The Deadly Drug Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Since the attendant seemed to have no resentment at their prying, April Dancer decided to get a little bolder.

  "Are the men who work for Mr. Radak local?" she asked.

  He had finished the windshield. He said, "No, ma'am. He brought 'em along with him from outside."

  "Do you know their names?" Slate frowned at her, fearing such open prying might make the man clam up. But the attendant answered in the same uninterested tone as before.

  "No, ma'am. They keep pretty well to themselves."

  Slate shrugged, handed the man a bill. As he made change, April examined the jeep.

  "We certainly collected a lot of dust," she said. "The jeep could use a wash."

  The attendant handed Slate his change and started to draw a bucket of water. As April and Slate climbed back in the jeep, the man carried the bucket over in front of it and started to wash the hood with a sponge.

  "What are you doing?" April said in astonishment.

  "Said you wanted the jeep washed, ma'am."

  '"Not now," Slate said. "We haven't time."

  The attendant shrugged, dumped out the water and set the bucket back next to the water hose. He stood there waiting to see if they wanted anything else.

  Giving him a peculiar look, Slate drove the jeep as far as the edge of the street and braked.

  "Odd bloke," he commented.

  "What now?"

  "Let's try that restaurant and bar across the street," April said. "Maybe we can pick up more information there."

  Slate swung in a U-turn and parked before the tavern-restaurant.

  SIX

  “YE WITHOUT HOPE …”

  Inside the tavern-restaurant they found a barnlike room with a bar running along one side and with booths around the walls. No one was in the place except a burly man of about forty whom they took to be the proprietor. He was sitting on a stool behind the bar.

  As Slate and April took seats at the bar, the man rose from his stool and came over to stand before them. He offered no smile of greeting, but his expression wasn't unfriendly.

  There was a menu posted behind the bar. Examining it, Slate said, "That meal on the plane wasn't very heavy. Feel like a sandwich?"

  After looking over the menu, April said, "I could stand a grilled cheese."

  "Grilled cheese, a hamburger and two cups of coffee," Slate said.

  The burly proprietor moved silently over to the grill and began fixing the sandwiches.

  April whispered, "Not overly talkative, is he?"

  "Probably why he has so little business," Slate murmured. Aloud he said, "Is it always this quiet in here?"

  The man turned his head toward him, considered for a moment, then said, "Business hasn't been too good the last few weeks, sir. Usually it's some better."

  Sir again, April thought. The residents of Pig Wallow were certainly polite.

  While the cheese sandwich was grilling and the hamburger was frying, the proprietor set before them paper napkins, salt and pepper, mustard and catsup, cream and sugar.

  April said, "Why is the town so quiet? There isn't a person on the street."

  The burly man thought this over carefully before saying, "Mostly they're farmers, ma'am. Guess they're working their farms outside of town."

  "But aren't there any women?" she said.

  He considered again, said, "Yes, ma'am. They stay inside pretty much. Guess they have housework."

  "It's Saturday," April persisted.

  "The kids would be out of school. Aren't there any children?"

  The proprietor pursed his lips and looked vaguely puzzled. "Sure there's children, ma'am. Guess they must be inside too. Haven't seen any kids outside playing for some time, now you mention it."

  He walked back over to the grill. Slate and April looked at each other.

  She said, "There's something creepy about this town."

  "Uh-huh," he said. "And I'll bet you THRUSH is behind it."

  The man set their sandwiches before them and went to draw two cups of coffee from a small urn next to the grill. It was a deep black and turned a sort of muddy green when they added cream. April took a cautious sip, made a face and pushed the cup aside. Slate decided not even to try his.

  "May we have some water?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir," the burly man said. He put a glass of water before each of them.

  The man stood silently before them, gazing vacantly between them as they ate their sandwiches. When they finished, both took sips of water.

  Slate said, "Know anything about the new baking company up on the mountainside?"

