"That's all right," Barbee told her. "But how come the kitten?"
Her eyes turned greenish black again, strangely intense, as if some secret fear had dilated the pupils. For an instant he glimpsed a wary alertness, as if she were playing an obscurely difficult and dangerous game. He didn't understand that. A cub reporter, of course, might be jittery about her first big assignment. But April Bell seemed too briskly competent to suffer any such misgivings, and the thing he glimpsed was something more than mere timidity. It was desperate, deadly.
Barbee recoiled a little from that look of fearful searching. After the briefest instant, however, the girl's white, frozen face came alive again. She straightened the kitten's red ribbon, and smiled at him warmly.
"Fifi belongs to my Aunt Agatha," she cooed brightly. "I live with her, you know, and she came out with me today. Auntie went shopping with the car and left Fifi with me. She's to meet me in the waiting room. Excuse me, and I'll see if she's come—and get rid of the little beast before it makes another scene."
She hurried away from him, into the bright-lit building. Barbee looked after her, through the glass doors, with a puzzled and uneasy interest. Even the lithe free grace of her walk fascinated him. She seemed untamed.
Barbee tried to shrug off that vague conflict of attraction and formless apprehension, and followed Nora Quain to the little group watching the chartered transport roaring toward them on the taxi-strip, huge and ungainly in the gloom. He was tired, and probably he had been drinking more than was good for him. His nerves seemed on edge. It was only natural for him to feel a strong response to such a girl as April Bell. What man wouldn't? But he resolved to control that reaction.
Nora Quain turned her attention from the incoming plane long enough to ask him: "Is that girl important?"
"Just met her." Barbee hesitated, wondering. "She's ... unusual."
"Don't let her be important," Nora urged quickly. "She is—"
She paused as if to find a word for April Bell. The warm smile left her face, and her hand moved unconsciously to draw little Pat to her side. She didn't find the word.
"Don't, Will!" she whispered. "Please!" The engines of the taxiing transport drowned her voice.
CHAPTER TWO
The Kitten Killing
Two white-uniformed attendants were waiting with a wheeled gangway to land the incoming passengers. The big transport, however, looming dark and monstrous in the floodlights on the field, stopped a full hundred yards from the terminal building. The great motors died in a silence that seemed breathless.
"Marck!" In that sudden stillness the voice of Mondrick's blind wife was a thin, frantic cry. "Can anybody see Marck?"
Old Ben Chittum led the eager rush toward the transport, waving his pipe wildly and shouting unanswered greetings to his son. Papa and Mama Spivak ran behind him, calling for Nick, and burst into tears when their son didn't appear. Nora Quain picked up the toddling child and held her apprehensively tight.
Rowena Mondrick was left behind, with her huge dog and the bewildered-looking little nurse. The dog had ceased to bristle, with April Bell's departure. It glanced at Barbee with friendly golden eyes, and then ignored him.
"The plane stopped pretty far out," he told Rowena. "I don't know why. But Dr. Mondrick and the others should be out to meet us in a moment."
"Thank you, Will." She smiled toward him gratefully, her face turning smooth and youthful again for an instant under the blank lenses, before her bleak unease came back. "I'm so afraid for Marck!"
"I can understand that," Barbee murmured. "Sam Quain told me about the Ala-shan—a desert that makes Death Valley look like a green oasis, so I gather. And I know Dr. Mondrick's health isn't good—"
"No, Will, it's nothing like that." Her thin, straight shoulders shrugged uneasily. "Marck does have that trick heart, and his asthma seems worse every year. But he's still vigorous, and he knows his deserts. It isn't that at all."
Her small hands tightened on the shepherd's leash, and Barbee thought they shuddered. She drew the huge dog to her again. Her light fingers moved quickly over its fine tawny head, and then dwelt upon the polished silver studs that knobbed its collar, as if she found a sensuous pleasure in feeling the cold white metal.
"I used to work with Marck, you know," she whispered slowly. "Before I saw too much." Her thin left hand came quickly up, as if moved with an unforgotten horror, to cover for an instant her dark lenses and the empty scars behind them. "I know what his theory is, and what Sam Quain found for him under that old burial mound in the Ala-shan on the last expedition before the war. That's why I tried to persuade him not to go back."
