Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (104 page)

"I can't."

“Had you noticed him behaving queerly of late?”

“I don’t think so. I was his assistant, and I’m sure that I’d have noticed any exceptional peculiarity of his.” He thought a moment. “Up to three days ago he was more than usually preoccupied. That is nothing extraordinary in a person of his character and profession.”

“Why up to three days ago?” Graham persisted.

“I’ve not seen him since then. He’d taken a short leave of absence, to complete some work.”

“He gave you no indication of the nature of that work?”

“No. He was never communicative about his outside interests.”

“Did you know Professor Mayo or Doctor Webb?”

“I’ve heard of them. I don’t know them.”

“Did Reed ever mention either of them to you? Or had he spoken of being involved with them in any way?”

“No,” said Pritchard, positively.

Graham gave Wohl a look of defeat. “A dead end!” He returned his attention to Pritchard. “Reed was an eminent ophthalmic surgeon, I understand. Would that cause him to take a special interest in drugs?”

“Within certain limits it might.”

“Have you anyone here who is an authority on drugs in general?”

Pritchard pondered again. “I reckon Deacon is our best for that—d’you want him?”

“Please.”

He rang a bell. To the attendant who responded, he said, “Ask Doctor Deacon if he’s free to come here for a minute.”

Deacon arrived looking irritated. He was rubber-gloved and had a beam-light strapped over his iron-gray hair.

“This is a devil of a time to—” he began. He saw Graham and Wohl, added, “I beg your pardon.”

“Sorry to disturb you, doctor,” Graham soothed. “I’ll save your time by being brief. Can you tell me what happens to a person who paints himself with iodine and doses himself with mescal and methylene blue?”

“He ends up in an asylum,” asserted Deacon, without hesitation.

Wohl uttered a pained, “Youps!” and stared down at his stomach.

“You mean that literally?” pressed Graham. “It would expedite insanity?” “Nothing of the sort! I mean no more than that he’d be insane to do anything so pointless.”

“That isn’t what I want, doctor. I’m asking for the physical effects, without regard for the motive.”

“Well,” said Deacon, more amiably. “I don’t pretend to advise you as authoritatively as could certain other specialists, but I’d say the mescal would drive the subject higher than a kite if he absorbed a sufficient dosage. The methylene blue would cleanse the kidneys and discolor the urine. As for the iodine, it would function as a germicide, stain the skin and, being a halogen, would permeate the whole system in very short time.”

“Do you think the three in association might create another and more positive effect—say by one assisting the reaction of another, like a catalyst?”

“You’ve got me there,” Deacon confessed. “Multiple interactions are still the subject of research and will continue to be for many years to come.”

Graham stood up, thanked him and Pritchard, then said to Wohl, “Looks as if Reed was a very late comer in this deadly game. He never had time to say much, do much. Whatever is behind this can hit quick and hit hard.”

“It’s harder to hit a moving object,” observed Wohl, with grim humor. He followed Graham out. “Back to Sangster now?”

“Yes. We’d better get there fast. He’ll be jumpy if we don’t reach him soon.” Sangster had with him a tall, middle-aged and dapper individual of military appearance. Frowning pointedly at the clock as the two arrived, he introduced the newcomer as Colonel Leamington.

‘The entire investigation has been taken out of this department’s hands,” Sangster announced, without beating about the bush. Reaching across his desk, he handed Graham a paper.

The sheet rustled in his fingers as Graham read, “Your application for immediate transfer to the United States Intelligence Service has been approved, and said transfer is effected as of this date. You will take your commission and accept orders from Colonel John H. Leamington who, until further notice, you will regard as your departmental superior.”

Gulping as he noted the famous signature at the bottom of the letter, he looked inquiringly at Sangster. “But, sir, I have made no such application.”

“You may tear the letter up, if you wish,” Sangster remarked.

Colonel Leamington intervened with, “The position, Mr. Graham, is that we wish you to continue your investigation with better facilities than are accorded you in your present position.”

“Thank you,” he answered, somewhat dazed.

“One of our news-agency men reported the questions made by Harriman on your behalf. It drew our attention to a matter that otherwise might have escaped us for some time.” He stroked his neatly clipped mustache, his face serious, very serious. “Eleven of these departed scientists were Americans. They were men of incalculable value to their country. Great as it may be, their loss is as nothing when compared with the menace of further losses. The Government cannot ignore their sudden and mysterious demise.”

