The Unbegotten

by John Creasey

  She frowned, and, for the first time since they had begun to talk so intimately, suspicions of his good faith came back into her eyes.

  ‘You are lying,’ she stated flatly.

  ‘I am telling the truth, as I see it,’ Maddern insisted.

  ‘You know I cannot now get away from here,’ she complained.

  After a moment, he understood. He relaxed, smiling faintly, stretching out his hands to her. Her expression eased slightly but she was not wholly reassured.

  ‘And one must leave here to see the Master,’ she declared.

  ‘But can’t you talk to him by telephone?’ Maddern asked.

  ‘It is quite impossible,’ she said flatly. ‘I must be at a certain place at a certain time, each forenoon, each afternoon, and at midnight every day. When I am there I can visit him.’

  ‘I see,’ said Maddern.

  ‘But I must not be followed. I must not appear to be the victim of a subterfuge. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Maddern. He glanced at his wrist-watch and affected a start of surprise. ‘It’s after twelve and too late tonight. I will have to consult Palfrey before leaving; if I don’t he will have us followed.’ He sprang up from his chair, showing much more vitality than he had had reason to hope. ‘Will you stay here for the night? In my spare room?’ When she didn’t answer at once, he went on, ‘You will have nothing to fear. I won’t hurt you and no one else will come near you.’

  Very slowly, she asked, ‘Supposing Palfrey refuses you permission?’

  ‘I don’t think he will,’ said Maddern. ‘But if he does, then we’re back to square one, that is all.’

  ‘You mean, back at the beginning?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Very well,’ Azran replied quietly. ‘But please do not attempt to follow the Master’s messenger or to follow me. If you break faith then there is no hope of you coming.’

  In her eyes there was great yearning for him to come. He had no doubt of this, and he was reminded of the time when he had been a student at Guy’s, when the schoolgirl sister of one of his friends had fallen in love with him; calf-love, one called it, but with such simplicity and such purity. In spite of all she was and had done there was ingenuousness about this girl. And there was naivety, too; that was the word Palfrey had used about the Master. In this day and age even that tide was archaic and naive.

  ‘I’ll take you up to your room,’ said Maddern.

  As he guided her up the twisting oak staircase, with its polished handrail and panels carved with oak leaves and lions and unicorns, he wondered whether Palfrey would agree. What he had promised seemed the obvious thing to do. It offered contact where there was none, so it offered hope. He showed her to the small bedroom with its age-darkened beams, off-white plastered walls, and its chintzes, and then into the tiny bathroom, leading off, bath and basin and the splashbacks pretty in many-flowered tiles. He pointed to a handbell and made it ring and told her to ring it hard if she wanted any help.

  Then he left her and went downstairs to call Palfrey.

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ he said when Palfrey answered, ‘but I might have discovered a great deal. Have you plenty of time?’

  ‘All the time in the world,’ Palfrey assured him. ‘And everything you say will be put on record. Every detail, every word you can remember might be vital. Let me have it all.’

  ‘All right,’ Maddern promised.

  Telling the story, Maddern relived every part of it. He could see the girl’s face again showing its varied emotions, and his heart began to thump. Palfrey said little, his ejaculations, a series of ‘ohs’ and ‘humphs’ and ‘ahs’ being wholly noncommittal. Maddern controlled his voice well but inwardly began to resent the fact that Palfrey seemed so detached about all he was being told. He did not even comment when Maddern told him of his feeling that there was such naivety in the girl’s attitude.

  At last, Maddern finished, and asked brusquely, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘The first thing I have to do is ask you a question,’ Palfrey said. ‘If you go to these Upper Slopes you know that you might never come back, don’t you?’ He paused. ‘She may seem, she may be naive, but she has proved herself merciless, too. It is conceivable that she is tricking you – had you realised that?’

  The question was like a heavy blow at the body. Maddern reeled under it, for the simple truth was that he had taken Azran at her word. Now who was being naive? Slowly recovering, he answered gruffly, ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘But you’re thinking about it now, no doubt,’ Palfrey remarked drily.

