The Smog (11 page)

 

When he came round, it was broad daylight, and he was in a small room alone. His head was clear but his mouth was dry and he felt a sharp awareness of hunger. He did not get up immediately but lay on his back, looking at a ceiling made of timbers, a rich red brown in colour, fastened with wooden cleats in place of nails.

It was very still and silent.

There were two windows, one of them with curtains drawn. Another, higher up in the wall, let in shafts of sunlight. The walls were of rough-hewn wood, the same tone as the ceiling. So was the door, which, without lock or key, had a bar and slot fastening. The furniture was rough-hewn, too, with decorative panels depicting Indians in feathered headdress. On one wall was a long picture in soft colours of a meeting between white men and Indians; obviously a peaceful meeting with none of the usual emphasis on violence, resentment, suspicion or hatred.

He pushed back the loosely woven blanket, and got out of bed. He saw that he was wearing a white singlet and underpants, but nothing else. So someone had undressed him.

Now, he admitted what he had known from the moment of waking, that he had been drugged on board the aircraft, and brought off so that he could have no idea where he was, could not report to Palfrey. And this could only mean that he was under some kind of suspicion.

Marion must have known.

He walked across to the window where the curtains were drawn; the other was too high for him to look out. On the far side of the cupboard was a chair he hadn't noticed before; his suit was folded over this – with shirt, socks and shoes close by. A cursory search revealed his case, placed neatly in the cupboard. He opened the case and saw the book which the customs officer had put in. Anxiously he slipped a hand beneath a couple of shirts; then sighed with relief. The American Express Credit Card was still there, and the telephone numbers were roughly pencilled in the back of the book, as if they were some code number for the bookshop purposes. He studied the numbers:

 

201 : 457 : 8010

101 : 754 : 1080

 

He repeated them over and over but did not attempt to erase them; it would be a long time before he knew them off by heart.

At least, no one had taken the book away.

He crossed to the window, and attempted to pull back the curtains. The rings were too tight on the poles for easy running, but suddenly they gave way and he could see.

The sight before his eyes made him gasp with astonishment. He gazed, wide-eyed, in fascination. He had never seen such awesome beauty, such grandeur. There, against sharp-peaked mountains which seemed to curve great segments out of the deep blue sky, was a lake of blue as dazzling as the sky; and about the shores of the lake were rocks, and small trees growing close to the water's edge, reflected in the water. There were clearings, like meadows, in the mountainsides; there were dark fir trees, in massed array with pale green trees of a different kind laced between them.

And atop each of the mountains there was snow, lying like silver beneath the sun.

Costain stood there, marvelling, slowly taking stock.

This house, or chalet, was perhaps a thousand feet above the lake, and a glance on either side showed that it must also be set in the slopes of a mountain. There was a patch of pale green trees just below the window, and winding paths, of stone, leading towards a clearing where there were white-painted chairs and tables, a big garden umbrella, a hammock and some stools. The path led on, out of sight, presumably to a landing stage against which two canoes and a dinghy were moored; he could only see the end of the jetty, could not see the land from which it jutted.

He could see, built out into the lake, a small swimming pool.

At last, he turned away, and went to the door. He held his breath, not sure what he would find.

The room or hall beyond was empty, the three doors leading from it closed.

He called: “Anyone home?”

There was no answer.

He opened the nearest door, and found a bathroom, with shower, tub and water closet, piles of towels, packets of soap, paper cups and boxes of tissues. Against one wall was a little boiling plate, a glass or plastic jug, some packets of tea, coffee, powdered milk and plastic spoons. On the wall was a small plaque, saying: “
Fill jug to line clearly marked and place on ring. Boiling water in minutes.
”
He ran hot water, and followed the instructions; he felt that he could face anything when he had had some tea; he had never known his mouth so dry.

Was that from the drug?

He opened the other doors, to find one more bedroom with a bathroom leading off, and a big living room with a patio beyond a glass wall. It had a different view of the lake and the mountains but was just as breathtaking. He stood out against a wooden rail. This patio appeared to be built on stilts which rose straight from the mountain side, and from the rail there was a sheer drop down to half-hidden rocks and stunted trees; a fall from here would mean almost instant death. There was a clearing, down which a body could fall straight into the waters of the lake.

