The Touch of Death (18 page)

She looked at Banister again.

“We can beat them,” Doggett breathed. “We'll have to get Klim away, and—”

“We haven't a minute to waste,” Sophie said urgently.

As she spoke, the door opened again; she cried out and fell, her eyes filling with dread. Banister saw her fall, knew she had been shot with guns which made no sound. Men ran into the room, and as they came, Banister realised that the only hope lay in those conspirators who had left the room before the raid.

 

THE AGE OF DESTRUCTION

 

 

Palfrey sat in a room at Brierly Place, in London, one of London's gracious houses in a gracious square. The room was large. He sat at a table, with everyone else in the room in front of him. There were nearly a hundred men. Here and there, one stirred; here and there, a match struck or a lighter clicked or a man coughed. Those were the only sounds.

No eye turned away from Palfrey.

He talked, knowing that hardly one of those in the room wanted to believe him; but knowing, also, that most of them did.

Fear was in this room, like icy particles in the air.

He had known fear like it before, but had never known it come so swiftly.

There had been anxiety in the minds of different governments for some weeks, but until the past few days, no one had dreamt of the extent of Anak's threat.

By Palfrey's side sat his wife, Drusilla; a dark-haired woman of great beauty.

Next to her was Andromovitch; and on Palfrey's other side, Bruton.

At the doors; on the stairs; outside in the street, were Z.5 agents, concentrated here for the time being. Men of great importance had come and must be guarded, but the guards knew what the great men did not; there was no positive security; no way of making sure that those who had come to see Palfrey would leave alive; or, if they left safely, would ever reach their Embassies or their Ministries or the Cabinet Room at Number 10.

Palfrey was about to tell them that.

His voice was very quiet, almost gentle. He had told them what he had seen at High Peak; everything that had happened. He sensed the disbelief, but also sensed something stronger. Against their inclinations, against logic and their own intelligence, these men were afraid that he was telling the truth. If they fought against accepting it, that was because they could not see any other way in which they could fight.

They were helpless . . .

Palfrey said in the same quiet voice: “Although Morris-Jones and two other equally brilliant research physicists were working on
fatalis
, and although we had contrived to find samples of the actual substance, a colourless, odourless liquid which appears slightly viscous – sticky – to the touch, none of us knows what
fatalis
is, how it is made, or how we can protect ourselves against it. There is no certainty of protection. The fact that it can be passed on by the dead victims for an hour or more after their death means that it could spread very quickly. We've seen a dog and a cat used to spread it; we can imagine what would happen if the common house-fly—”

He stopped.

He had the trick of catching his audience at exactly the right moment; of being able to play upon the minds of assembled men. Perhaps it was chance; perhaps he had seen the fly settle on the desk in front of him. He looked at it. It showed up against the white paper. It rubbed its front legs together.

He went on: “. . . were to be infected. It might settle anywhere, on a hand, a head – you know how flies settle. What is worse, if that one were infected, then it would leave
fatalis
on the paper; wherever it landed, there it would leave
fatalis
. Flies have been one of the commonest forms of disease carrier for centuries, but they've never had the chance of carrying anything like this.”

The fly flew off the paper.

The men at the front dodged, one man struck at the fly wildly, and another cried out.

“
That
one's all right,” Palfrey said.

There was a moment of quiet; the men who had moved looked shamefaced but still frightened. The fly buzzed about Palfrey's head; and then he saw that several others were weaving their haphazard pattern about the alabaster bowl of a pendant light fitting.

“Are you sure it is?” asked Andromovitch.

No one spoke.

The sense of horror crept back.

“If that one were charged with
fatalis
most of us in the room would be dead by now,” Palfrey said dryly. “But you're right, Stefan, it's impossible to be absolutely sure. The stuff can come from anywhere, be carried by any animal or insect or human being, and can be deadly even when it's on inanimate objects – a newspaper, for instance, a wall, a packet of cigarettes.”

He stopped again; and before he went on, a man said in a hoarse voice: “I do not believe it, I just do not believe this is possible.” He jumped up. “You are trying to frighten us!”

“Am I?” asked Palfrey, softly. “I saw some films when I was with Anak. He gave me a complete set.” He leaned towards Bruton. “Fix the cine, Corny, will you?”

 

When the light of the projector went out, Andromovitch and Drusilla Palfrey pulled up the blinds, and daylight fell upon faces of men which seemed to have turned to chalk; upon eyes which had an unusual and an alarming brilliance.

“It's the same all over the world,” Palfrey said. “This madman looking down on us can do whatever he likes, and we have no idea how the destruction is caused. It is called
pulveris,
but that's only a name. Nothing like it has yet been found in our own research units anywhere. It has the destructive power of atomic bombs without the burning power and without the range. It can be rigidly controlled – as if a beam were being projected on to the building which is to be destroyed, much as the beam from the projector fell on the screen.”

He paused.

A man muttered: “It's hell on earth,” but didn't go on.

Palfrey said: “Up at High Peak, Anak talked about an Age of Destruction. He is the sole judge of what shall be destroyed and what shall be left alone. I have been back ten days. I was told after the seventh day – by letter – that certain towns would be disintegrated next day, to remind me that I must quicken your minds. They were destroyed. Gentlemen, Anak wants a guarantee of co-operation. He wants to be acknowledged at the World Court as Supreme Judge. He wants to tell us exactly what to do – and unless we agree, he'll destroy. We may not yet live in the Age of Destruction, but certainly we live in the days of destruction. I—”

He stopped. He heard a strange sound, behind him, and at the same time saw the horror fastening upon the faces of the men in front of him. He turned.

He saw the walls of the house opposite cracking open, and the rumbling sound came from that. He heard cries and screams from the street, the blare of car horns and the sound of people running.