She turned abruptly, listening.
"Now where are they, Will?" Apprehension breathed in her low voice. "Why don't they come?"
"I don't know," Barbee told her, himself uneasy. "I don't understand it. The plane's just standing, waiting. They've put the gangway against it, and now they're opening the door, but nobody comes out. There's Dr. Bennett, the Foundation man, going aboard."
"He'll find out." Holding fast to the dog, Rowena turned back toward the terminal building, listening again. "Where's that girl?" Alarm edged her whisper. "The one Turk chased away."
"Inside," Barbee said. "I'm sorry anything unpleasant happened. April's charming, and I hoped you'd like her. Really, Rowena, I couldn't see any reason—"
"But there is a reason." The blind woman stiffened, her face taut and pale. "Turk didn't like her." She was patting the huge dog's head; Barbee saw its intelligent yellow eyes look warily toward the building, as if alert against April Bell's return. "And Turk knows."
"Now, Rowena," Barbee protested. "Aren't you carrying your trust in Turk a little too far?"
Her blind lenses stared at him, somehow ominous.
"Marck trained Turk to guard me," she insisted solemnly. "He attacked that woman because he knows she's ... bad." Her taut fingers quivered on the silver-knobbed collar. "Remember that, Will!" she begged huskily. "I'm sure that girl would be charming —very. But Turk can tell."
Barbee stepped back uncomfortably. He wondered if the black leopard's claws, ripping out her sight, had left unhealed mental scars as well. Rowena's apprehensions seemed somewhat beyond the rational. He was glad to see the gangling figure of the Foundation manager coming back down the steps from the silent plane.
"There's Bennett," he said. "I suppose the others will come off with him."
Rowena caught her breath, and they waited silently. Barbee watched to see Sam Quain's bronzed head, his blue-eyed face. He looked for Nick Spivak, dark and slight, frowning wistfully through his glasses and moving always with a nervous haste, as if knowledge had almost eluded his zealous pursuit; and he pictured Rex Chittum, who for all his scholarship still appeared as robustly ignorant as another Li'l Abner. His mind saw old Mondrick himself, ruddy and stout and bald, chin massively aggressive and mild eyes distant with rapt preoccupations.
But they didn't come.
"Where's Marck?" Rowena whispered sharply. "And the others?"
"I don't see them." Barbee tried not to sound uneasy. "And Bennett seems to be shooing everybody away from the plane. Now he's coming this way."
"Dr. Bennett?" Her piercing call startled Barbee. "What's keeping Marck?"
Striding back toward the terminal building, the gaunt scientist paused. Barbee could see the lines of worry bitten into his frowning face, but his voice was reassuring.
"They're all safe, Mrs. Mondrick," he told her. "They're getting ready to come off the plane, but I'm afraid there'll be a little delay."
"Delay?" gasped Rowena. "Why?"
"Dr. Mondrick has this announcement, on the results of the expedition," Bennett said patiently. "I gather that his finds were extremely important, and he wishes to make them public before he leaves the field."
"Oh—no!" Rowena's pale left hand flashed fearfully to her throat, the light glowing cold on her paler silver rings and bracelets. "He mustn't!" she sobbed. "They won't let him."
Bennett frowned with momentary puzzlement.
"I can't see why there should be so much fuss about any research announcement," he said briskly. "But I assure you that you needn't worry over any possible danger, Mrs. Mondrick. The doctor appears rather unduly concerned about some trouble—precisely what, I didn't gather. He has asked me to send for a police escort to guard his person and his finds until the announcement is safely made."
Rowena shook her proud head, as if in fearful scorn of police protection.
"Don't you worry, Mrs. Mondrick," Bennett insisted. "Your husband told me what to do, and I'll take care of everything. I'll arrange for the press to meet him as he steps off the plane. All the reporters will be searched for weapons, and there'll be police enough to stop any possible attempt at interference."
"They can do nothing!" the blind woman snapped bitterly. "Please go back and tell Marck—"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Mondrick," Bennett broke in with veiled impatience. "But the doctor told me what he wants, and the arrangements must be made at once. He asked me to hurry—as if he feels there is danger in delay."