He turned towards the right, and saw the long valley with its steep sides. Steam was rising from a dozen, a hundred fissures.
Steam – or smoke?

There, strangely tranquil, unbelievably beautiful, was a scene which reminded him vividly of the terrible happening at Sane Manor. Was that horror to be repeated?

The whole valley seemed to be filled with vapour; surely it was steam.

But no smell reached him, nothing to suggest that these fumes were poisonous.

He went back to the bathroom, and opened the packet of tea, surprised to find that it was powdered. Carefully he read the packet again.

“
Place a level spoonful in the cup provided and pour on boiling water. Milk and sugar to taste. For iced tea
—”

He followed the instructions precisely, added powdered milk, stirred and tasted. It wasn't bad. He carried the cup to the patio and sat down, hitching his chair in a position that allowed him to see over the vapour-filled valley. Incredulous, he closed his eyes as if to shut out a vision. Now he was aware of a faint odour of sulphur.

The tea was not just passable, it was good.

He drank it with growing enjoyment as he looked over the valley and watched the rising clouds.

Was it steam? Or smoke? Or gas?

He recalled some of the things he had read of Yellowstone National Park, in this part of the United States: the hot springs, the sulphur springs, the geysers. And then he saw a sudden fountain of water, in the valley. He held his breath as a great geyser erupted, not a mile away from where he sat. And he could hear the roar, see the water cascading where the sun caught it, the steam – it must be steam – blowing away from the actual eruption, which was why he could see it so clearly.

The sound slackened into a faint hiss. The fountain gradually grew smaller until after a while it was only a little spurting, close to the valley side from which it had sprung. Then, as he was held as if by a mesmeric force, another, greater spout of water rose further along the valley, towering hundreds of feet into the air.

Soon, this also died away, and there was only the valley, with steam rising in so many places, from the bottom and along either side. He began to count the clouds of steam.

“… eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen …”

He counted up to twenty-one and then gave up; there were too many small ones which grew in size, fell, and rose again. There must be at least a hundred different cracks and fissures –
blow-holes,
that was the word – which filled the valley with the vapour.

And it was a harmless vapour, for he saw two bears, black and big even from here, moving about in a patch of steam. He held his breath and watched more closely, then spotted some deer, half a dozen – no, twenty or thirty or more – in a clearing in the valley, emerging from patches of steam and obviously not affected. So there was life, not death, in this valley of such all-transcending beauty.

He sat enthralled, thought drawn out of him, even the awful vision of Sane, dead, drawn from his mind, until he heard a movement behind him. He did not turn at once, but sat very still. The sound was repeated, a creak as of footsteps, so at last he turned.

Marion was in the open space between the living room and the patio.

She wore jeans, and a rust-coloured shirt. There was something different about her, as if she belonged here, rather than in the places where he had seen her before. There was a golden glow to her complexion, a fresh lissomness about her movements as she came towards him.

He did not move.

She stepped onto the patio, looking at him intently. He wondered how far away she would be when she began to speak, for she would have to begin, there was no other way. He had little feeling at first, not even disgust at being betrayed, but as she drew nearer, his heart began to beat faster. She did not smile but her lips were parted just enough to show a glint of teeth.

She was almost within arm's reach; when would she stop?

She took two steps forward and stood over him, so that he had to lean back in order to see her clearly, and now his heart was pounding, yet still he did not speak. And nor did she.

She bent down.

He knew what she was going to do and sat there like a stone with his heart hammering within him. Her face was close to his, then closer, until she kissed him.

He knew, then, that he was as ready to receive as she to give. He felt her breath and then the gentle pressure, then the greater pressure, even the touch of her teeth. He wanted to fling her away but he could not; he wanted to put his arms about her and bring her down to him, but he would not.

At last, she drew away.

“I didn't think any man's blood could run so cold,” she said.

“I didn't think any woman would feel so sure she could seduce any man she pleased,” he retorted.

She echoed: “Seduce?”

“Wasn't that a lesson in seduction?”

“No,” she said very simply. “It was an expression of love.”

It was his turn to echo: “Love?”

“David,” she said, “I know there is no sense in it and I don't understand myself, but I love you.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to hurl the word back at her, sneeringly, but he did not, because her eyes told him what he wanted to believe but what was madness to believe – that what she said was true. He could see the way her breast rose and fell as if her heart was hammering with the same near sickening force as his.

