by André Caroff
“No, doctor,” Ritter replied. “No one knows anything. We don’t know why 12 of our fellow citizens lost their minds and why little Shirley Timber remained sane. All we know is that it happened in a clearing on the afternoons of September 13 and 15.”
Soblen looked like he was about to ask another question, but Beffort jumped in brusquely. “Later, doctor. You’ll have plenty of time to go to the clinic and see them for yourself on the spot. For now we have to keep Madame Atomos from hurting any more people!”
Max Ritter seconded this and led his partners to his car. The vehicle started up, left the airport and got onto highway 17 heading toward San Francisco. After a while Beffort turned and pointed his thumb at the police cars following them, “This escort bothers me.”
“The Boss…”
“He gave me carte blanche,” Beffort cut him off. “You want to give the order to get rid of this convoy.
Ritter took the microphone from the radio but hesitated. “Do you think that’s wise?”
Beffort shook with silent laughter. “Listen, if Madame Atomos wanted to kill me, she would do it even if I were protected by an army. If she decided to destroy the United States, it would be done in less than 24 hours! The problem is that her hatred requires a long revenge. The bomb exploded in Nagasaki on August 9, 1945 at 11:02 a.m. It’s been almost 20 years since this woman’s had to wait to accomplish her plans. During those long years she prepared the destruction of our country and the extermination of its inhabitants. Her financial and technical means are extraordinary. So, you remember the walking corpses in Chinook, the tragic procession in New York, the electromagnetic ray, the thermal weapons, the Pooley mushroom in Dallas and the giant spiders! No, Ritter, you can send your cops away with no worries. Believe me, they can’t do anything, except maybe get themselves killed in the line of duty.”
The tone of voice Beffort used was decisive. Max Ritter sent the police cars away and his own vehicle, skillfully maneuvered by a young G-man with a tough-guy chin, crossed the city limits and disappeared into the heart of the city.
The FBI offices were located on Mission Street. Ritter had reserved two rooms in the Lindamar Hotel, not far from the Federal Building. Beffort and Soblen dropped off their luggage, washed up and were back in the hotel lobby 20 minutes later.
At Smith Beffort’s request, Ritter brought the police reports he had gathered together, but the New York envoy did not find out anything new from them. “Well,” he said, “I think that all there’s left to do now is to go over the famous clearing with a fine-toothed comb.”
“That’s been done,” Ritter blurted out.
“We’re going to start over again,” Beffort stated softly. “When it comes to Madame Atomos, you have to turn over every leaf, part the blades of grass, probe the sun… This woman is like a mole: she builds her shelters underground. Have you thought of that, Ritter?”
The director of the San Francisco bureau scowled. “You don’t have to exaggerate! The slopes of Mount Hamilton are under constant surveillance by a team of park rangers. Even this Japanese woman couldn’t dig a hole without attracting attention!”
Beffort and Soblen winked at each other. They had not forgotten the Madame Atomos’ Machiavellian scheme to dig a laboratory under the field of old Calvin Pooley. But Max Ritter’s disbelief was a normal reaction. Anyone who had not actually seen the terrifying exploits of that monstrous creature would not believe it.
“Maybe you’re right, Ritter,” Beffort said, “but I’d rather check it out for myself.” He was insistent to the point of being obstinate and Max Ritter gave in without saying another word.
A little later the service car parked on the dusty road leading to the Lick Observatory. Smith Beffort, Ritter and Dr. Soblen got out and went toward the big open space where 12 people had lost their minds.
Two police officers stood guard between the road and the clearing, which was off limits to the public now. They stood in the shade of the trees giving the impression that nothing could escape their vigilance. This pleased Beffort because he had the feeling that the authorities and the people of the area were taking things a little too lightly.
Farther on a group of journalists were tramping around. When they noticed Smith Beffort, they all ran up to him. “Stop!” Max Ritter yelled. But his warning came too late. The flashes crackled from the photographers keeping themselves at a distance while the reporters continued to advance. Among them Beffort recognized Dick Slatt, specialist in scientific matters for the New York Herald-Tribune, and he could not help smiling.