  The man pursed his lips. "Run by a feller named Radak, stays over to Ma Rooney's. Three other fellers staying there work for him, but I don't know their names."

  April asked, "Are they running any kind of experiment up there?"

  The man looked puzzled. "Don't rightly know what you mean, ma'am."

  April shrugged. "If they are, I guess you don't know much of anything about it."

  Slate said, "What do we owe you?"

  "Sandwiches is thirty-five cents, sir. Coffee ten. Ninety cents altogether."

  April's penuriousness came to the surface.

  "We didn't drink the coffee," she said.

  The proprietor blinked and regarded her worriedly. He seemed to be undergoing some kind of inner struggle between cupidity and a desire to please.

  In a tentative voice he said, "You don't want to pay for the coffee, it's all right, ma'am."

  "I should think so," she said.

  "You try to drink it."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said.

  As they watched in astonishment, he lifted April's cup, drained it of the now lukewarm coffee, set it down and drained Slate's cup.

  Slate and April looked at each other, then back at the proprietor, who merely stood there placidly, seemingly waiting for further instructions.

  April turned back to Slate. "Remember the filling station attendant and his bucket?"

  "Uh-huh," Slate said. "Seems' that in this town people do anything you suggest." He examined the burly man for a moment, then said, "Spread mustard on your ear, mister."

  The man obediently lifted the spoon from the mustard pot. "Right or left, sir?"

  "Never mind," Slate said. "Forget it." He dropped a dollar on the bar. "Keep the change. Let's get out of here, April."

  Outside April said, "What now?" Slate glanced up and down the deserted street. His gaze settled on the combination drugstore and general store next door.

  "May as well try in there," he said.

  The store consisted of one large room about thirty feet deep and fifty in width. Although un-partitioned, it was divided into three sections. The center section, into which they entered, was the general store, and displayed everything from clothing to hardware. To the right was a grocery and meat department, to the left the drugstore. At the rear of the drugstore, next to the prescription department, was a caged enclosure with a sign over its window reading: Mail.

  There were no customers in the store. An elderly man was behind the soda fountain on the drugstore side. An equally elderly woman, probably his wife, was marking cans in the grocery section. Both glanced toward April and Slate as they entered, but neither smiled nor gave any greeting.

  "I'll check out the woman," Slate said in a low voice. "You try the man."

  He turned right into the grocery and meat department. April turned left and went over to the fountain. When she took a stool, the elderly man merely gazed at her with the same polite lack of interest they had experienced from the filling station attendant and the tavern restaurant proprietor.

  On impulse April said, "Put your right index finger in your ear."

  Without the slightest show of surprise the old man said, "Yes" ma'am," and inserted his index finger in his ear. He stood there, gazing at her placidly.

  After several minutes, when it began to seem obvious he was prepared to stand there forever with his finger in his ear unless she rescinded the order, she said, "Tak
e it out."

  He dropped his hand to his side.

  Slate came over carrying a paper bag and munching on a sugar cookie. He offered the bag to April and she took one.

  As though the old man weren't present, April said, "He's just like the others. I told him to stick a finger in his ear and he did it."

  "So is she," Slate said, nodding toward the grocery department. "I told her to balance a can of beans on her head and she did it."

  April finished her cookie, got from the stool and said, "Let's go somewhere quiet and see if we can figure this out."

  "Right," Slate said.

  He popped another sugar cookie into his mouth and offered the bag to April. She shook her head. They left the store and went over to the jeep.

  Looking up and down the street again, Slate said, "The only business places left are the funeral parlor and Ma Rooney's boarding house. Want to try them?"

  "I would rather drive somewhere, park and try to figure this thing out," April said.

  "Okay," he said agreeably.

  He popped another cookie into his mouth, rounded the jeep and climbed under the wheel. April slid in next to him.

  Slate drove out of town and parked across from the cemetery. The second service there was now over and the place was deserted. Slate offered April the cookie bag and she took a second cookie. He started on his fourth.