He said breathlessly: “Where am I? And why am I here and why did you persuade me to come with you?”

“Do you usually blame others for what you do of your own free will?” she asked.

“Free will? Or not so free?” He shrugged. “At least you can tell me where I am.”

“You are in a valley between Yellowstone Park and the Grand Tetons,” she answered. “On Stephen's land.”

“You mean he owns this valley?”

“And the lake and the mountains as far as you can see,” she told him.

“And the hot springs and the geysers?”

“Everything,” she said.

“As he owned Sane Manor?” Costain demanded.

“Yes.”

“And owns the killer-smog?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, then moved towards the rail and stared out at the valley. Costain did not move, but he began to be aware of living. Of his undervest and pants, for instance, and a faint satisfaction that at least he had no spare flesh and plenty of well-developed muscle on thighs and calves and shoulders. He was aware, less happily, that he hadn't shaved.

“David,” she said. “Stephen Storr is a very good man and a very great man.”

He said freezingly: “And no doubt a humanitarian, as well.”

“David,” she said again, uttering his name in a way he had never heard before, “don't pre-judge Stephen. Don't pre-judge anything or anyone—not even me. He will be here to see you soon, and he'll need your help. You may be the only man alive who can help him. And you may be the only man alive who can hope—really hope—to save the world from utter disaster.”

“Don't pre-judge him,” echoed in his ears, “… not even me.”

“Don't resist him for the sake of resistance or because of resentment or because he may have injured your pride,” she went on. “Please don't, I beg of you.”

On the last words she turned to face him, and there was a look of intense entreaty in her eyes.

 

 

There was a long silence which might have been drawn from the valley. Marion was outlined against the rising vapour, which cast a dream-like quality on her hair and her features and the appeal of her expression. He felt a tremendous attraction for her, would have given a great deal to move towards her; but he stayed where he was.

“If I resist him,” he said, “it will be because of what he says or wants me to do.”

“That's all I ask,” Marion said.

“Is it?” he demanded, roughly. “Don't you want me to do whatever he asks, whatever it is?”

“I hope you will,” she said. “But most of all I hope—” She broke off, and seemed suddenly unable to meet his eyes. For the first time he saw her in full profile, head tilted backwards, chin and bosom thrusting and proud. In the back of his mind there was the understanding that the shock of what had happened, acting as a catalyst, had broken down the icy resistance he had created within himself for so long. All his repressed desires, his secret longings, his sense of unfulfilment, had been released, and were now at the mercy of this girl.

His voice was hoarse when he said: “Well—what do you hope most of all?”

After a short pause, she answered: “That whatever you think you should do, you will do.”

He believed her; he did not think it possible that she could speak in such a way and look up there to the high peaks, and lie to him.

“How much can you tell me?”

“Nothing more,” she replied.

“But you've told me nothing.”

“I've told you how far-reaching your help can be, and that he will soon be here to talk to you. And I've told you—” she broke off again, and this time turned to look at him. “And I've told you that I love you.”

“It doesn't seem—possible.”

“Well, it's happened.” She moved a step towards him.

“Stay there,” he said roughly.

She stood absolutely still, waiting for him.

“I don't trust my feelings,” he said.

“They are the only things to trust.”

“Well, I don't trust mine.”

“You've fought against emotion, fought against your instincts far too long,” she asserted.

“What do you know of me?” he asked, coldly.

“Everything that one can find out,” she answered. “I can at least tell you this: Stephen—all of us—have been watching you for some time. We know about what happened ten years ago. We know about your yearly pilgrimage. We know—”

“Why the devil should you pry into my affairs?” he cried.

Then he heard another sound, broke off and spun round – and saw Professor Storr within earshot. And just as with Marion, the surroundings seemed to have changed Storr. He fitted in, as he had never done in England. Relaxed and composed, he came forward smiling pleasantly.

“Because I wanted to know whether you could be trusted.” Something about the way he said that told Costain that he was not sure even yet, but that his, Costain's, answer would decide him. Professor Storr added gently: “How long have you worked for Dr. Palfrey and Z5, David?”