"There is." She nodded bleakly, clutching the dog's collar. "Go on!"
The frowning Foundation man strode on toward the terminal building, and Barbee fell in step beside him, angling hopefully: "Clarendon's such a peaceful little city, Dr. Bennett —what sort of trouble do you suppose Mondrick could expect?"
"Don't ask me," Bennett rapped. "And don't you try to beat the gun. Dr. Mondrick doesn't want any premature leaks, or any fantastic journalistic guesses. He says this is a big thing, and he wants the people to get it straight. The Life photographers and the AP staffers should be here now, and I'm trying to get a radio reporter. Everybody will get an even break on the hottest story of the year."
"Maybe," Barbee murmured silently, for he had learned to be cynical about elaborate press releases. He would wait and see. Strolling through the terminal building, he glimpsed April Bell's vivid hair in a phone booth. Nobody in sight looked like her Aunt Agatha, and he reminded himself to be skeptical of women, too.
He drank two cups of hot coffee at the lunch counter in the waiting room; but the chill in him came from something colder than the raw east wind, and it was still unthawed when a croaking loudspeaker announced the arrival of the regular airliner. He hurried out to catch Walraven.
The airliner taxied on past the dark transport where Mondrick waited, to stop opposite the terminal building. Two or three businessmen got off, and a dreamily sedate honeymoon couple. Walraven strutted heavily down the steps at last, his brassy voice booming impressively as he told the pert little air hostess about his contacts in Washington.
Walraven struck an inflated pose for the Star photographer, but he wouldn't be quoted on anything when Barbee tried to interview him. Off the record, he was planning a strategy conference with his great good friend, Preston Troy. He asked Barbee to stop at his old law office for a drink just any time, but he had nothing for the record. He tried to push his weak chin out again for the photographer, and got into a taxi.
Preston Troy would supply the strategy, Barbee knew, and hire somebody to write suitable words for the record. The truth about Walraven, as the empty false front for Troy's own political ambitions, would make real news. But not for the Star. Barbee let him go and hurried back to Mondrick's transport.
"Mama, I'm afraid!" He heard the high voice of little Pat Quain from the uneasy waiting group, and saw her held close in Nora's arms. "What has happened to my Daddy?"
"Sam's all right." Nora didn't sound too sure. "Just wait, dear."
Three police cars had pulled up outside the steel fence. Half a dozen uniformed men were already escorting the impatient reporters and photographers toward the huge chartered plane, and two of them turned to herd back the anxious relatives and friends.
"Please, officer!" Rowena Mondrick sounded almost frantic. "You must let me stay. Marck's my husband, and he's in danger. I must be near, to help him."
"Sorry, Mrs. Mondrick." The police sergeant was professionally firm. "But we'll protect your husband— not that I see any cause for all this alarm. The Foundation has asked us to clear the field. Everybody except the press and radio people will have to move back."
"No!" she cried sharply. "Please—you can't understand!"
The officer took her arm.
"Sorry," he said. "Please come quietly."
"You don't know anything," she whispered bitterly. "You can't help—"
Firmly, the officer led her away.
"Please stay, Mother," little Pat was whispering stubbornly. "I want to see my Daddy—and I will too know him."
Herself as pale as the frightened child, Nora Quain carried her back toward the lights of the terminal building. Mama Spivak uttered a low wailing cry and began to sob on the little tailor's shoulder. Old Ben Chittum shook his black pipe in the other policeman's face, quavering hotly: "Look here, officer. I've been praying two years for my boy to get back alive from them dern deserts. And the Spivaks here have spent more than they could really afford to ride the planes all the way down from New York City. By golly, officer—"
Barbee caught his indignant arm.
"Better wait, Ben."
The old man limped after the others, muttering and scowling. Barbee showed his press credentials, submitted to a swift search for concealed arms, and joined the reporters gathered beneath the vast wing of the transport. He found April Bell beside him.
