by John Creasey
But Lal Singh won support from the Maharajah and from some of the city leaders, until women began to come to the clinic and be fitted with the contraceptive which could work miracles and yet not disturb the men or deny them pleasure . . . and there was so very little pleasure in Kelepur.
Gradually the clinic became a rival to the temples as a place of culture, gossip and even worship. And gradually the birthrate began to go down. There were fewer to feed, and those who were fed lived longer and were in better health, so that they would work harder. Gradually, the town of Kelepur flourished, and was far better in nearly every way than any other district on its borders. There was more water for grass and the sheep grew plumper, their wool was finer; the goats were sleeker and their hair was longer. The cotton was stronger and the linens became of better quality. Lal Singh, delighted with the way things were going, began to talk to leaders of bordering constituencies, and they began to heed.
Moreover, the provincial government not only gave the clinic its blessing but actually provided a little in the way of funds. Even the government of All India, in Delhi, approved the project and provided help – not enough, but still help. Lal Singh, nearly seventy years old, was as happy as a man could be, and the people loved him.
They loved him, that was, until the day when the young wives no longer bore children.
Even at its best, the attempt at population control had been only partly successful; the birthrate was down but many young women had three or four children before they were twenty, and families of seven and eight were by no means rare. The clinic, which looked after the pre-natal needs of the mothers, began to nonce that fewer and fewer mothers-to-be came for help. At first this caused little comment, but before long some priests began to say that there was a curse upon the land.
What else but a curse had made the women barren?
And without children there would be no one to do the work or look after the old, when their lives were near-spent.
A curse, the priests cried. The gods of their fathers had turned their faces upon the people and these faces would be turned away while the clinic of Lal Singh survived. Now, with all the deep-laid prejudices revealed again, the clinic was shunned.
The birthrate fell and fell, until at last there was no woman here with child.
And on that day a radio newscast from Benares told of the way the curse lay upon the world.
So, incited by a priest, the men and the youths took up their sticks and picked up stones and carried petrol and paraffin towards the clinic. The priest who organised the raid was very shrewd, and he had them link together in a cordon through which no one could escape.
Lal Singh first saw them when they were only a hundred yards away. He caught his breath as he stared out of the narrow window in the clinic made of wood and corrugated sheets. Then he turned and hurried to the wards, where there were still some babies and their mothers, and all the nurses. The women looked so old. Their hair was grey and straggly, the bone jutted out of their cheeks, their necks were scrawny and all their skin shiny.
He called out to them in desperation.
‘You must go home! We are in trouble. Go, hide yourselves, do not come back to this place until you know that all is safe.’
They turned, gathered up their few possessions and hurried out of the back door towards the arid land between them and the town. Lal Singh drew his river-washed dhoti about him so that he could move more freely. He went out through the front door, and his sparse hair was stirred by a hot wind. Behind the leaders of the attackers were the people, hundreds of them, spread out in a long, limp line beneath the burning sun.
Lal Singh saw how far the line stretched and knew that the nurses and the patients would be attacked. He put his hands upwards in despairing appeal to the gods and to men, and as he did so the avengers of the children who had never been born began to run forward.
Lal Singh stood erect and still as an Old Testament prophet, until they fell upon him and beat him savagely about the head and face and shoulders and felled him to his knees and slew him.
Palfrey heard the story in detail as he came back from seeing Joyce and Maddern to the lift. It brought a strange, new feeling of hurt and of despair. Chance had made him meet Lai Singh, many years ago. Now the old were dying and there were fewer, so many fewer newborn. It felt lonely to be here without Joyce. He felt a stirring of an unfamiliar emotion and suddenly asked himself, ‘Can I be jealous?’
As he passed the Observation Room, he saw a young girl operator glance round, notice him, and beckon. He went through, as the girl whispered, ‘It’s Mr. Stefan, sir. Stefan Andromovitch.’
‘I’ll take the call here,’ Palfrey said, hurrying to a hood-covered telephone. He had a mental picture of a giant of a man, his oldest friend, who was second in command of Z5. Andromovitch was stationed in Moscow and was as free from domination of the Kremlin, as he – Palfrey – was free from domination from Whitehall.
There was only a moment’s delay, before Andromovitch said, ‘Hallo, Sap. I am very glad I caught you in. How are you?’
After a long pause, Palfrey said, ‘Horrified. And terrified. And baffled. Have you found some affected areas, too?’
‘Yes,’ Andromovitch answered soberly. ‘Very many, I fear. Russia has, I am told, become aware of the situation and the authorities have been endeavouring to find out how the areas are contaminated.’
‘Is there the slightest indication of how it’s been done?’ Palfrey asked, without much hope.
‘No,’ answered the Russian. ‘The one unusual factor is that mystery aircraft, rockets or capsules, have been found in some places. Whenever they have been approached they’ve caught fire. So far no useful information has come from analysing the ashes. But at least we were not taken by surprise,’ Andromovitch went on. ‘A security blanket was put down at once, directly word came. Most of our commune authorities believed there were official experiments. No one reported and no one complained in case they were suspected of being anti-government.’ He paused again, only to go on, ‘More affected areas are being reported every few minutes! I have promised to talk with you and then see the Presidium. They hope you have some information, Sap.’
