She slid her arm through his, and they walked out together, pushing the door, which swung to behind them.

During the next hour, Banister found that no doors locked; not even in the houses, between room and room. Somehow, that registered in his mind as remarkable, even among this city of fantastic wonder.

Rita led him, always with a hand on his arm, down the steps and into the streets; and they
were
streets. It was as if some giant system of caves had been turned into a modern city in the mountains. Rita told him a little – of the engineers who had perfected the system of ventilation; who had created artificial light so that it was like daylight all the time – it would fade with the day outside, she said, and the city would be lit by different lamps. Air-conditioning was adjustable, too; it was cooler at night than during the day.

Banister listened, marvelling.

There were shops where most things one would buy in the “outside” world were on show; windows were attractively dressed, too. He saw people, young and middle-aged, go in and come out, carrying whatever they wanted.

He could not really believe all this.

He saw two children probably about ten, go into a sweetshop, and caught a glimpse of them helping themselves. They came out, without paying.

He said in a dry voice: “So you have done away with thieving.”

Rita laughed.

“You can't steal your own goods! This really
is
community life, Neil. We have no money, no currency or coinage. What there is, all can have. No one has too much, because it wouldn't be fair. Now and again individuals have tried to get more than their share, but they didn't try for long.”

“So you've a prison.”

He wanted to hurt her, wanted to spoil the picture that she was drawing for him, but she seemed impervious to sarcasm; if in fact she noticed it.

“We haven't, as a matter of fact. A man did start taking too much, a month ago. We just had a meeting of his district or commune, the facts were stated, he was told not to do it again. He didn't! Somehow, one doesn't. I know it takes an awful lot to believe, but we're creating a perfect society. The kind of society the Christians and some humanists have believed in but practical men like Palfrey have always thought impossible. He
does
think that, you know.”

Banister said stiffly: “Does he?”

“He may not say he does, but he can't really believe in perfection, like this. I didn't, until I experienced it. Yet I'm sorry that we clashed with him,” Rita went on. “I like Palfrey, and he has quite a personality. We could use him here.”

Banister said dryly: “I've no doubt you could,” and suddenly found that he felt better.

“We may get him, yet,” Rita said. “That's up to you.”

She walked on . . .

People with white faces, black faces and yellow faces moved about the streets, went in and out of the shops, to three cinemas, the schools, the lecture halls, the workshops, factories and the private houses. They were all dressed very simply, the men with shirts and shorts, khaki, cream or white, and the women in simple dresses but of no uniform colour. Red, yellow and green were most popular. The common factor which Banister saw himself, and which Rita carefully avoided mentioning, was the glow of health which shone in the eyes and on the faces of all the people. They walked with a great confidence; like members of a master race. Even the children.

There were crèches . . .

“One crèche for every fifty families,” Rita explained. “We find that the family is the best unit, after all, although we have very simple divorce laws. Oddly enough, they're seldom exercised, people who are happy and content don't want to leave their partners. That's if they have something to do to keep them busy! We've none of the usual stresses of daily life. The children are put into the nurseries and later in nursery school, the parents have them home when they want them. Every adult has to work at least six hours a day.”

She went on and on . . .

Banister found himself reeling under the impact of the things he saw; felt a new kind of horror.

This could not be real, but some dreadful nightmare, an awful illusion, a mirage which would surely fade. Here was a picture of perfection, a mockery of perfection, made by people who could kill without compunction.

Forget that!

When he remembered their readiness to kill, it clothed them and this dream-world in reality. It couldn't be real. They must have doped him. The voluptuous illusions of hashish, marihuana or opium must be conjuring up these mind pictures. Black, white and yellow didn't live together in perfect amity anywhere in the world. Black, white and yellow children, olive-skinned children . . .

“And of course, mixed marriages are common,” Rita said. “They're more common than marriages between people of the same colour here. The result is a kind of coffee-coloured race. Klim says that the future—”

A child came running out of a shop.

“Oh, Miss Rita!”

“Yes, Rose?”

“Klim wants you,” said the child, “he's just asked for you on the video screen.”

“Oh, my goodness, it's after five,” Rita exclaimed. “We mustn't keep Klim waiting.”

That was the first note of uneasiness which had crept into her voice; the first thing to suggest anything but serene contentment in this city within the mountains, this world that was out of the world.

“Hurry, Neil,” she begged.

Or Klim would be displeased . . .

 

 

Klim did not appear to be displeased. He stood by himself in the room where Banister had first been. The strength of his features had not appeared so outstanding to Banister before, but he remembered what an impression that man had made when he had entered the house in Rotorua.

It was easy to imagine him as a kind of dictator, an all-powerful being. Banister sensed that, although Rita hadn't said so; probably no one would ever say so, because that would suggest that there was a blemish upon perfection.

