The Touch of Death (17 page)

Sweat poured off his body.

“How did Palfrey find us, Banister?
”

“He followed Morris-Jones. He—”

They thrashed him with the cat.

“How did Palfrey find us, Banister?
”

“He followed Morris-Jones. He—”

They struck and kicked and twisted his arms and legs, and tortured him diabolically, yet did not drive him into unconsciousness, kept him so that he could always suffer more.

They flashed powerful, blinding, burning lights in front of his eyes, and slapped his face, right-left-left-left-right-left.

They stopped.

“
How did Palfrey find us, Banister?
”

“He followed Morris-Jones.”

 

They bathed his lacerated back and face, on the first day; and massaged his limbs on the second day; and now, on the beginning of the third, he walked out of the room freely and easily, without any feeling of pain or soreness. But he remembered everything.

He walked slowly towards the main street, which he knew well. A few people recognised and smiled at him, he spoke to several of them. He saw the round-faced American youth hurrying into a shop; the American took no notice of him. It was a library; Banister knew that he would have no excuse to go in there, so he walked on.

He reached the entrance to the house where he knew he should find Rita, and perhaps Klim; possibly Anak.

He hesitated, then went in.

Palfrey was sitting back in an easy-chair, looking as much at home there as he might in his own home. He also looked rested, and free from strain and fear. That was a shock in itself.

Rita was at the desk, with the typewriter pushed to one side, studying some columns of figures. She looked up – she jumped up and came hurrying. Before Banister could move, she had put her arms round him; he felt the warm touch of her lips. He felt the magnetism of her beauty, too; he could not hate her as he knew that he should.

“It's so good to see you again!” she exclaimed, and stood back.

“Is it?” Banister said.

“Young love,” Palfrey murmured, and took out cigarettes. “I can see what they mean by claiming that this place is perfection.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice; hadn't he suffered? How could he
act
; pretend? “You couldn't have a more perfect welcome than that!”

Banister said: “I suppose not.” He could almost believe that Palfrey had been hypnotised into acceptance of Anak's mastery.

“You'll forget all that happened to you,” Rita said, quite lightly. “It's all over. You won't have to go through that again. And you
must
admit that we can heal the body wonderfully.”

“Wonderfully,” Banister echoed, stiffly.

Palfrey said in a sharper voice: “Snap out of it, Neil. You ought to know by now that it's necessary to have complete obedience, of mind and heart. They had to know how I followed Morris-Jones, and daren't allow the possibility of any error. How can one blame them? With such a conception as this—”

He spread his hands. He looked dazed; perhaps dazzled was a better word, as if there were a light, a vision, of such power that he could not really see; yet he could comprehend the ineffable beauty which lay on it. Yet when Rita looked away from him his expression changed, as if he were trying to convey a secret, urgent, message.

“It would be crazy to fight against it any longer,” he said. “Anak has all the qualities to make a world leader, all the scientific know-how; everything. Even if we could fight it, we shouldn't. I'm going down below to present his ultimatum to UNO – and all governments through UNO. Very simple – and of course he's right – he wants unconditional surrender.”

Banister sat down, abruptly.

“You agree, of course,” Palfrey said brusquely.

Was
he serious? His eyes were blank, he seemed to be.

“If—if they hadn't tortured me,” Banister muttered, “I'd feel happier.”

Palfrey couldn't
believe
– could he? Remember Palfrey had seen those slaves; the slave-driver; everything.

“They did it to me,” Palfrey said briskly. “It was just one of those things. Forget it. I'm going down below to try to make some of them see sense. Amazing how different things look from up here.” He drew at the cigarette and gazed at the ceiling, as if the vision were still there.

Palfrey – looking, behaving, as if he had really been converted.
Was
it possible?

“One gets a better perspective, a truer balance,” he said. “One can breathe. Picture the world we're going to make, Neil, just as soon as we're ready. Preserving all the best of the world below, in people and in buildings, and just wiping out the rest – painlessly.”

He stood up.

His eyes glowed.

“That's the beauty of it,” he said, in an exalted voice. “Painlessly. No one need suffer, there will be no pointless destruction, no vandalism. Those who can serve us, will survive, those whose lives are purposeless—” He shrugged.

“But I needn't tell you!” He laughed, unexpectedly, moved to Rita, hugged her with one arm and kissed her lightly. “You were one of the first to see the truth. Look after Neil, while I'm gone.”

“I'll do that.” Her voice was gentle, there was a smile in her eyes. “Everything will be all right now.”

The television screen, which had been glowing all the time, grew brighter; a man appeared on it.