“For crying out loud, Dick,” he uttered, “did you travel in my suitcase?”
“Almost,” the journalist replied. “The paper’s plane took off right behind yours. What are going to do, Smith?”
Beffort noticed that he was carrying a tape recorder slung over his shoulder and he had just activated the machine from an innocent box of cigars, pierced with holes, which hid the ultra-sensitive microphone.
“Slatt,” he said, “you’re overdoing it! Stop your thingamajig. I have nothing to say.”
“The audience…”
“Leave me alone for now,” Beffort cut him off. You know as well as I do that we’re only in the preliminary…” Beffort pointed at the deserted clearing and said, “If you want to know more, you can take a walk out there. Tonight we’ll take you to the hospital and if you haven’t gone loony, you can tell your readers everything you experienced.”
A photographer snickered. “Hey Beffort, if you’re going, I’m going.”
Smith Beffort scowled. “Don’t push me, boys. If you move so much as a toenail, I’ll have you driven out of here.”
The journalists grumbled unhappily. Beffort turn around and entered the clearing with Ritter and little Dr. Soblen. The three men advanced to the center of the field where Soblen took out of his pocket a small Geiger counter and slowly walked it around at ground level.
“Shhh!” Beffort said, “You also thought that it might have something to do with that?”
“As you see,” Soblen was cool and composed. “Madame Atomos loves to use radioactive waves…”
Ritter felt a little jolt. “Are you kidding?” he asked hesitatingly.
Soblen stared at him coldly. “Do we look like we’re kidding, Mr. Ritter?”
Ritter remembered that Dr. Soblen had actively participated in the investigations led by Beffort and that he had been a member of the Atomic Energy Commission at the beginning of the year and that, lastly, he was a leading expert in his field. “That’s not what I meant,” he assured them, “but if a bomb exploded here, we would have noticed it.”
Soblen did not bother to answer. He bent over the screen of his instrument and whistled softly.
“Do you have something?” Beffort asked.
“Yes,” Soblen shot back. “But it’s not radioactivity!” He stood up straight and continued watching his counter. His brow was furrowed in concentration. After thinking for a moment he said, “I can’t say for sure, Beffort… Don’t you think it’s unusually hot here?”
“We’re in the sun,” Ritter remarked.
Soblen tapped his chin, which for him was a sign of great perplexity, and said in a low voice, “The Antons, Timbers and Turners lost their minds after spending an afternoon in this clearing. What time is it, Mr. Ritter?”
“4:22…”
“Smith,” the little doctor suddenly changed the subject, “can you ask Dick Slatt to come over and interview you here with his tape recorder?”
Beffort knew Soblen and figured he had to act quickly. He ran off, made the journalist hustle and returned in record time.
“What’s the game?” Slatt groaned looking around nervously.
Soblen sliced the air with his hand. “Start your tape recorder,” he ordered. Slatt obeyed.
“Good,” Soblen approved. “Now you have the right to an exclusive interview with Smith Beffort. Go on.”
Slatt stared suspiciously at Soblen. “Hey, doctor, are you pul
ling my leg?”
“Absolutely not! I promise you’ll have a sensational article.”
Slatt turned around quickly, holding his microphone out to Beffort. “Say: I’m Smith Beffort, appointed by the FBI to neutralize Madame Atomos…”
Beffort repeated it word for word and Slatt opened his mouth when Soblen pushed the microphone away. “That’s enough. Now listen to what you just recorded.”
“Slatt turned purple. “Doctor,” he warned, “if you’re teasing me, I’d rather you tell me right away than…”
“Do what he says!” Beffort yelled. Overcome, Slatt reversed the tape, stopped on the mark and started it playing. “So?” Beffort got impatient. “Is it coming?”
Soblen watched the tape turn without any sound coming out of the speaker. The smile on his face slowly vanished.