  April said, "Remember when the Elias woman was giving Boris the devil for not taking better notes? She said something about it not doing them any good to have an obedient population if most of the population was dead."

  "Uh-huh," Slate said. "Pretty obviously they're experimenting with a drug which induces abject obedience. Just as obviously they picked Pig Wallow because it gives them a control group well enough off the beaten track for it to be unlikely for the news of the peculiar condition of the natives to leak into the outside world. The bug in whatever the substance is they're experimenting with is that a cumulative overdose can be, fatal."

  "We saw two funerals today," April said. "And the filling station attendant mentioned that two of Ma Rooney's boarders died a couple of weeks ago. Pretty heavy death rate for a village of only a hundred and fifty."

  Slate held out the paper bag, which now had only one cookie left in it. When April shook her head, he took it, crumpled up the bag and dropped it on the floor of the jeep.

  Thoughtfully munching on the cookie, Slate said, "In order to reach everyone, they must be administering the drug in something everybody consumes. The water supply, maybe?"

  April considered this, then shook her head. "I didn't see any water reservoir, which means the homes must have individual wells."

  "Hmm. Milk?"

  "The bartender said most of the villagers are farmers. They probably have their own cows." She paused, then said slowly, "The new company is a baking company. I've been assuming it's just a front for whatever THRUSH is doing here. But maybe they're actually baking bread up there and distributing it to the town. After all, everybody eats bread."

  Slate stopped chewing and looked at her. He turned his head and spit the remnants of the cookie he was chewing into the road.

  "If they're putting it into all baking products, you're a little late," she said. "That was your sixth cookie. Plus we each had a sandwich with two slices of bread."

  "It probably takes more than that," he said without much assurance. "The people we talked to have been eating the stuff for a month. Do you feel all right?"

  "Yes. Do you?"

  "I hope it's just psychological," he said. 'But I'm starting to feel a little odd."

  "How?"

  "I don't know. Just odd." "Maybe we'd better drive back to Barth," she said. "We can tackle Pig Wallow again tomorrow, and this time avoid any baking products."

  "Okay," he said. "Back to Barth."

  He started the engine and pulled away.

  SEVEN

  THE MARK OF THE DAMNED

  Ten miles further April Dancer said, "How are you feeling now, Mark?"

  In a colorless voice he said, "Fine."

  She looked at him sharply. He was driving with his usual skill, but his face was totally expressionless.

  "Pull over for a minute," she said.

  Slate obediently pulled to the side of the road and stopped. He continued to look straight ahead.

  "Mark," April said.

  Turning to look at her, he said, "Yes, ma'am?"

  Oh, brother, April thought. She said, "I think I'd like to drive."

  Without argument he climbed from the jeep and rounded to the other side. April slid over under the wheel. When Slate got in next to her, she took her transistor radio from her purse and called U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

  When she got Alexander Waverly, she said rapidly, "We've just left Pig Wallow, sir. We haven't yet learned what THRUSH'S new drug is, but we do know its effect. It has converted the citizens of Pig Wallow into obedient zombies with no wills of their own. They seem to be able to go about their normal daily functions, but they obey every instruction given to them by anybody. You could tell an elderly dowager here to do the Can-Can and she would instantly obey."

  "I see," Waverly said. "Have you discovered how it's administered to the natives?"

  "Unfortunately, yes. There is a new baking goods company here run by Anton Radak. The drug is being distributed in baked goods. Both Mark and I had sandwiches a while ago, and later some cookies. Mark just lapsed into the same obedient state as the natives. The reason I'm speaking so rapidly is that I'm afraid I may be next."

  "Hmm. Do you feel any effects yet?"

  "No, sir. But it hit Mark awfully sudden. He's just sitting here now, staring into space."

  Waverly said, "Better get him back here at once, Miss Dancer. Drive directly to the airport at Barth, and contact me again as soon as you get there. Since this drug seemingly causes obedience, you should be able to obey these instructions even if you lapse into the same condition as Mr. Slate. Don't you agree?"