“Will Dr. Palfrey report to the Council Chamber, please.”

“This is it,” said Palfrey. He turned towards the screen and pressed a switch. “Coming.” He behaved as if he were part and parcel of High Peak; he took everything for granted, nothing appeared to surprise him. He put his hands on Rita's shoulder, and kissed her again; less lightly. “I'll see you soon.” He swung away from her, and put out a hand to Banister.
“
Au
revoir
, Neil.”

“
Au
revoir
,” Banister said stiffly.

Palfrey nodded, and went towards the door, and Banister followed him. The figure faded from the screen. Palfrey mouthed words which had no sound, only a great significance.

“Up to you, understand?”

Banister gave an almost imperceptible nod, as Palfrey went out. He kept his expression blank but felt an inexpressible relief.

Palfrey was going below, to play for time, to give him a chance to organise up here.
Was
there the slightest hope?

Rita reached Banister's side.

“Let's go and see him off,” she said.

She led the way to one of the platforms with the great window overlooking the snow-clad peaks and the snow-filled valleys. This one overlooked hangars and small aircraft and, in the distance, the wreckage of another. After a few minutes, Palfrey appeared, walking on his snow-shoes. Two men were with him.

A small aircraft stood outside a hangar. It seemed no time before Palfrey and the other men climbed in.

It was the more eerie because the thick glass of the window muffled all sound; all Banister could hear was the breathing of the girl who stood by his side, touching his hand.

Smoke shot out of the rear of the aircraft; it stood there for a moment, and then the smoke grew blacker; there was movement, as of a great gust of wind – and then, a long way off, a silver streak showed in the sky.

It vanished.

“He's gone,” Rita said. “If he can persuade the governments below to do nothing for a few months—”

“Wrong way of dealing with the situation,” a man growled from Banister's side. Banister hadn't heard him come, but his voice and the way he spoke told him that it was Doggett. “We shouldn't bargain with the fools down below, we should just present an ultimatum. They'd accept it.” He turned round.

His hand touched Banister's, and there was a slip of paper in it. Banister clutched it. “You mark my words,” Doggett went on, “we use the velvet glove too much.”

He stalked off.

Banister slipped the paper into his pocket, then left the viewpoint with Rita. The paper seemed to burn through the cloth to the flesh.

 

 

Banister was never alone.

If people in the street, in the dining-hall, in the shops were not looking at him; if he were not in the room with Rita; then the screen glowed and he knew that wherever he stood, he could be seen. The slip of paper seemed like burning ice in his pocket, but he dared not take it out.

Rita was sitting back in an easy-chair, with a drink by her side, listening to a Brahms
concerto
on a radiogram. With the note still burning in his pocket, Banister watched her. The calm beauty appalled him; she was so sure that she was right. It was a form of madness; how could it be anything else?

The screen was glowing because they were being watched; it seemed to Banister that the watching was more intense since Palfrey had left, although that might be because of his own tension, his fears and burning desire to read the note.

An image appeared on the screen; Klim's.

“Rita, come to the Council Chamber, will you?”

“Yes, Klim.” She got up at once, as if with instinctive obedience. The image began to fade. “Shall I leave the radiogram on, Neil?”

“Er—yes. Thanks.”

She approached him, and smoothed his hair lightly with her right hand, then went on. The door swung behind her. She behaved as if she knew the kind of mental torment he was suffering, but that she also knew that it would not last for long.

The door stopped swinging.

The light still glowed.

Banister put his hand into his pocket and felt the paper; which was folded two or three times. Gradually, he unfolded it, until it was as flat as he could get it inside his pocket. He closed his eyes, appeared to be listening to the
concerto.
That would soon be over.

The music faded.

Banister stood up and went towards the radiogram, to switch it off. Just beside it there was a patch of shadow. He took his hand out of his pocket and held the paper in the shadow.

He read: “Dining-hall, 7.30, tonight.”

It was not yet five o'clock.

 

Doggett was in the dining-hall, after the evening meal, with seven or eight others, including the fair-haired Sophie, and Rita. There was one other woman – and Banister recognised her as Mick's wife. They were talking and arguing, Doggett was as disgruntled as ever, Rita seemed to be touched with unusual serenity. As usual, the television screens were glowing, there was no corner of the room that wasn't watched.

An image appeared – the Chinese announcer.

“Miss Rita, will you please go to the Council Chamber? Klim would like to see you again.”

“Yes, of course.”

Rita jumped up. She smiled at Neil, but didn't speak. The door, those doors which always swung to and fro, to and fro, until they stopped, swung maddeningly behind her.