"I see."

‘Then you accept this commission?” pressed Colonel Leamington.

“Yes, yes, of course!” He studied the letter with concealed pride which was not lessened by Wohl's open envy. To be one of the Government’s most tried and trusted band, one of Uncle Sam’s most privileged operators!

Taking his ring from Leamington, he put it on the right hand, third finger. It fitted perfectly, and he knew that it must have been prepared in anticipation of his acceptance. He also knew that upon its super-hard iridium inner surface were delicate inscriptions too small to be seen with the naked eye; microscopic data giving his name, height, weight, Bertillon measurements and fingerprints formulae, as well as his Service number and a faithful though infinitely small copy of his own signature.

This modest ornament was his only badge, his only warrant of authority, its meaning concealed from all but those equipped to read—but it was the open sesame to officialdom everywhere.

As these thoughts passed through his mind there came a faint and eerie sense of overhanging peril; the warning note again, vague, indefinite, but thoroughly disturbing. He looked once more at his ring, knew that it could be regarded from another and ghastlier angle: it might prove the sole means of identifying him in horrible, mangling death—as many others had been so identified.

What was it that Webb had talked about? “Mutilated trash cast aside by super-vivisectionists.”

Pushing the memory aside, he said, “One thing, colonel: I would like to have the continued cooperation of Lieutenant Wohl. He’s in this as deeply as me—and we need each other.”

He evaded Wohl’s look of gratification, listened while Leamington replied.

“Har-humph! Somewhat irregular, but I think it can be arranged. I have little doubt that the chief of police can be persuaded to grant Lieutenant Wohl a roving commission until such time as he’s seen this job through.”

“Thank you, sir,” Graham and Wohl chorused.

Sangster’s phone yelped for attention, he answered it, passed it to Graham, saying, “Harriman.”

“Hello, Harriman,” called Graham. “Yes, I got your list. Thanks a lot!” He paused as the second phone on Sangster’s desk clamored deafeningly, and Sangster reached to take it. “There’s a deuce of a row here. The other phone bawling. What was that you said?” He paused, listened, then said, “Sorry, Harriman, I can’t tell you anything just yet. Yes, six times the average is something that calls for an explanation, and that’s what I’m out to get—if it can be got!”

He ceased speaking while Sangster put down the other phone and whispered, “Doctor Curtis, for you.”

“Listen, Harriman,” he continued hurriedly, “all these scientists are people of different nationalities, ages and types. The conclusion is that nothing is being aimed at any one country—unless someone is clever enough and ruthless enough to bump some of his own in order to avert suspicion. I doubt that.”

Harriman said, ‘There’s nothing political about this, any more than there is about a new disease.”

“Exactly! Different as they may be, these scientists
must
have shared one thing in common—the thing that directly or indirectly brought about their deaths. I want to find that common denominator. Rake me up every detail you can discover about the persons on your list and any earlier cases you may see fit to add. Phone them to”—he looked inquiringly at Leamington, was given a number, and finished—“to Colonel Leamington at Boro 8-19638.”

Ringing off, he took up the other phone, spoke rapidly. The others studied his changing expression as he talked.

Finishing, he told them, “Doctor Curtis has received a long-distance call from Professor Edward Beach. He said that he had just read the accounts of Webb’s and Mayo’s deaths. He expressed much sorrow, but Doctor Curtis thought him unusually curious about the details of the tragedies.”

“Well?” prompted Leamington.

“This Beach is an old friend of Webb’s, according to Doctor Curtis. I know him, too. He’s the man who designed the stereoscopic owl-eye camera which the police use in conjunction with Dakin’s vernier. He is employed by the National Camera Company, at their Silver City plant, in Idaho. Beach is precisely the sort of scientist likely to have valuable information concerning Mayo, Webb and Dakin.” He paused a moment, to lend impressiveness to what he was about to say, then added, “Especially since he made a point of asking Doctor Curtis whether she knew if Webb, like Mayo and Dakin, had been working on Bjornsen’s formula prior to his end.”