  "I guess so, sir," April said dubiously. "Providing somebody doesn't give me counter instructions. We'll see what happens."

  Mark Slate was still in the same placid, vegetable-like condition when they arrived at the Barth airport. April felt no change in herself. She left him in the jeep while she went to the office to check the flight schedule.

  It was now six and she learned that a plane bound for St. Louis Was due to set down for five minutes at six thirty. She bought two tickets, turned in the key to the jeep and paid its rental. Slate was still seated quietly in the jeep when she returned.

  She called U.N.C.L.E. headquarters over her communicator and reported to Mr. Waverly that Slate's condition remained unchanged and that she still seemed unaffected.

  "Perhaps you didn't ingest as much of the drug as he did," Waverly suggested. "Or perhaps it affects only men."

  "No, sir," April said. "Mark had an elderly woman in Pig Wallow balance a can of beans on her head."

  "Indeed?" Waverly said with mild surprise. "Well, by whatever lucky chance you remained unaffected, we’ll hope your immunity continues until you get back here. Better check in periodically to report on your condition. Say every hour on the hour. "

  "All right, sir,” April said.

  Breaking the connection, she said to Slate, "Get out of the jeep, Mark."

  He obediently climbed from the jeep.

  They had checked their suit cases in coin lockers at the Barth airport. Under April's instructions Slate removed them from the lockers and carried them over to the baggage counter. He seemed in full possession of his faculties, and did such minor things on his own as lighting a cigarette and getting himself a drink of water at a fountain. It wasn't that he was incapable of doing anything without instruction. It was just that he was incapable of not doing anything he was instructed to do.

  It was midnight when April led Mark Slate down the hall at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to Alexander Waverly's office. They were expected, because April has been in periodic communication with Mr.
Waverly all evening.

  Randy Kovac and a plump, placid looking man were in the office with Waverly. April had met the plump man on several previous occasions, as he was occasionally called in as a consultant by U.N.C.L.E. and was the man who had conducted Mark Slate's crash course in psychiatry.

  "Good evening, Dr. Brow," she said.

  He gave her a friendly nod.

  "Nice to see you again, Miss Dancer."

  After greeting Mr. Waverly, April turned to Randy. "What are you doing up so late?"

  "It's Saturday night," he said. "No school tomorrow."

  No one had greeted Slate, but all were regarding him curiously. He stood there without expression, waiting patiently.

  "You don't have to ignore him," April said. "He knows what's going on. He just hasn't any will of his own."

  Waverly said somewhat self-consciously, "How are you, Mr. Slate?"

  "Fine, sir," Slate said tonelessly.

  Randy said, "Hi, Mr. Slate."

  "Hello, Randy."

  "He seems fully aware of his surroundings," Dr. Brow said. He pulled a chair away from in front of Mr. Waverly's desk into the center of the room. "Sit here, please, Mr. Slate."

  Slate obediently sat in the chair.

  The psychiatrist took his temperature and pulse, then examined his eyes with a small light.

  "Temperature is slightly below normal," he announced. "The pulse is a bit retarded and his pupils react too slowly to light. Hold out your right hand palm up, please, Mr. Slate."

  The patient held out his hand. Dr. Brow took hold of the end of the center finger and squeezed it. When he released it, the white mark faded very slowly.

  The doctor said to Waverly, "He is definitely under the influence of some sort of narcotic, although I couldn't hazard a guess as to what." He turned to April. "I understand you ingested some of the drug too, Miss Dancer."

  "I must have, if our guess that it's in baking products is right. I had two slices of bread in a sandwich and two of the same cookies that Mark ate."

  Dr. Brow drew another chair alongside of Slate's, had April sit in it and examined her.

  When he finished, he said, "You seem quite normal. Perhaps you didn't ingest enough of the drug to be affected. How many cookies did Mr. Slate have?"