It was twenty-five minutes to eight.

Banister looked at Doggett's long-jawed face, but saw nothing to encourage him. The others went on talking. If Doggett had his way, he would just smash the world below, and build up again – there was little worth preserving, it was an archaic form of life, anyhow. He got up when he had finished saying that, and went out. None of the others spoke of him, of Palfrey, or anything which seemed to do with the conspiracy.

Doggett came back.

There was a hush in the room, as all of them looked towards the lank-haired man. Sophie was as tense as any.

Banister became aware of an atmosphere which he had never sensed here before; it was utterly different. It showed especially in the expression of the two women.

Doggett said: “I should say we've got half an hour, with luck. Glyn is keeping watch, we'll be warned if anyone comes. Banister, we've faked the video, all that the controllers can see is an empty room. We've only managed to do it once before.”

Banister said quickly: “Doggett, do you know—”

“Just a minute,” Doggett said. The surliness had gone out of his voice, compassion was in its place. He looked at Mick's wife. “Mary,” he said gently, “I hate to tell you, but you have to know.”

He stopped.

Mick's wife said very slowly, very painfully: “He's— dead?”

“Yes.”

“Rita—” began Mick's wife, and didn't finish.

“Yes,” Doggett said. “Rita must have reported that he opened the wrong door and let Banister see what was happening in the new shafts. It's getting worse, every day. Anak and Klim are completely power drunk. Even if they were going to get away with all this, they couldn't afford to get rid of men like Mick. It's—” He broke off, mute with anger.

Mick's wife said in the same husky voice: “We can't waste time, Jim. What—what's the meeting about?” She looked as if she were trying to show a real interest, but could not. Her eyes were filled with the grief of parting; probably she could see nothing except the round face and the rounded blue eyes of her husband.

“All right,” Doggett said. “I think there's a chance that we can get away within the next seven days.”

Banister realised then that the escape plan had been their dream – as desperate as any in the history of war and tyranny. He saw the light of hope and of the courage which despair created in the eyes of all the men who watched Doggett.

“We have aircraft practically assembled,” Doggett went on. “They normally carry three men apiece; according to Mick and others in Project Ninety-seven, they can carry six at a pinch. That means there's room for all of us in the plan. We can get to Australia or New Zealand.”

There was a panting eagerness in his voice; and the others watched, open-mouthed now.

“Between us we can take samples of
fatalis
and
pulveris
,
documents, plans and formulae. Once they have all of that down below, they ought to be able to do plenty about it.”

Only Mick's wife seemed not to hear him. Banister was choked into silence by the desperate hope in Doggett and the others.

“The timing will be the difficult thing,” Doggett went on. “We mustn't take anything away until we're ready to go, if anything were missed—” He shrugged. “You don't need telling what that would mean. I'm not sure whether we can meet again in a group. I'll keep in touch, one by one, and—”

“We can't escape,” Banister made himself say.

The short, sharp statement cut across Doggett's voice, made the others turn their heads towards him, drove the dazed look out of Mick's wife's eyes. They looked at Banister as if he were mad.

“Don't be a fool,” Doggett said sharply. “We've planned this down to the last detail. We can use our own shaft which no one knows about – I'll tell you more about it later. What we want to know from you is what will be most useful down below. How much do they know about—”

“We can't go,” Banister said doggedly. “Palfrey's gone down to gain time. Anak's delivered your ultimatum at last.”

There was silence; tension; a growing sense of dread.

“He's used
fatalis
on a much bigger scale than ever before, and he's also used the disintegrating agent—”

Doggett exclaimed: “No!”

“Project One hundred and nine,” Sophie said hoarsely. “
Pulveris
.”

“I don't know what it's called, but it simply disintegrates buildings,” Banister said slowly, hurtfully. “Palfrey says that several smaller towns down below have been destroyed. Anak's demanded co-operation – collaboration – from governments below. If he doesn't get it, he's threatened to destroy big cities. He can do it, I gather.”

There was a long pause.

“Yes, he can – and will unless he gets what he wants,” said Doggett unexpectedly. “He wants absolute domination of the world. He's appointed himself the Supreme Being. He wants to create men and women in his own image and build a world fit for his perfect creatures to live in – and to do it, he'll destroy everything.”

Into a tense silence, Sophie said: “It's hideous, a sacrilege that—”

“Listen to me,” Banister broke in. “Palfrey's pretending to see it Anak's way. He's acting as a kind of envoy. That gives us a little time. We have to get at the supplies of
fatalis
and of the disintegrating agent, and must make sure that they can't be used. We've to find out where they're stored. The best we can do is name three individuals who can fly off, taking the information Palfrey needs – the location of other cities and mountain strongholds. If we fail with the rest of our job, Palfrey and the others down there still have some kind of a chance. So, we've two angles. One, find and destroy the source of power here; two, get all formulas and information to Palfrey.” He stopped.

