The old road up the mountain opened abruptly onto the side of the road they were traveling. He swerved the car, turned off the paved highway onto the dirt-and-rock road which seemed narrow enough for only one car. As he turned, he glanced back.
He got a glimpse of the hard-faced man dashing out of the Bloomfield Corners store and jumping into the seat of his station wagon. He saw the wagon start forward in a jerk of gears and he heard the horn sounding violently.
Warren looked ahead at his own narrow road. It would soon head upward at an alarmingly steep grade. He stepped on the gas as much as he dared, shot along the road and began to climb up old Thunderhook. Behind him he heard the insistent horn of the station wagon.
The road was very narrow, heavily rutted, and never meant for speeding. It wound in and around big slides of rock, skirted big stands of trees, through which they could see only the dense underbrush on the steep slope of the mountain side.
Warren kept his foot on the gas, swerving the car by sheer instinct around blind turns, up high gradients, over bends. Marge sat glued in her seat next to him, watching the road with the same dread fascination people get while riding a roller coaster or tearing down an icy hill in a toboggan.
"Slow down," she finally got out, "before we get killed. If we meet a car coming down, we're done for."
Warren gritted his teeth and kept up the pace. Finally he managed to get out, "I'm going to find out about this business, and I'm darn sure the answer's up here somewhere. It all adds up."
He kept the mad pace. Around corners, traveling almost blind, between thick walls of green on each side. Often it seemed the forest was directly in their path until the narrow dirt road sharply swerved. The car had good springs, or they would have been jolted into the thick undergrowth a-longside.
Marge was finally able to take her eyes from the terrifying sight of the road in front to look behind. She shuddered, seeing the steep grades they had climbed. For an instant there was a clear long stretch behind them and she saw die front of the station wagon come around a bend below. Its horn sounded again.
"He's still following us," she gasped, turning around to fix the road ahead.
"I thought he would," muttered Warren, twisting the wheel violently to avoid a low overhanging branch. "He's part of this. But this still isn't posted as a private road. I'm not stopping."
Just then they came out momentarily on a wide, almost level stretch. There was a sign nailed to a tree. Marge read it aloud as they roared past. "It says 'No Trespassing,' she told Warren. "See, it is a private road."
"Uh-uh," he said. "I didn't see any such sign. . . . Hold tight!" The car made a lurching swerve around an outcropping of rock while climbing at an angle.
Marge recovered herself a little. Apparently once Warren was hot on the trail of a story, nothing short of sudden death would stop him—if that. She decided she might as well play the game, too. She unsnapped the case of the little camera slung about her neck, adjusted it with one hand while holding on to the jumping, jolting seat. Then she deftly twisted around and aimed the camera out the rear window.
In a few more seconds the pursuing station wagon made a momentary appearance, and she snapped it. "At least when we're either in jail or in the morgue," she remarked, "People can run a picture of our last moments along here."
She turned and shot a second view of a particularly fearful section of the road ahead. To one side the narrow road was skirting an almost sheer drop hundreds of feet deep, with tree-tops far below looking like a green carpet. To the other side, a wall of jagged rock thrust abruptly toward the sky.
They rounded a turn, tore up a straight section with another turn coming up a hundred feet ahead. The honking of the station wagon was audible again. Then suddenly they both were stunned by the glare of brilliant sunlight.
Momentarily blinded, Warren slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop. Then he leaned forward and simply stared, thunderstruck.
The road had vanished completely. The tall trees and the steep slope had vanished, the overhanging rock on the other side had also vanished.
They seemed perched on the very edge of a vast and sunlit valley. The sky overhead was an eerie bluish-green, with fluffy orange clouds dotted here and there.
There was a city down in that valley, a most unusual city. They could distinctly see towers of large buildings, some of bright glass and polished metal, others dull and strangely bulbous like a grotesque image of an Oriental metropolis. There was the suggestion of a city wall and roadways leading through it. There were banners flying from various towers— and puffs of black smoke and evidence of objects hurtling violently into the air as if from shocks of explosions.