  ‘Yes,’ Maddern agreed. ‘I am thinking that you mean they could promise me safe conduct and simply laugh in my face as they cut my throat.’

  ‘They could, yes. They could also want you simply to send or bring me reports. It is probably about a fifty-fifty chance. You can’t possibly go until you understand that.’

  ‘I understand it well enough,’ Maddern said gruffly. ‘I still want to go, if—’

  He broke off, reluctant to impose any condition yet knowing that he must. He was trying to phrase the condition and was coming to the conclusion that absolute bluntness was best when Palfrey said, ‘You want to be sure you’re not followed by me or my agents. That when you give your word no one else will break it for you.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Maddern said. ‘That’s exactly it.’

  After a long pause, Palfrey said, ‘I think we ought to talk up here in London, Reggie. You’ll get a clear picture of what is going on, too. The simple answer is that I won’t follow in the literal sense. How soon can you be ready for a helicopter to pick you up?’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ answered Maddern. ‘Will you make sure Azran—called Susan—is not disturbed while I’m gone?’

  ‘Yes,’ promised Palfrey.

  There were the tiny lights of villages, the brighter and more scattered ones of small towns. Here and there was a blaze of light indicating a city—Bristol and Bath, and later Salisbury, Newbury and Basingstoke. Before long a glow stretching out of sight appeared in the distance, night’s canopy over London. Maddern, sitting in the bulbous nose of an army helicopter, the roar of the engine deafening in spite of thick ear-muffs, watched with fascinated attention. As they drew nearer the canopy, red and green and white lights seemed to streak through it, and he recognised these as aircraft lights as the craft landed or took off from London Airport. There were the guide lights for the pilots too, at the control tower . . . Then those fell behind and the skyline of London showed, foreshortened but unmistakable. There was Big Ben, the whole of the Houses of Parliament, the lights on the curving, looping River Thames, on the bridges, the floodlights on St. Paul’s, on the Tower...

  The young pilot, his elbow touching Maddern’s, said, ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Well, you should be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Maddern.

  ‘We’re being followed.’

  ’What?’

  ‘A small craft picked us up ten minutes ago and has been hovering near ever since. I keep seeing it against the glow over London. I’ve never seen one like it before.’

  The light from a low-powered bulb showed the lad’s sharp features and glinted on his eyes. He was watching closely in a kind of driving mirror. Maddern, safety-belt firm round his waist, could not turn round fully, but he shifted his head towards the right.

  ‘Hold tight,’ the pilot urged. ‘I’m going to drop sharply.’ He gave Maddern just enough time to settle firmly in his seat then pushed the stick down. Maddern’s knees seemed to come up to his chin, but there was no sharp contact. He caught a glimpse of a much smaller aircraft, more like a model of a sweep wing fighter, just at one side . . . then it appeared on the other side as the helicopter steadied on course.

&n
bsp; ‘See it?’ the pilot demanded.

  ‘Yes. Could it be a flying saucer?’ remarked Maddern.

  The other snorted. ‘A flying mystery, anyway! He’s ten times as manoeuvrable as we are, we can’t shake him off.’

  Maddern looked down at the river, only a few hundred feet below. He saw a big, square landing-stage close by Big Ben on the Thames, with several men standing about, two of them semaphoring the pilot. Maddern’s heart was thumping now; he had never been more afraid.

  ‘Down we go,’ the pilot said.

  Then, without warning, flame shot out from the side of the small craft, and Maddern felt a heavy blow which made the helicopter shudder and the engine clatter. Quite suddenly the pilot yelled, ‘Jump for it!’ Another word or two floated into Maddern’s consciousness, which sounded like, ‘Only chance!’

  Suddenly, the bulbous nose was open and wind swept in. A red glow, lurid and flickering was all about them, and Maddern realised that they were on fire. The pilot held the controls as they dropped towards the river. The flames grew fiercer and brighter and now he could see them reflected in the Thames.