“Hallo, Rita,” Klim said, and nodded to Banister. “You're looking better already,” he added. “I'm sorry I had to hurry you. I have to go to Miracle Ridge today.” That was for Rita. “I shan't be back for three or four days. That will give Banister time to settle down, and you can give him anything he wants.”

Rita said: “Very well.”

“What's the matter?” Klim asked, almost sharply.

“Nothing.”

“Of course there is – why did you look like that?”

“Why must you go to Miracle Ridge?” Rita asked.

“My dear, I've told you before that you're too soft-hearted,” Klim said. “I think Banister would understand more readily than you do, in some ways!” He actually frowned. “Rita, you
must
rid yourself of these old-fashioned ideas. We had to get rid of a small town at the foot of the range on the Mato Grosso in South America. They were only peons, virtually savages. This ridiculous nonsense about the equality of human beings, about the sanctity—” He broke off. “Never mind. Banister, you will have to submit yourself to thorough medical examination – after that, you can go where you like.”

Banister didn't speak.

“How did you become immune to
fatalis?
” Klim asked, abruptly.

“It's a natural immunity,” Banister said.

“We shall find out,” Klim told him, then turned away; he didn't say good-bye.

The door swung after him, kept swinging, and then slowly settled down. Neither of the people left in the room moved.

“The perfect world,” Banister said, at last.

Rita looked into his eyes, with pain in hers.

“It is—it can be,” she said. “It can—” She broke off.

She looked about her, and he saw that she stared mostly at the television screen. “Of course it is,” she said abruptly, and he had a feeling that she had forced herself to alter what she had been going to say.

She was frightened; no matter how she might deny it,
she
was frightened.

Banister didn't speak.

“I am third in command here,” Rita said suddenly, fiercely. “There are a number of cities. Miracle Ridge is one not far away. The others are—”

A sharp sound came from the television.

Rita caught her breath as she looked towards it, then went on in a voice which wasn't so calm but was quite steady: “The others are in different parts of the world. When Klim gets back, he will probably tell you more about them. They're really key cities, of course – eventually, they will be the capitals of the different provinces. Each is well-nigh impregnable. When we began, we weren't very strong. An armed movement against us might have succeeded. There's no danger of that, now. We could release flies, birds, animals, anything we like, among armies. Death would strike quickly. We know how to make certain creatures carriers during a limited period of immunity. They die, eventually. We can defeat any army—but we aren't quite ready to take over.”

Banister said stonily: “Take what over?”

“The world,” she said.

There it was, in all its naked clarity, all its madness. Here was the evidence which Palfrey sought, which justified Palfrey's belief that there was a deadly threat to mankind.

They “weren't quite ready” to take over the world!

“Compare ordinary people with us, Neil. Then you'll see that we're creating a race of supermen. There'll be no room for the oddities, for misshapen creatures, for fools, for the ailing. That's all we're trying to do – make people perfect.”

She stopped.

“There's nothing I'd like better,” Banister said. He took her arms suddenly, savagely. “But murder's a blot on perfection, can't you get that into your head? How on earth you let them blind you to—”

He kissed her fiercely.

She didn't relax, didn't move, didn't resist.

He pushed her away from him.

Then the door opened, and another woman came in. She was young, and – different. In her beauty, and she was lovely, there was a hint of something unfamiliar – she was probably of mixed blood. She moved easily, and had something of the gaiety of Marion.

“I don't want to interfere,” she said in a voice that was slightly husky, “but some of us thought that Neil might like to come and join us.”

There was a pause.

Banister sensed the strain between the two women. No word had been said, nothing in the way they looked at each other suggested strain, but there it was.

“That's a good idea,” Rita said. “All right, Sophie, we'll come right away.”

 

Three days later, Banister knew that he was watched all the time, wherever he was; and that others were watched, too. There was no solitude. It grew upon him, slowly at first, that there was little real naturalness – except round the meal tables when groups talked freely about ideas and ideologies, always with sneering reference to the other world “below”. For the rest, everyone was careful what they said, what they did; careful of the very expressions on their faces.

Rita was.

Sophie was.

Even a lank-haired man who often talked about being impatient, of wanting to “finish” the other world, seemed to be talking for effect; behaving as a man would if he knew that secret eyes were upon him every minute.

Banister was watched, then – whether he was alone, or with Rita or with a crowd; eyes followed him. He was not told the result of the medical examination; he assumed that they were satisfied that he had a natural immunity, but he couldn't be sure.

On the fourth day a strange and ugly thing happened.

The day began smoothly. If anything, Banister felt a little better than he had. Rita hummed to herself when she sat working over some figures in the big room, with a typewriter beside her. Sophie wasn't there.

The television screen flickered.

They looked up at it; and Banister began to realise how quickly he had come to accept this as a part of daily life. There were no telephones, and the personal television operated smoothly; each screen had its own wavelength, and messages for one individual were not shown on all screens but general messages could be shone on them all at the same time.

“Rita,” a man said, and Banister recognised Klim.