Before this city stretched a broad, open field, and it was occupied by what seemed to be two opposing armies facing each other. Lines of men were charging, dust and smoke arose, where men were locked in combat. Puffs of smoke and flame showed where a bombardment was taking place.
They could not see these figures clearly; in fact they had only an instant's glance at them, for something more immediate focused their attention.
They noticed now that a wide road ran up the rim of the valley almost directly to their car. Coming up that road, rolling toward them, came a column of armored machines. They were big clumsy cars, rolling on numerous wheels instead of tractors. Exhaust pipes puffed steam from low on their sides, and men in metal helmets perched on their sides and tops.
The men in the first vehicles, which roughly resembled outsized military tanks, spotted their car. Warren and Marge saw them point and open their mouths to call out. The nearest steamer tank swung its guns on the car, the helmeted crew leveling their weapons and craning their necks forward to get a good look at the two.
Marge's first instinct had been good. She raised her camera almost by reflex action and snapped the scene. Then she took her eye off the finder, looked at the tank charging at them, its gun now coming down to aim point-blank at them, and she screamed.
Her scream released Warren from the paralysis of astonishment which had gripped him. He popped his foot off the brake, stepped on the gas, and for an instant closed his eyes.
The road ahead was straight for a small stretch, he recalled. He opened his eyes again ready for the turn as he felt the car lurch forward.
There was no valley, no orange clouds, no exotic city, no tanks and soldiers. There was only the rum of the road coming at them fast; the trees and the rock. He swerved, went around it, and began to slow down, his forehead beaded with sweat, his body trembling from the reaction.
"Ohhh!" gasped Marge, letting her breath out with a sigh. She slumped back. And then they both heard it.
Mixed with the wild horn-signal behind them, came a shriek of brakes, a skidding sound, then a crashing and smashing from around the last bend.
"I guess our friend behind us missed the turn," said Warren, bringing the car almost to a halt. "Or he turned the wrong way—if and when, he saw the vision."
"You going back?" asked Marge, turning to look behind. "I can't see a thing."
Warren stepped up his speed again. "This road is too narrow to turn around, and we might get mixed up with that mirage again. Well keep' on going. If we find anyone up ahead, we can send them back to rescue their man. We're still on this story, remember, and we're going to get it!"
"Then, for Pete's sake, drive slower!" the girl said. "Or all we'll get is an obit in People."
Warren grinned his approval at her. "Maybe you're right, at that," he conceded, and continued at a more reasonable pace. "But we did see a vision for ourselves, do you realize that?" he said. "And another thing: do you recall hearing any sounds from it? I saw bombs exploding, tanks moving, and men open their mouths and act as if they were yelling, but I didn't hear one doggone thing. Just the wind in the trees and the car. Did you hear anything from the vision?"
"Now that you mention it, no," she said. "But I did get a shot of it with my little thirty-five milli."
"But if all this
is hallucination, your film will show just about what we see now," he said.
They drove on around another sharp, wooded turn, then found themselves on a level stretch, with the road widening rapidly. In a few more minutes the trees thinned out and they approached a building that resembled a Swiss chalet at the right side of the road. It was built of stucco and field stone, with dark brown timbers and ornately scrolled wood trim along the eaves of the sharply slanted roof.
Behind it, they made out portions of other buildings, half hidden by the foliage. These structures apparently had been built more recently than the chalet; they were of unadorned concrete; perfectly plain boxlike or oblong buildings. One of them, surprisingly enough, was simply a huge dome, made of some kind of metal, reminding Warren of the dome of a planetarium. The whole structure was windowless.
Warren pulled the car up before the door of the chalet. "I guess this is it," he said. "I'm going in. Coming?"
"You're not leaving me behind," she said, following him out of the car. They walked up to the door of the lodge. As they came to it, it opened.
Two men stood in the doorway. They were both big, husky men, with crew cuts. One of them, who had piercing blue eyes and a scar on his chin, looked at thern with raised eyebrows.