  ‘Jump!’ the pilot screamed.

  Maddern opened his safety-belt, eased himself forward, looked over the side, and saw the water no more than fifty feet away. He scrambled to one side and the helicopter lurched. He balanced himself for a moment then jumped blindly, feet first.

  It seemed an age and an agony of time before he reached the water, and when he touched the surface he went under like a stone. He heard a roaring, as if something had exploded and was being tossed in a dozen directions at once, but he kept his head, and he kept his mouth closed.

  At last, he surfaced.

  All about him were patches of burning oil, burning debris, pieces of the smashed helicopter. The whole surface of the river here seemed to be ablaze. There were boats – small boats. There were searchlights, beams coming from the landing-stage and others from the Embankment. He kept himself above water for a few seconds and went down again. He had visions of staying under. He gulped in water, and terror nearly unnerved him. He could just see the red tinge on the river itself as he began to struggle. He clenched his teeth and told himself: keep still, keep still. The panic remained but he held his body rigid until his head bobbed above the surface again. He heard a voice, ‘There he is!’

  ‘Get him!’

  Something clutched at his shoulder and there was a sharp pain in his arm.

  ‘Got him!’

  ‘Nice work.’

  They were talking about him– two men in a small boat now only a few feet away from him. The clutching arm was a boat-hook, with which he was being drawn towards the boat. Soon, the men were grabbing his clothes and pulling him over the gunwale. They lowered him to the bottom, with a kind of rough gentleness and one said, ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘Eyes are open.’

  One of the two bent over him.

  ‘Hallo, mate!’

  ‘Want to be sick? No one’s going to stop you.’

  Maddern retched, and ridding himself of the oily, muddy water of the Thames did him a lot of good. Soon, he was sitting upright, rough grey blankets about his shoulders, tot of rum in a thick glass in his hand. He was shivering. As he quietened and began to feel better, he looked round and saw the wreckage of the burning helicopter slowly sinking. The oil patches were still burning, the searchlights focussed on the wreckage.

  He muttered, ‘The pilot.’

  ‘What’s that, mate?’ asked the man who had pulled him out of the water.

  ‘Where is the—pilot?’

  ‘Not so lucky as you,’ the man answered.

  ‘You mean—’ began Maddern, and then broke off. He did not need to know what the riverman said, for he realised that the young pilot had died. The youth had stuck to the controls until the very last moment, giving him a chance to live. My God! His life in return for a stranger’s. He felt as if he could weep.

  Soon, they had him at the landing-stage. Two men, one a Jamaican, judging from his black face and his gentle voice, took charge of him, helped him up the steps to the Embankment, where at least a hundred people crowded against the parapet, on tiptoe to take a peek at what was going on. Policemen, tall in their helmets, began to call out, ‘Make way, please.’

  ‘Move along.’

  ‘Make way, please!’

  At last Maddern was sitting back in a corner of a big car. The Jamaican was at the wheel, the other man sitting next to Maddern. Now and again Maddern shivered; it was more due to the pilot’s sacrifice than to his own condition.

  The other man was saying, ‘Take it easy—I’m one of Doctor Palfrey’s men—we both are. We’ll get you into a change of clothes in no time—Palfrey’s very anxious to see you, and someone was very anxious that he shouldn’t—Glad you had the luck—Like another snort of whisky or whatever poison they handed out?—Cigarette? —Right. We won’t be long getting to Palfrey.’

  Soon, they were slowing down to turn a corner.

  ‘One little thing—don’t let it bother you,’ said the man, cheerfully. ‘You’ll need to wear these now.’ He placed a large-lensed pair of sunglasses over Maddern’s eyes, blocking out all but the brightest lights. They seemed to be at a hotel, certainly in a place with a busy foyer. The man led him thirty or forty yards and then added, ‘Now we’ll get into a lift—two short steps—There you are. There’s just room for two.’