‘It’s painfully little,’ Palfrey said.
‘But there is some?’ Andromovitch was obviously desperately anxious.
‘I’ve sent Joyce to see what she can find out,’ Palfrey said, with great care. ‘I can’t give details, but a doctor in Devon has made at second-hand, contact with a man who calls himself the Master. And we’ve had the same rocket-cum-capsule situation as you. It’s just possible the doctor will give us a lead.’
‘I shall report what you have told me,’ promised Andromovitch. ‘If there is any clue at all which we can help to follow up, be sure we will give it priority.’ After a pause, he went on, ‘I’ve never known the Soviet leaders so disturbed. They seem to realise that this could really be the end for humankind.’
‘And it could be,’ Palfrey insisted, feeling as if the very admission made him a lunatic.
‘It can’t be,’ said Andromovitch in a strangled voice.
Palfrey said, ‘Can you come over here?’
‘I think I should stay in Moscow,’ Andromovitch told him. ‘Sap, could you come here, to Moscow?’
Startled, Palfrey said, ‘Would it help?’
‘It’s a long time since you’ve been here,’ Andromovitch reminded him. ‘The Presidium does wonder if this is an Anglo-American move against Russia. You could help to reassure them.’
‘Stefan,’ Palfrey said, with sudden vigour, ‘if I get any news at all which might help, I’ll bring it myself if I’m physically able to.’
‘It will be a very wise move,’ Andromovitch assured him. ‘Sap—’ He broke off. ‘Oh, never mind.’
‘I’ll see you soon,’ Palfrey said, and replaced the receiver.
/> He went slowly back to his apartment, going over everything which Stefan had said in his mind. He knew that the other man was profoundly disturbed, that the government of Russia was as disturbed, and suspicious of this threat not simply to those who were alive, but to millions of the unborn.
And the only slender lead he had was Maddern’s.
Joyce Morgan and Reginald Maddern sat close together in a military helicopter large enough for four passengers. They were behind the pilot and heading towards the starlit sky. The lights below were far fewer than when they had started, and not so bright. Great patches were covered with dark mist, which gave an eerie, even a frightening aura. They sat close, on a bench seat, and after a long silence Maddern said, ‘I wonder if we’re being followed.’
‘I rather wish Sap’s men were following us,’ Joyce said. ‘How on Earth you—’ She broke off.
‘How on Earth I—what?’ asked Maddern, intrigued.
‘Can you come up again in a helicopter so soon after the crash,’ Joyce marvelled. ‘Aren’t you terrified?’
‘A bit edgy, perhaps,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m a bit edgy, too,’ she said. ‘But I simply had to get away. I’ve been cooped up at H.Q. for so long I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be free. And please don’t blame Sap. He’s tried everything short of—everything short of throwing me out to make me take leave!’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Good question,’ she retorted. ‘Why don’t you take holidays when you can?’
He didn’t answer, either.
The light was very dim, the noise much less than in the other helicopter, and they were in a little world of their own. Maddern felt a curious sense of freedom; in spite of the dangers, he knew real lightness of heart, something he hadn’t known for a long time. He slid his arm round Joyce’s waist, and the sensation was much as Joyce’s had been when they had shaken hands, as if an electric current passed through him. He wondered – he hoped – she felt the same. She turned to look at him and in this light particularly, she was quite beautiful.
‘I don’t enjoy going away on my own,’ he stated, belatedly.
‘Nor do I’ said Joyce. ‘I always wanted to be where Sap was. I always felt there was only half of me alive when he was away. But—I don’t feel it now. I feel as if—’
She began to talk, and as she talked and Maddern listened intently, the pilot began to descend. He too was on edge, glad only that he hadn’t two nervous passengers in the cabin with him.
For he knew that the helicopter was being followed by an unconventional plane, more rocket than aircraft, like the one that had already shot Maddern down once tonight.
Chapter Fifteen
THE MASTER
They sat even closer together, very tense, Maddern’s arm firm about Joyce’s waist. He was acutely aware of the softness of her breast against his fingers. There was fear, making his heart race, and there was this acute awareness of being next to a woman, making it race even faster. He did not know which was the main cause.
The pilot glanced round and mouthed, ‘Hold tight.’
Mechanically, Maddern checked his safety-belt, then Joyce’s. They were in a bank of clouds and going down very slowly indeed. Clouds? God! This was ground mist! There was a vague aura of light from which the shape of a lamp post loomed, a sudden swerve of the machine and they landed, with hardly a jar and with hardly a sound. All three sat in tension for a few moments, before the pilot pushed back the hinged door.
‘I’ll get out first,’ he said brightly.
‘Just where are we?’
‘In your paddock, I hope,’ the pilot replied.
They all laughed with that final release from tension. Then one after another they got out, and Maddern opened both his arms for Joyce to steady herself. For a moment, she was in his arms. As they separated, the pilot remarked, ‘A bit close to your back door, sir.’
‘A minor miracle that you made it at all,’ praised Maddern.