“Bjornsen!” ejaculated Sangster.

“You can see the implication,” Graham went on. “Beach is linked to these others exactly as
they
were linked to each other—by correspondence based on mutual interests. He’s got a place in this death-chain, but death hasn’t reached him yet! He’s a prospective victim still in condition to talk. I’ve got to see him and make him talk before he becomes body number twenty.” He consulted his watch. “With luck, I can catch the 10:30 stratplane for Boise.”

Wohl said, “Do I come, or are you on your own?”

“I’ll take this by myself. While I’m on my way, phone Battery Park Stratosphere Station, Art, and book me a seat on the 10:30.”

Reaching for the phone, Wohl asked, “And after that, I do what? Give me something to follow—I hate wasting time.”

“You can make a cross-check on the data Harriman’s getting. See if you can make contact with the police authorities in all the places where these scientists died, ask them for full and complete details of the deaths. Get them to check thoroughly on every item no matter how minute or seemingly unimportant. Bully, cajole or do whatever else you can to persuade them to obtain exhumation orders and conduct autopsies.” He looked at Leamington. “Is all this okay with you, Colonel?”

“I’m satisfied to let you run this your own way,” Leamington approved. “I’m taking it for granted that the man who starts something is best fitted to finish it.”

“We’re worrying about quite a lot of people who started something that none of them finished,” Graham pointed out. “This thing—whatever it is—has a remarkable aptitude for finishing the starters before they get anywhere.” He grinned ruefully. “I’m not immortal, either—but I’ll do my best.”

Snatching his hat, he was gone, bound for Battery Park, the 10:30 stratplane and the worst disaster in the history of the New World.

The New York-Boise-Seattle stratosphere express dived down from the atmosphere’s upper reaches, cut its oxygen from its pressurized cabin, leveled with a thunderous burst of rockets, swept beneath the undersides of fleecy clouds.

With the little town of Oakley nestling on its banks, Goose Creek rolled under the fleet vessel’s bow. Far to port and well to stern gleamed the northern fringes of Utah’s Great Salt Lake. About a hundred and fifty miles to go—a mere ten minutes’ run!

A cigarette that Graham had lit over Oakley was still only half consumed when the stratplane banked away from the valley of the Snake and curved toward Boise. The turn brought Silver City on the port side where it was easily perceivable in the dry, dustless atmosphere of the locality. Its white and cream-colored buildings glowed in the sun-light. Bobbin-shaped chemical reservoirs of the National Camera plant, slung on huge towers, stood out clearly on the city skyline.

Thrusting his feet at the footrests to resist body-surge caused by the ship’s rapid deceleration, Graham took two more drags of his cigarette, cast another glance at the far vista of Silver City. For a moment, it was still there, sharp and clear in detail upon the horizon; the next moment it had gone in a mighty cloud of heaving vapor.

Crushing his cigarette between unnerved fingers, he rose partway in his seat, his eyes staring incredulously at the faraway spectacle. The cloud bloomed hugely, swelled with the primal vigor of an oncoming dust-storm, its bloated crests curling angrily as they gained altitude. Small black specks soared above this upper edge, hung momentarily in mid-air, dropped back into the swirling chaos.

"God in heaven!” breathed Graham. His eyes strained unbelievingly. He knew that for the strange specks to be visible from such a distance they must be big, very big—as large as buildings. In those tense seconds it was as if he were endowed with a front seat at the dropping of a bigger and better atom bomb—with people in the back seats watching seismographs a thousand miles away.

The stratplane's tail swung round, concealed the distant drama. Unaware that anything abnormal was taking place, its pilot brought the vessel down in a long, dexterous curve that dropped Silver City behind intervening spurs of the Rockies. Making a perfect landing, the great machine rushed over the concrete, its rockets blasting spasmodically. With a final swerve, it stopped alongside a tower-topped building that bore in large white letters the word: BOISE.

Graham was first out. Descending the portable steps in a manner that startled its handlers, he hit the concrete, made to run around the ship’s tail, but stopped, appalled.

About a hundred civilians and officials were scattered over the stratosphere station’s areaway, but none advanced to greet the arrival. They stood stock still at various points around the space, their faces turned to the south, their eyes narrowed as they strove to bring a long range into focus.