  They seemed to be in the lift for an age, but at last it stopped and the Z5 agent slipped off the glasses so that Maddern was able to see. He was in a wide passage with tall glass windows on one side, a wall with doors at twenty feet intervals on the other. As Maddern’s eyes grew accustomed to the light after the sunglasses, he was able to see everything clearly.

  Beyond the glass walls was a huge Operations Room, with a control panel which looked as large as any used in the Space Control Rooms at Houston. A dozen men were at the controls, only here and there a woman. Red dots appeared on the control board time and time again, then vanished, then came back.

  Suddenly, Maddern heard Palfrey’s voice, just by his side.

  ‘Each red dot represents a new area which we think is like yours in Middlecombe, Reggie. They’re coming in so fast from all over the world that the Operations Room can hardly keep pace.’ Palfrey paused. Maddern glanced up at his stern, bleak face as he went on in a brisker tone, ‘Well, you need a change. Look after Dr. Maddern, Ron, will you?’

  A youngish woman came up, very nice-looking, with a trim if rather full figure. She gave Maddern a smile and held out her hand.

  ‘I’m Joyce Morgan,’ she said. ‘Let me show you where to go.’

  She touched his hand, and Maddern felt as if an electric shock ran through him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘LET HER GO’

  Palfrey, deeply preoccupied, desperately troubled, saw Joyce as she came up to Maddern, saw her momentary pause before, making an obvious effort, she held out her hand. And he saw the way Maddern started, saw the expression on his face change remarkably. It was as if all feeling had been drawn out of him in a kind of surprise at this encounter. He looked so bedraggled in his wet clothes, his hair plastered over his head, that there was nothing at all prepossessing about him.

  Yet it was as if two people who had not seen each other for a long span of years had come face to face without the slightest warning.

  ‘Fifteen minutes, at most,’ Palfrey said.

  ‘All right,’ Joyce responded.

  She took Maddern’s arm, as if to help him along.

  Ron Wordsworth, the agent who had brought Maddern from the Thames, looked at Palfrey in startled surprise.

  ‘Not often Joyce is so pleased to see a fellow human being from the outer world!’ The moment the words were out Wordsworth looked embarrassed and apologetic. At fir
st Palfrey did not understand why, but suddenly he understood. His mood relaxed, and he said lightly, ‘She doesn’t get out and about enough.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ agreed Wordsworth.

  Palfrey went past the huge operations room towards his own apartment, on the same floor. Like Joyce, he spent a great deal of time here, hundreds of feet below the surface of the Earth, safe from all known forms of attack, and his apartment had every kind of facility, including a small kitchen where he could prepare a meal, or Joyce and he could prepare one and spend the evening together, watching a film, or listening to music which suited their mood of the moment, or reading. Most of the people who knew them assumed that Joyce was Palfrey’s mistress, and there was no doubt at all that she had for many years been deeply in love with him. Dedicated to him as well as dedicated to Z5, she spent practically all of her life down here, though even the best simulated above-ground conditions were not a substitute for the real thing.

  Palfrey, on edge since the newscast, more and more on edge as reports came flashing in, sat back in a deep armchair in a room part office, part living-room. By day, one wall rolled back so that he appeared to be looking at a sunlit garden, or if he so wished, a wind and rainswept one, but at night there was the moon and the stars for company. Joyce had a smaller, similar apartment, nearby.

  He felt less oppressed than he had all day, and believed this was largely due to the report from Maddern. He switched on the tape recorder and listened again. Such phrases as ‘the Upper Slopes’ and ‘the Summit of Perfection’, the talk of ‘perfect, ageless people who lived in their hearts and their minds more than in their bodies’ were clear indications of another civilisation.

  But where was it? In this world or beyond?

  His brighter mood was also partly due to Joyce and the obvious lift of her heart. He thought again of the change in Joyce in the past few weeks – she was as attentive as ever but at times he suspected that she was trying to establish a new relationship – that she had given up hope of their living together and was seeing themselves more in terms of brother and sister.