Doggett said huskily: “Yes.” He looked ill.

Sophie said: “For seven
years
I've been planning, working, praying, thinking, dreaming, of getting out of here alive. For seven
years
.”

She seemed to wince.

Mick's wife said: “I've been here for five years, Mick was hoping that next year at the latest we'd get away. With the children. We—”

Banister said slowly, firmly: “I think I can guess what you feel like. I can't justify throwing my weight about like this, but—there
are
the two jobs. Destroy everything Anak can use, and take all possible information down below. Once we destroy the weapons . . .”

“We blow ourselves up,” a man said, in a queer, small voice.

Banister understood them; could get into their minds and feel as they did; he could not speak again.

They had come here, believing; hoping. Gradually the years had sapped their faith; gradually they had realised the empty mockery of the Higher World. Their minds, their thoughts, their hearts, their hopes – everything they possessed had been thrown into the passionate desire to escape. For years they had schemed, planned, dared – and now they were within reach of the moment when they could take their final chance.

The world “below”, for so long a dream, had become a practical possibility.

He, Banister, was taking it away from them; was crumbling up their vision and their hope as the walls of great buildings crumbled.

With the realisation there came fear and a question:
could
he trust them? Or would they put escape first?

The fear faded, when Doggett moved.

“That's right,” Doggett said, “we blow ourselves up. At least, we take the risk of doing it. Does it matter all that much?” He gave a queer, twisted grin. “Does it really make any difference? If we got down there safely and Anak released
pulveris
, we'd be blown to dust with the rest. In fact, if there's a chance to stay alive, this is it.”

A man said: “I suppose so,” and Banister's fear came back.

He asked hoarsely: “Is there a hope of taking over the whole place?”

No one answered, until Doggett said: “Mutiny,” in a flat voice.

“That's it.”

“I shouldn't think so. There are too many like Klim and Rita – enslaved by Anak. And far too many who just tag along with the rest, who don't think. Anak's perfect people aren't so different from the people below. They're smug and complacent, they drift along, they're happy enough if someone else does their thinking for them.”

Banister said: “We can't have much more time – here, or with the bigger scheme. Where can we meet and plan, how can we send messages?”

He felt better than he had since he had come here; now there was the possibility of planning, of acting; so now there was a reason for existence, something to do other than feel frightened or to feel the death of hope. He felt a passionate desire to work, fight, to stir these men to action.

Doggett said: “I'm in charge of the television system, and can fault it without anyone knowing, for a short time. We'll draw up a schedule of times and places where we can meet. In emergency I'll put the television out of action. I think we can get at the
fatalis
and the
pulveris
supplies. They're well guarded, but we've Resistance men in the different project rooms. Finding the other strongholds might be more difficult. We can try. Anak and Klim have been pretty close about that. We know the others exist, we don't know where.” He glanced at the television screen. “I think we ought to stop – it will come back into operation in a few minutes. I—”

He stopped speaking. Several of the men went out; so did the two women.

Doggett said to Banister: “Now don't take any chances. Fool Rita as long as—”

He was facing the door; and a completely new expression seemed to freeze his face.

The horror which touched him also touched two others who were still present. Banister felt as if his whole body had been forced into a strait-jacket. He stood like a statue, head turned towards the door – breathing with hardly a sign of movement, like the others.

Sophie stood there.

Klim was just behind her.

Klim moved forward. He didn't smile. He looked from man to man, sneeringly, contemptuously. His gaze lingered on none of them, until it fell on Doggett.

“I have suspected you for a long time, Doggett,” he said.

Doggett didn't speak.

A man said in a quivering voice: “Where's Glyn? Glyn was on guard, where's Glyn?”

“Glyn is on the way to the work shafts. He won't succeed in killing himself.” There was no expression in Klim's voice, and only cold contempt showed in his face. “The rest of you will soon be there. And as for Banister—”

He turned towards Banister.

“I have learned whom to trust,” he said. “And I have learned how to punish.”

“But you made a mistake,” Sophie said, “even your perfection has a blemish, Klim. Because you trusted me.”

Banister caught his breath.

“No, don't move,” the girl went on in the same quiet voice, and stretched out her hand towards Klim. “I thought it safer to take a charge of
fatalis
. If I should touch you, there would be a most unfortunate accident.”