 

The impact of the question was so sharp that it had an almost physical effect. Costain was astounded by the question and the knowledge behind it, astonished by the complete nonchalance with which Storr spoke. It was almost as if he had been struck a stunning blow which left him dizzy and bemused.

“Sit down,” Storr said, and pulled up a cane chair; pushing it forward. “Careful—it's a rocker.”

Costain sat down slowly. Storr leaned against the rail, and Costain thought suddenly how easy it would be to lean forward and push him over. No one could fall from there except to his death.

“Well—how long have you worked for Palfrey?” Storr repeated.

Costain sought frantically for some way out, some loophole. What could he do but tell the truth? If he lied, then the other man might believe that he had been spying on him, watching, for a long time. He could picture Marion, see the pleading in her eyes, her longing for his trust. The truth was that he could get nowhere by lying.

He answered quietly: “Forty-eight hours.”

“You mean from the time you met in Winchester?”

“Yes.”

“But Palfrey's organisation never uses anyone who is not thoroughly screened and trained,” Storr stated flatly.

“You of all people should know how easy it is to screen a stranger,” Costain said bitterly, and glanced round to make sure that Marion felt the sharpness of the retort. But Marion wasn't there. During those moments of shock, she must have slipped away. “As for trained—Palfrey appeared to think I could do all that was needed.”

“And what was needed?”

“To find out what you were doing, with whom you were associated, anything about you.”

“And how were you to report to him?”

“I had to telephone the London Headquarters of Z5.”

“As simple as that,” Storr said musingly. “Yes, it could be. Did he tell you why he was so interested in me?”

“He thought you might be responsible for the sudden concentrations of smog.”

“Did he say whether he had been watching me over any period of time?”

“On the contrary, he said that he had become interested simply because of the smog at Sane. The fact that you had survived—” Costain broke into a smile – “the fact that I had survived and Mrs. Drummond, too, made us all suspect. I satisfied him that I had been in London simply by chance.”

“Yes,” said Storr. “The pilgrimage.”

“Why were you so interested in me?” demanded Costain. “Why did you take the trouble to find out so much about me?”

Storr hesitated, weighing his words. A bird flashed past the patio, a startling electric blue. He glanced towards it, still without answering. Then he said: “For two reasons. First, I thought you might be an agent.”

“
Palfrey's?
”

“Anyone's,” said Storr.

“Watching
you?
But I was at Sane years before you!”

“Yes. But not before Drummond.”

“You mean
he
was working with you?”

“Yes. He was experimenting on this project for a long time before we moved to Sane.”

“On—smog.”

“Yes,” repeated Storr. He paused, and Costain had a distinct impression that he was making up his mind how much to say. “On smog, and natural gas.”

“But there was no natural gas at Sane.”

“Wasn't there?” asked Storr, smiling faintly. “Isn't there?”

“You mean—there
is?
”

“I have always been convinced that there were deep reservoirs of natural gas, if not of oil, in parts of the world where it wasn't suspected, and where it could have enormous economic value. One of my main activities—perhaps my main one—has been to search for such places. I have great wealth, David. I am one of the richest men in the world. And I have both an urge to make more and more money, and a compulsion to use it for the good of mankind.”

He stopped, smiling very faintly, and when Costain made no immediate response, he asked: “Do you find that hard to believe?”

“Let's say I haven't found much evidence of it yet,” Costain retorted. “If Sane is an example—”

“Sane,” said Storr, “and Mountview.”

“
You
caused that.”

“Yes,” Storr admitted, but his smile had faded. There was a strange expression in his eyes, a touch of what might easily be called horror – as if he were seeing unspeakable things. “Yes,” he repeated, “I caused both disasters.”

“For the good of mankind,” Costain said bitterly.

“And I am likely to cause many more,” Storr went on as if he had not heard the interruption. “Many thousands more, and worse by far than any that have yet taken place. So far, only small places have been affected. If a large city such as London or New York were to be polluted, then—” he broke off, and now there was no doubt of the pain in his eyes.

“You mean, they
can
be?”

“Yes,” said Storr simply.

“And you can cause such horror?” Costain felt sick; felt his nerves beginning to quiver in hatred for this man.

Storr turned to face him, and still leaned against the rail, arms spread, gripping the wood on either side. Costain found himself breathing hard, as if from some great exertion; and he felt drawn to rush forward and to push this monster down into the valley.