"What're you doing here?" he said. "Who you wanna see?"
The other man, who had a flattened nose like a prize fighter, nudged the first man with his elbow. "Better have 'em come in, Jack. Better let the chief talk to 'em."
Jack nodded. He stood aside slightly, pointed inside with his thumb. "Come on in, folks."
Warren, about to identify himself to them, thought better of it. He'd rather see their employer. He grasped Marge's arm, grinned and whispered to her, "Step into my parlor, said the spider. . . ."
They found themselves in the dim anteroom of the chalet, and Flat-Nose closed the door quietly behind them.
CHAPTER FOUR
THEY WENT through the small antechamber and out into a large high-ceilinged room which appeared to occupy most of the ground floor. A huge stone fireplace occupied one wall; and there were many wide armchairs, a long plank trestle table, several bookcases, a large record player and a sizable collection of records in an open-faced cabinet. Doors led apparently to other parts of the house.
Marge and Warren stood for a minute under the silent inspection of Flat-Nose, while Jack went through one of the doors. In a minute he came back accompanied by an elderly gray-haired man conservatively dressed.
"Ah," said this individual, peering at them from sharp blue eyes beneath beetling gray brows. "And may I ask to what we owe this unexpected visit?"
Warren reached into his pocket, took out his wallet and extracted his press card. "Let me introduce myself and the young lady. We're from People. . . ."
The elderly man furrowed his brows and let Warren continue with the introduction. Then he nodded briefly. "My name is Enderby, Dr. James Enderby. I must inform you at once that your arrival here is most unfortunate. We are not at all desirous of publicity, and I must insist that you will find no story for your magazine here."
"Well," said Warren, still smiling, "perhaps not. But you may be able to shed some fight on another story Miss McElroy and I have been working on. All our leads seemed to point up to Thunderhook Mountain—and you seem to be the ones occupying it."
"That's perfectly true," added Marge, who had seated herself in an armchair and was busily repairing her complexion with powder and lipstick. "You certainly seem awfully secretive. And inhospitable! I never saw such people! After the scare we had on the road, we have to meet a crew like you.
Enderby frowned sharply. "What 'scare' are you talking about, young lady?" Jack and Flat-Nose also wheeled a-round to stare at her.
Marge put down her compact and looked at Dr. Enderby with widened eyes. "Why, that drive-in movie show you gave on the road up here. It almost scared us to death! It wasn't funny."
"A—a drive-in movie show?" puzzled their host. "What are you talking about? What did you see?"
"Oh, come off it," Marge said. "I don't know how you've been managing these projections or whatever they are around the country, but I'm sure you know all about it, Doctor."
"What? Wha—" spluttered Enderby, confused and puzzled. But just as he was about to go on with whatever he was going to say, the front door of the chalet banged open, and a strange appearing figure burst into the large room.
It was their pursuer, but his jacket was in shreds, there were scratches on his face and hands, his pants were ripped and a smear of dirt ran all along the sfde of his chest and on his cheek. He was clearly fit to be tied.
When this newcomer saw Warren and Marge, he gave a yell. "There they are!" he shouted. "If it wasn't for them, and their damn' snooping . . ."
Jack and Flat-Nose grabbed him by the elbows. "Hey, take it easy, Kenster. Sit down. What happened? Did you run off the road?"
Kenster slumped into a chair, still staring angrily at the two intruders. "What do you think? I was chasing these two, trying to get them to come back and get off this road. They got no business up here. And . . ."
He hesitated, clearly unwilling to speak of the vision on the mountain side. Warren took the opportunity to help him out. "You ran into that mirage, saw the men with the tanks, and lost control, eh?"
Kenster rubbed a scratch on his cheek. "I lost the road when that happened. Went over into the slope. The car's jammed among the trees, thirty feet down the side. Shoulda been you."
"Now wait," said Enderby, breaking in. "You, Kenster, get to your quarters and fix yourself up. Get those scratches taken care of and change your clothes. We'll take care of the car later."