It didn't disturb her. She moved towards the screen and pressed a button.

“Hallo, Klim, how are you?” It was almost as if she were speaking in the same room.

“I'm all right. I hope to be back tonight. We're anxious to see how Project Ninety-seven is going. Find out and report back as soon as you can, will you?”

“Yes, Klim. May I take Neil?”

“Please yourself,” Klim said. “ ‘Bye.”

His picture faded from the screen.

“There aren't many places here you haven't seen yet,” Rita said, getting away from the screen and picking up her handbag. “This will interest you, Neil.”

“Good.”

“Let's go.”

There was no doubt that she was calmer in spirit than she had been for several days. They walked briskly along the streets, which were now becoming familiar; so were people. Men and women Banister knew by sight nodded and smiled; some of the people whom he knew by name would come upon him unexpectedly, nod or smile, and say: “Hallo, Neil.”

He had become accepted.

They turned a corner when the lank-haired man came from the other direction. He was the only one Banister had met here whom he actively disliked. That was partly because of the other's overbearing manner. He had a long, sallow face with hollow cheeks, and looked less healthy than most of the people in the fastness. His eyes were almost black, always shiny. His lips were thin, and most of the time were curled sardonically. There was always the bite of sarcasm in his voice.

He ignored Banister.

“Hey, Rita, where's Sophie?”

“She's gone to Miracle Ridge.”

“Why the hell don't people
tell
me these things?” growled the lank-haired man.

He pushed past them.

They went through a swing door which Neil hadn't seen before, at the extreme end of one of the smaller private roads, where the flat-topped, single-storey houses stood side by side like a model of a model settlement.

They entered a narrow street – more like an alley than a street, lit by the same unending and unvarying daylight. This was a world without sun but with sunlight; without clouds or rain, snow or hail, without mist, without wind.

Several doors led off to the right and the left; and these had locks. Banister was touched with an unexpected excitement.

Rita stopped halfway along the alley.

“This will do,” she said, “we'll change halfway.”

“Change?”

“We want to go up to factory and laboratory level,” she told him, “and we have to use the elevators. None going straight to the laboratory we want is free.”

She pressed a button by a door. It slid open. They stepped into a small elevator, panelled in plastic, and the door slid to behind them. They started to go up, and Banister could not judge their speed, because he had nothing to judge by. The uncanny feeling that he had felt when he had first arrived here came back; there was a sense of eeriness, too. This was a shaft driven through a high mountain – and if each door led to a lift or elevator, then there were at least a dozen shafts.

They stopped, and the door slid open.

They stepped forward – and Banister caught his breath sharply.

There was a great window opposite the lift doors, and for the first time since he had arrived, he saw outside. It was a moment of exaltation; for here was grandeur and beauty and a strange, compelling sense of silence and of mystery.

They looked out upon the great peaks and the soft, embracing snow, all lit by the sun. Colours from the snow crystals touched the whiteness, soft and gentle shades that did not jar the eye. The peaks and rocks and jagged crevices showed dark and yet, somehow, they were made soft.

The snow had stopped and the cloud had gone, there was the pristine blueness of the sky, with the peaks etched against them. On a slope not far away, people were skiing – several dozen of them, men, women and children. Against a frowning ledge of rock there was a mountain chalet; this might have been part of Switzerland. Beyond the ski run and the chalet and the softness of that valley there were taller peaks and, between them, the sluggish, gigantic might of glaciers.

“Breath-taking, isn't it?” Rita said, softly.

Banister spoke without thinking.

“Perfect.”

He felt the touch of her hand upon his arm, and a gentle pressure. She didn't speak, but could not have said more clearly: “I told you so.”

He turned away from the window. They were in a kind of hallway, with doors leading in all directions. A green light glowed at one of the other lift shafts. Rita pressed the button, and the same thing happened. They were taken upwards. Now he had a mental image of the snow scene in his mind's eye; and sight of Rita, looking as if she felt vindicated at last, looking more carefree than she had for days.

The lift stopped; they went out, thrust open a door which had a lighted sign reading:
Project 97
, above it.

They went in.

It was a small laboratory. Banister recognised it as being up to date – stream-lined as it were – and very tidy. Several young people in white smocks stood about; obviously assistants. Behind a glass partition in one corner sat a man in a white coat and with white hair – and that gave Banister a shock.

He had seen no one so old since he had arrived here.

Standing over the white-haired man was a younger one. They were talking.

As Rita took Banister forward, the younger man banged the desk.

The white-haired man jumped up.

The glass walls cut off the sound, but obviously they were quarrelling.

“Stay here,” Rita said, and hurried forward.

Banister had no idea what she hoped to do. He knew that whatever it was, she was too late. The door opened before she reached it, the white-haired man thrust the younger aside and came striding out.

An assistant moved forward.

Banister saw his hand go out, saw the flash – and saw the white-haired man fall.