The mist was thinner here and they could make out the shape of the light bulb over the porch at the back, and as they drew nearer, the shape of the old house loomed up, with the yellow glow at all the windows. What puzzled Maddern was the fact that no one was in sight; Smith and his men must be hiding. He had an uneasy feeling that they might be falling down on their job, but when he had suspected that before they had swiftly proved him wrong. Certainly they must have heard the roar of the helicopter.
As he opened the back door with a huge key kept on the porch rafter, he expected Smith to appear but no one loomed out of the mist. The light in a narrow passage, walls oak beamed like the rest of the house, shone through into the main hall. No one appeared, and there was utter silence.
‘Azran is upstairs,’ he said. ‘I’ll go up first.’
He broke off, and Joyce drew in a hissing breath for a man stepped out of the living-room, a stranger to them both – a man, yet one who came if not from another world, then another civilisation.
He was small, but had a remarkably boyish, clean-limbed figure.
He was dressed in a shiny, metallic-looking sheath suit of pale green, and a hood of the same material fell from the neck, leaving his well-shaped head clear; his hair was light brown in colour and cut short. His hands were uncovered, too. He had a tiny, pointed beard and moustache, and wax like perfection of features and skin. He had appeared as if out of the floor itself, he moved so quickly. His very clear eyes had sharply defined but rather short eyebrows and lashes, in fact he looked like a man made up with extreme care to play a part in a space-age film.
Joyce’s fingers tightened still more on Maddern’s arm, as Maddern said sharply, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to see Azran,’ the man answered in very carefully enunciated English.
‘Where are the guards?’ Maddern demanded.
‘I have dealt with them,’ the man announced.
‘How did you deal with them?’ Maddern felt as aggressive as he sounded, but something else worked in him too, a new kind of fear. He had come here to try to communicate with Azran’s friends, not antagonise them. Fear, concern, anxiety for Joyce, the woman he had met only a few hours ago, must not affect him. He must keep calm, reasonable, detached. Yet his heart raced. There was hardly time for these exhortations to flash through his mind before the other answered.
‘You would not understand.’
Maddern could not stop himself from blurting out, ‘I’ll understand soon enough if you’ve killed them!’
‘No, they have not been killed,’ the other assured him. ‘There is no need for killing now that the secret is known, and the world is beginning to react. Did you make that statement, Dr. Maddern?’
‘I did not. I wanted it kept secret.’
‘Then it was Palfrey.’
‘No!’ interjected Joyce, very confidently. ‘It wasn’t Dr. Palfrey. He wasn’t sure what to do but was generally in favour of making an announcement. All the same, the one which was made took him completely by surprise.’ Maddern felt the pressure on his arm tighten, felt her trembling, so it mattered a great deal to have Palfrey vindicated.
‘Do you know who did release the statement?’ the man demanded. ‘Because on him there is a grave responsibility. Had this news been kept from the public—’
‘You could have gone on until you had complete control everywhere, without any fear of being checked,’ Maddern said. ‘I didn’t advocate silence for your sake, I wanted more time to think, more time to find out how widespread the barrenness is.’
The small man said coldly, ‘I have complete control over that, complete control.’
Maddern opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. There was something chillingly assured in the way the sheathed man made that claim; and at the same time there was the realisation that he said
‘I have complete control.’ If that were so, he was the Master. Here in Maddern’s home, vulnerable as far as Maddern could see; arrogantly conscious of a superiority he probably didn’t possess.
‘I am the Master,’ the small man stated simply. ‘And I repeat that I have complete control of the situation. I can control the future of mankind, Dr. Maddern, and in fact I am controlling it. I have only to give the word, and there will be no more human pregnancies; no human children after nine months from this day. Do you understand the gravity of the situation?’
Maddern said heavily, ‘Yes.’
The master looked at Joyce.
‘Does Dr. Palfrey?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘He hasn’t any doubt at all.’
‘Then we are in a position, perhaps, to talk,’ the Master conceded.
He turned round very quickly, little more than a spin on his toes, and virtually flew into the other room. When the others went in he was standing by the fireplace, and Azran was sitting on a pouffe, a few feet away. Coffee was on a small table, with sugar and cream. Maddern saw Joyce glance round swiftly at the attractive room, then back at the man who so confidently called himself the Master.
It was ludicrous that he, Reginald Maddern, thought of this small person as the Master. The fear of being subordinated to this man’s will was very strong, and although he steeled himself against it there was nothing at this moment that he could usefully say.
‘Talk won’t get us anywhere,’ he said gruffly.
‘Dr. Maddern, you are dealing with a situation completely new and foreign to you,’ said the Master. ‘Until you understand it, you can do nothing. And you cannot understand it until I have told you of it. Talk is the only thing at this stage which can get you anywhere. I am already where I want to be.’
Maddern took off his coat and flung it over a chair. Azran brought him coffee and some for Joyce as well. Joyce dropped into an easy chair. She was obviously as baffled as he and probably felt as weak – any moment he expected his legs to buckle under him, and he lowered himself carefully to the arm of Joyce’s chair. There was some comfort in being so close to her. There was comfort, too, in his own nature – the gift he had of facing facts and never turning away from them. It was useless to fight against this man’s present authority, better by far to try to use it.