As Kenster slouched out and could be heard stomping upstairs, Warren turned sharply on Enderby.
"Now, look here," he said. "There's something very strange going on here and it's my job to get to the bottom of it. People are seeing disturbing visions all around this district and quite evidently you're in a position to shed some light on it. You hide yourself away here up on a mountain, have guards to keep people from checking up on you. Why, you act like a collection of criminals or conspirators!
"This young lady and I are members of the staff of an important national magazine. You can't hold us prisoners without that becoming known to our publisher and subsequently to the newspapers. You can't conceal what's going on here and expect us to co-operate with your schemes. I think you had better make clear who you are and what this establishment represents, without further nonsense."
Enderby stared at him thoughtfully. "I'm not intimidated by you or your position. I think I could quash any publicity you may try to foist on us. It happens that there is nothing criminal going on here. These buildings and this entire mountain top, for hundreds of acres, is the property of the Lansing Foundation. We who work here are employees of that Foundation, and we are engaged on certain researches of a highly confidential nature. I must advise you that this work is being carried on with the full knowledge and sanction of the United States Government, and if necessary I would not hesitate to call in the authorities to prevent any knowledge of our activities getting in the public press."
Warren was startled. The Lansing Foundation was one of the wealthiest research organizations in the country. Set up on the death of Walter Lansing, founder and president of the huge Lansing automobile firm, it diverted a substantial share of its wealth into a non-profit foundation "for the advancement of knowledge." He knew that the Lansing Foundation had endowed many technical colleges throughout the world, that it had uderwritten several valuable scientific projects, that it was credited with many achievements that had markedly benefitted science and invention. The Lansing Foundation was not a name to be taken lightly. It was indeed possible that its work would be protected by the government for security reasons, if the work veered in such a direction.
Nevertheless Warren continued his efforts. "The Lansing Foundation, Doctor, is not the government. And when the work of one of its branches is such as
to interfere with the peace and safety of innocent citizens, such as those in Con-ingo County, it is the duty of the press to explain it, and if necessary, to combat it. It is quite clear that some operation up here is creating all sorts of frightening mirages, visions, and scares—setting up the groundwork that might lead to national panic. People will not be intimidated by your foundation's money and size. I might point out that we are not without public influence ourselves."
Enderby pursed his lips, began to get a little angry. But before he could answer Warren, he was interrupted.
From a rear door in the huge room, a man bustled through. This newcomer was wearing a white smock and was carrying several papers in his hand. He glanced up, saw Enderby and started rapidly towards him.
"Yes, Dr. Weidekind?" said Enderby, annoyed at the interruption.
Weidekind, a tall, thin man with pale washed-out blue eyes and a shock of straw-colored hair, seemed not to notice anyone else. "We had a little phasing trouble with the restrainers, Jim," he said to Enderby, speaking rapidly. "There may have been another sympathetic mirage somewhere. Especially in connection with our viewers. We had a full-charted phase of the Steam Eon of Planet Two of NNW Two Sixty-five. A fine war struggle. I think we'll have to increase the power of radial bank East."
"All right, Weidekind, I suspected as much. Don't discuss it here, we have visitors," Enderby said quickly the moment he managed to break into Weidekind's rush of words.
For the first time the pale-eyed scientist seemed to notice the others. "Oh," he said, then glanced at Enderby. The latter quickly added, "Go back and shut down the restrainers. I'll be back as soon as I can get away."
Weidekind nodded, stared at Marge curiously, and hurried off. There was a hush in the room for a moment, as each one tried to readjust to the astonishing interruption.
Warren became aware of something that he had noticed subconsciously all along. There had been a high-pitched distant humming somewhere in the rear of the building since they had first come in the door. This had been present, and yet so steady that it had not penetrated his mind. Now he listened to it—in fact, he noticed that all the others seemed straining to hear it too at the same time. Then suddenly it changed pitch. It dropped to a lower hum, as if someone had turned a control or turned off some minor generator.
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