Great cracks appeared in the wall, as bricks loosened and windows fell in. The cracks grew into gaps. The roof caved in. The chimneys fell. The rumbling sound had become thunder, now; all other sounds were drowned. He saw dust beginning to rise, billowing up, getting thicker and yet thicker, but before it hid the tottering walls from view they had disappeared.

 

“Now we've got it,” Bruton said in his clipped voice; the voice which he used whenever the forces seemed to be too great for him. “Now we know just where we stand, Sap. It couldn't be worse if this were an invasion from another planet.”

“What do you think will happen, Sap?” Andromovitch asked.

Palfrey began to toy with a few strands of hair at his forehead. His eyes looked very tired, and the lids drooped. He didn't speak for some time; when he did it was very quietly.

“We'll give in, of course.”

Andromovitch stood up and moved towards the window. His great height blocked the view, but he looked at the heap of dust, the ambulances still standing outside, the cordon of police guarding it and moving on the crowds which thronged to see the birth of a new terror.

“Moscow?”

“They'll have to give in,” Palfrey said.

“I suppose so.”

Bruton jumped up.

“We can't do it. We just can't do it!”

“We'll do it, if it's the only way of saving ourselves for a while, and gaining time,” Palfrey said wearily. “Somewhere up in the high mountains there is Banister and his hopes. It's hardly worth calling a chance now.”

“How long did they need?” Andromovitch asked.

“They couldn't say – they couldn't even be sure that they would be able to do anything, no matter how much time they had,” said Palfrey. “I've hoped against hope that we'd get a message from them somehow, but “ He broke off and shrugged.

The telephone bell rang.

Palfrey was nearest, leaned forward and lifted it.

“Palfrey speaking.”

“Dr. Palfrey,” a woman said in a pleasant voice, “I think you will find some interesting things happening at the Wentworth Stadium this afternoon. When you've seen it or heard about it, perhaps you will stop wasting time. I shall telephone again for a message for Anak tomorrow.”

Palfrey put the telephone down, but held it fast; he looked at the others with new dread.

“Get a car,” he said thickly. “ ‘Silla, you keep out of it. I'll want you here, to pick up messages.” He banged the receiver up and down, then dialled Whitehall 1212. “Scotland Yard . . . Assistant Commissioner Chatworth, please . . . Sir Guy, is it possible to empty Wentworth Stadium at once? . . . Yes, I know there are a hundred thousand people there, and I know it's a big match. . . . Listen, Chatworth, there was a village in the Cotswolds . . .”

 

For the past three hours, all roads had led to Wentworth; tubes, trains, buses, taxis, private cars and cycles had all headed for one of the great matches of the International Soccer season. A hundred thousand fans were all ready to roar for their favourites; were warming up with community singing, until cheers began to go through the serried ranks like waves.

In the great stand which ran all the length of one side of the field, the brilliant emerald patch which was one of the sporting prides of England, there was hardly a vacant seat. There was a constant roar of talk and singing of rattles and of hawkers' cries. There were ten men to every woman, yet there were plenty of women.

Men, women, children . . .

It was ten minutes to three.

The loud-speaker vans outside began to blare. The last throngs were heading for the gates, with their tickets ready, and they heard the loud-speakers but did not heed them. They heard the noise but not the words.

The voices over the loudspeakers were calm enough: “Listen, everybody, this is a special announcement. Due to circumstances beyond our control the match this afternoon has been cancelled. We are extremely sorry to tell you that the ground must be emptied just as quickly as possible. A serious epidemic—”

People began to take notice.

“
What's
that?”

“No game?”

“What the hell do they think they're talking about?”

“Put a sock in it, mate!”

“There'll be a match all right or I'll ruddy well known the reason why.”

At last, the message was heard and understood both inside and outside the ground. People were uneasy, indignant, vociferous in protest. They argued. The police wouldn't give the order if it weren't necessary. It was all a lot of nonsense, a scare – probably a trick to let crowds outside the ground find room inside.

“We'd better go.”

“Stay tight, we'll be all right.”

No one knew where or how the disaster began. Afterwards, a dozen people said that flashes appeared to come from different parts of the ground at the same moment – flashes brighter than the sunlight, brightening up the smiling green of the grass with the corner flags fluttering bravely and the white lines so sharp and clear.

With the flashes, people fell.

There were over a hundred thousand of them, standing so close together that it was impossible for one to move without touching someone else. People staggered and fell – and died. Then as fear and panic spread and they began to rush towards the gates, a new danger quickly turned into a new horror. The people were jammed so tightly together that they could not move. When a flash came, it spread so swiftly among the crowd that it seemed like sheet lightning; and there were no intervals between the flashes.

People slumped down and died; people stood up and died, held erect by the pressure of their neighbours. The cries from the loud-speakers slackened and then died away as the police in the cars looked upon the shambles.

Up on the roof of the stand, on the advertisement hoardings, even on the cross-bars of the goals people crouched and knelt and stared down at the silent masses. These people, alive, dared not move. A solitary loud-speaker sounded, warning them to stay where they were and to make no contact with the dead.

The news spread, then, over the rooftops; no one spoke of it above a whisper, yet it travelled into houses, kitchens, into the ears and hearts of waiting women and children. Tragedy swept over London and its winds blew north, south, east and west.

 

The angels of death struck at crowds in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles.

Party rallies in Russia and the Communist satellite countries were hushed.

Masses of people in cities all over the world felt the winds of fear, and a strange silence came after them, as if the people realised that this was a horror against which they and their governments had no defence at all. It was as if a threat had come from a different world; as if they were doomed to stand helpless, allowing the unseen, unknown enemy to strike wherever he willed.

Soon, the people turned upon the governments.

“Make peace,” they cried, “make peace!”