“David,” Storr said, “it could happen anywhere in the world. In any city and town, at almost any time.”

“Then for God's sake, stop it!”

“I can't stop it,” Storr told him very quietly. “I have been trying to for a year, ever since I began to see what had happened, and what would happen everywhere. I caught a tiger,” he added in a voice which Costain could hardly hear, “and I let it escape.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” growled Costain.

“I am talking about a discovery which I made and which I sold to every motorcar manufacturer, every industrialist, every utility-works in the world. It is a substance called
helia.
It is introduced in microscopic quantities in gasoline—your petrol—and natural gas and many other burning fuels, including coal and diesel. There is nowhere in the world—in the Western Countries, in Russia and China, in the newly emergent nations—where
helia
is not used. It has the effect of giving each fuel a greater intensity of heat—greater performance in every way. Each major gasoline company has a different name for it. Some had the first use of it, others have been allowed to use it at various times. It has given to the traditional fuels a real opportunity to compete in efficiency and cheapness with nuclear power. It is used on board ships and on aircraft, on automobiles and in trucks as well as many forms of domestic heating. I tell you, David, it is one of the great discoveries of the age. Geoffrey Drummond was one of a number of chemists, and physicists involved, each doing a different job.” Storr began to walk about the patio, and the speed with which he talked increased until his voice became almost staccato.

Costain listened and watched with increasing horror.

“For years we had no reason to suspect there could be any harmful side effects. We refined and improved
helia.
We have in our laboratories concentrations which would treble the mileage performance of most gasolines, for instance. We did not release these ultra-effective variants, we were keeping them for staggered sale to industry. I have a dozen companies, the stock of which I own, competing against one another, simply to increase the margin of profit. Oh, I am a very fine businessman. I am Croesus and Rockefeller and Onassis, and Howard Hughes, Paul Getty and Charles Clore rolled into one. I have a mind which can calculate how to amass money better than any man in the world.”

He was still pacing the patio.

His voice seemed to crack, now and again he swallowed a word as if his lips were too dry to utter it perfectly.

“And it has been my dream, as I told you, to use my wealth for the good of mankind. Now there is a great likelihood that I will bring about the destruction of mankind.”

He stopped at last, in front of Costain, and went on with great deliberation: “And you can help me to prevent this thing.”

Costain did not understand.

Marion had told him that he could help, as if she had meant it, and now Storr spoke as if he had no doubt of it at all. To him, Costain, there was no sense in the idea, he had nothing, knew nothing, could do nothing which – as far as he knew – could be of the slightest help.

Yet Storr's gaze turned with the same intensity of appeal as Marion's.

Were they – mad?

Were they trying to evade some of their own responsibility by placing a burden on him, one that he could not possibly carry?

Or – and this possibility flashed on him with blinding speed – were they mistaking him for someone else?

He did not speak at first although these thoughts passed through his mind so fast that there seemed no gap between Storr's words and the questions he asked himself. All the time, Storr's eyes were burning into his, and the possibility that this man was mad entered his head again. He hardly knew what made him say quite mildly: “If there is any way I can help, of course I will.”

“There is a way,” Storr stated.

“Then for God's sake what is it?”

“Would you risk your life to help?” Storr asked very softly.

“If I were convinced that it would do any good, of course I would,” answered Costain, quite matter-of-factly.

“I think I can convince you,” Storr said in a low pitched voice. “I want you to send word to Palfrey, before the testing. I want you to tell him exactly what I am going to tell you. That at Sane, I was working on the development of an air purifier—something which could be used to counteract the harm of
helia.
First, you need to know that the effect of
helia
is very simple. At some time, we do not yet know when, it concentrates the sulphur and carbon monoxides in the air so that the oxygen is virtually dried up and man and beast cannot breathe. This process is quickened in daytime by the effect of the sun's rays, making photo-chemical smog, as it is known, of killer density. We have never been able to find out how long the
helia
has to be in the atmosphere before the concentration takes place. We know it is connected with degree of
helia
content, atmosphere, temperature, wind—as with all known smog concentrations, the worst effects are on calm days when there is no movement of air at all. If we could find an additive which would cancel out the effect of
helia,
then the problem would be solved. Are you following me?”

“Closely,” said Costain.