“I don’t understand,” Dick Slatt mumbled. “We just recorded…”
“Are you sure?” Soblen asked.
“Absolutely!”
“And are you hot?”
The journalist looked puzzled, feeling the sweat pearl on his forehead and he realized that he was in fact boiling. “It’s true. The sun is beating down.”
“It’s not the sun,” the doctor spoke ominously. “What time is it, Mr. Ritter?”
“4:22…”
“Just like before! Your watch has stopped. Mr. Slatt’s tape recorder doesn’t record. Let’s get out of here as fast as we can! We are being subjected to a ray of unusual power and our lives are in danger!”
The four men bolted off and got back under the shelter of the trees where the policemen and reporters were waiting.
“What time is it?” Soblen asked again.
A photographer told him, “4:22, doctor.” Then he furrowed his brow and added, “That’s impossible! I arrived at this time!”
Everyone there looked at their watches and were stunned when they realized that all the hands showed the same time, give or take a few minutes, and all the instruments had stopped working.
“Good God!” one of the reporters moaned, “what’s this all about?”
Soblen answered, “It’s all about Madame Atomos’ attack. Her ray is spread out and its power field right now, maybe, is greater than we suspect.”
“You’re joking!” a voice blurted out.
“Shut up, Ted!” someone said. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
All of them ran to their cars, but none of the motors turned over: there was an inexplicable breakdown of all the ignitions.
Chapter III
There was no panic because those who were present at the phenomenon had, over the previous months, followed the deadly deeds of Madame Atomos and still remembered the extraordinary traffic jams in the Bronx3. Only Max Ritter and his men were seized with the first signs of panic, but the journalists’ composure worked to calm them down and they stayed there waiting for a decision that they were in no condition to make.
“Leave the cars,” Beffort suggested.
“You must be joking!” the photographers’ spokesman protested. “All our equipment is in these clunkers!”
“Chose between your hide or your cameras,” Beffort retorted. “I can’t force you to leave this area, even though in the present situation escape is what really seems to be called for.
“And what do we do if the deadly ray covers the whole region?”
“We’ll have to evacuate,” Soblen replied. His eyes were icy behind his glasses and his voice was stripped of all emotion showing that recklessness would be criminal in this situation. He continued in the clear voice of a lecturer. “Would you say that it’s getting hotter and hotter? That proves that the waves we’re exposed to are getting more and more noxious. Their penetrating force must have tripled since we got here. Before long some of us will feel the first signs of sickness, which might kick off a chain reaction that will inevitably end up in madness.”
“Okay, Doctor!” Ted heaved his camera onto his shoulder, “I’m hitting the road! You coming, boys?”
Everyone followed him on the dusty road. Soblen and Beffort brought up the rear. The G-man stopped before turning the first corner and stared a long time at the clearing and Mount Hamilton. “What are we going to do?” he asked Soblen. “I feel like someone’s watching us, Doctor.”
“Madame Atomos?”
“Why not? The fiendish woman must have been very meticulous in her preparations. I see her now sitting in front of a television screen watching us run away.”
Soblen wiped his glasses. “That’s very likely,” he admitted. “She knows us better than we know her. In fact, we’ve never even seen her, have we?”
“Exactly. We have a photograph of her, but it’s from ten years ago. We know that her name is Kanoto Yoshimuta, she’s 50 years old and she was born in Nagasaki. Her family was wiped out in that city by the atomic bomb. Kanoto Yoshimuta decided to take revenge and became Madame Atomos. We have her fingerprints and we know that the index finger of her right hand has been cut off… But maybe it’s all false!”
Soblen took his arm. “Come on, Smith. This place is dangerous…”
“I know, Doctor. Let’s go.”
They hurried to catch up with the group of journalists and policemen who already knew that they could stop only when their watches started working again…
In New York, May Maxwell was walking in circles in the Boss’ office. The young woman had changed a lot since the Pooley had killed her two sons and her husband had let himself be taken by the paralyzing ray of Madame Atomos. The widow of a G-man, May Maxwell had asked and was allowed to enter the FBI.