The black kitten must have been returned to Aunt Agatha, after all, for the snakeskin bag was closed now. Pale and breathless, the girl was watching the high door of the plane with a feverish-seeming intentness. She seemed to start when she became aware of Barbee's glance. Her flaming head had turned to him abruptly. For an instant, he thought he could feel the tense, desperate readiness of some feral thing, crouched to leap. Then she smiled, her long, greenish eyes turning warm and gay.
"Hi, reporter." Her soft voice was comradely. "Looks like we've got ourselves a page-one story. Here they come!"
Sam Quain led the way down the gangway. Even in that first breathless instant, Barbee saw that he had changed. His square-jawed face was burned dark, his blond hair bleached almost white. He must have shaved aboard, but his worn khakis were wrinkled and soiled. He looked tired and somewhat more than two years older.
And there was something else.
That something else was stamped also upon the three men who followed him down the wheeled steps. Barbee wondered if they had all been ill. Dr. Mondrick's pale heavy face, under the stained and battered tropical helmet, sagged shockingly. Perhaps that old asthma was troubling him again, or that trick heart.
Even very ill men might have been smiling, Barbee thought uneasily, upon the moment of this triumphant return to their country and their friends and their wives, with a great work accomplished. But all of these weary, haggard men looked grimly preoccupied. None of them spared a wave or a smile for those who met them.
Nick Spivak and Rex Chittum came down from the transport behind old Mondrick. They also wore wrinkled, sun-bleached khaki, and they were lean and brown and grave. Rex must have heard old Ben Chittum's quavering hail from the guarded group at the terminal building, but he gave no sign.
For he and Nick were burdened. They carried, between them, a green-painted rectangular wooden box, lifting it by two riveted leather handles. Barbee thought it showed the careful workmanship of some simple craftsman in a remote village bazaar. Thick iron straps bound it, and a heavy padlock secured the hand-forged hasp. The two weary men leaned against its weight.
"Careful!" Barbee heard Mondrick's warning voice. "We can't lose it now."
Nervously, the haggard-cheeked anthropologist reached to steady the box. His attention didn't leave it until the men carrying it were safely down the steps.
Even then, he kept his hand on it as he nodded for them to bring it on toward the waiting reporters. These men were afraid.
Every wary movement whispered out their abiding
terror. They were not elated victors returning to announce a new conquest at the dark frontier of the known. They were tight-lipped veterans instead, Barbee felt, calmly disciplined, moving steadily into a desperate action.
"I wonder—?" whispered April Bell, her long eyes narrowed and dark. "I wonder what they really found?"
"Whatever it is," breathed Barbee, "the find doesn't seem to have made them very happy. A fundamentalist might think they had stumbled into hell."
"No," the girl said, "men aren't that much afraid of hell."
Barbee saw Sam Quain's eyes upon him. The curious tension of that moment checked his impulse to shout a greeting. He merely waved his hand. Sam nodded slightly. That desperate, hostile alertness didn't leave his dark, hard face.
Mondrick stopped before the waiting photographers, under the plane's long wing. Flashbulbs flickered in the windy gloom as he waited for the younger men to close in beside him and set down the heavy box. Barbee studied his face, revealed by the pitiless flashes.
Mondrick, he saw, was a shattered man. Sam and Nick and Rex were tough. That burden of dread, whatever its origin, had merely drawn and sobered and hardened them. But Mondrick was broken. His weary, unsteady gesture betrayed nerves worn beyond the point of failure, and his sagging face was haunted.
"Gentlemen, thank you for waiting."
His voice was low and hoarse, ragged. Dazzled from the flashbulbs, his sunken eyes roved fearfully across the faces before him and flickered apprehensively toward the waiting people beyond the two policemen, outside the terminal building. He must have seen his blind wife there, standing a little apart with her tawny dog, but he ignored her. He glanced back at his three companions around the heavy box, as if for reassurance.
"Your wait will prove worthwhile, because"—and it seemed to Barbee that his rasping voice was desperately hurried, as if he were somehow fearful of being stopped—"because we have something to tell mankind." He caught a gasping breath. "A dreadful warning, gentlemen, that has been hidden and buried and suppressed, for the most wicked ends."
Darker Than You Think Page 3