Now she thought of nothing but to avenge her children and spouse. Her hatred for the Japanese woman was boundless. May was ready to give her life. May was ready for anything.
“Stop walking around like that,” the Boss sighed. “Yosho Akamatsu won’t be long.” He looked at the time and added, “If the plane’s not late it should be landing at JFK airport right now. He’ll be here in less than 20 minutes. Have you slept?”
The young woman stood still in front of the window. “No,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “Since Madame Atomos sent that message I can’t get any rest.”
The Boss lit his pipe, blew a puff of smoke up to the ceiling and said pensively, “I understand what you’re feeling. I went through it after my wife died at the hands of the Japanese woman. That’s why I’m in a position to advise you to be calm. Don’t waste your nervous impulses, May. In San Francisco an enormous task awaits you…”
“When do we leave?’
The Boss shook his pipe. “Don’t be so impatient, for heaven’s sake! If Yosho is up to it, you’ll both leave before nightfall. Smith Beffort and Dr. Soblen will be told in plenty of time before you arrive, but in case they can’t meet you, make a note that they are staying at the Lindamar Hotel.”
May wrote the name of the hotel. Her movements were nervous, but she forced herself to sit down. It was all her boss wanted and he felt like he had just defused a bomb.
“Your arrival at the FBI has changed the atmosphere of the service a little,” he said to keep her attention. “I suppose that you lifestyle has shaken it up?”
May forced a smile. “I have no particular lifestyle. My work gives meaning to my existence. And of course my husband talked so much about the FBI that I have the feeling that I’ve been part of a great big family… with no children.”
The Boss coughed. Whatever the subject of conversation, May always came back to her children, her husband, her family and it was impossible to get her interested in anything else. It was true that it had only been seven months since the tragedy in Dallas… The phone rang and saved the Boss from the awkward situation. He picked it up and said, “Perfect. Bring him up immediately.”
He put the receiver back down and turned to face May. “It’s Akamatsu. He’ll be here in 30 seconds.”
The time passed and someone knocked softly at the door. “Come in!” the Boss barked.
Akamatsu, a special agent
of the Tokkoka4, entered the room determinedly. He had come directly from Japan, but it did not affect his behavior and he was as clean and as spiffy as if he had just come out of the bathroom. He was five nine and weighed 160 pounds, broad-shouldered, slim in the hips. He was dark-haired and his elongated face with prominent cheekbones had an undeniable virile charm. You could feel high frequency energy, bright spirits and unbridled enthusiasm in him. The man was captivating at first sight.
“Come in and sit down,” the Boss said jovially, “and put down that suitcase! Did you have a good trip?”
Akamatsu greeted May Maxwell and said, “Excellent. I left Tokyo a little late, but I had found out about your cable only the night before… So, Madame Atomos is back!”
The Boss nodded. “This time she chose California for her theater of operations. Beffort and Dr. Soblen are already there. Do you know what it’s all about, Yosho?”
“Very vaguely,” the Japanese man answered. “I heard on the plane that a dozen people had lost their minds, but without more details…”
“Which amounts to saying that you know as much as we do! Can you leave for San Francisco right away?”
Akamatsu did not blink. “Whenever you want,” he agreed.
May Maxwell stood up. “I’ll get my suitcase.”
The Japanese looked surprised. The Boss smiled. “Mrs. Maxwell is now part of the service. She’ll accompany you to the West Coast. Then in a completely different tone of voice he said, “She’s worked hard lately. You can trust her completely. Even though she doesn’t have your experience, her hatred of Madame Atomos is so strong that it would take a mountain to keep her from fulfilling her mission. Besides, she uses the regulation .38 to perfection!”
“Thanks,” May said. “Give me five minutes.”
She left and closed the door quietly. The sound of her footsteps faded into the constant hum that rose from the city. Immediately the Boss’ face tensed up. “Yoshi,” he said, “I don’t want May to be a burden on you, but I still have to ask you to watch out for her as much as you can.”
