"He must have the place bugged," said one guard to the other. "We're supposed to wait."
The Countess Krak was fishing into the upper shelf of the secretary's closet. She was getting down a box. "We'll just refresh you, Doctor Crobe. Relax you so you can get some sleep." She was taking something out of the box.
A hypnohelmet!
I suddenly began to pray. Under that, he might give up the real orders he had. And that would be the end of me.
On Crobe's head went the hypnohelmet. The letters on the screen flared:
DOUBLE TERROR
The click of the helmet switch as it went on. The letters on the screen shifted:
PEACE
Then they shifted again:
HYPNOTIZED
There was no other vision on Crobe's screen.
Krak plugged in the hand microphone. She said, "Just sit there quietly now and wait."
She put the microphone down.
She went out the door, crossed the office, opened the "thinking room" door and closed it behind her.
She knelt on the bed and touched Heller's shoulder gently. "Dear, exactly what kind of spores did you want?"
He sat up suddenly, the way a man used to action does. "Spores? What's this? Is somebody here?"
"No, no, dear. I just got to wondering."
"I'll get up," said Heller.
"No, no, dear. You've been up half the night rebuilding the Porsche for the new carburetor, and in that drafty garage, too. Just scribble down what you want in the way of spores. I always like to keep up with what you are interested in."
She was handing him a big yellow tablet and pen from the bedside table. Heller yawned. He began to write. He filled up the sheet. She took it.
"It's got to be airborne," said Heller, pointing at the sheet. "It should be able to float in the stratosphere. It has to be able to live on those noxious gases and pollution particles and convert them to oxygen and perpetuate itself. Blown around by the winds of the world, it should be able to depollute the atmospheric envelope of the planet. I don't have the cellology formulas to synthesize it. Say, if you're so interested, maybe I ought to get up and explain it further."
"Oh, no, dear. It's the middle of the night. You just lie back there and get your sleep. Don't mind stupid old me puttering about."
He yawned again and lay back. He turned over and went to sleep.
The Countess Krak went out, closed the door, went to the boudoir and closed the door. She put the sheet in Crobe's hand.
"You will now feel a compulsion to develop the spore you are holding the requirements of. You will now develop the formula for synthesizing it."
She pushed a table in front of him. She laid a tablet on it. She pushed a pen into his fingers.
Mutterings from the helmet. Then, "I don't remember." The letters on the screen read:
CONFUSION
The Countess juggled the mike for a moment. Then she spoke into it again. "You are a young student again. You are sitting for your final examination. The test question is how to synthesize the exact spore required by the details on that sheet. If you do not write them down, you will fail the exam and never be permitted to cut up people again."
Cunning Countess Krak! She had appealed to his basic instincts. She had put him at a time when he did know.
Hastily, Doctor Crobe began to write. He filled up half the tablet. The Countess, watching the paper upside down, saw that he was giving the strains that must be interbred.
She slipped out of the room and went to Heller's desk. She found a book on Earth spores. She took it back.
"You will now look up in this book what you have written and see if they are there."
He did, with much thumbing. I knew what his trouble was. She had put him in a time before he knew any English. But the book had pictures and he was using those.
"They are all in the book," he said.
"You will now put down how to mix the cultures to put them in," said the Countess.
Crobe promptly did.
"You will now write everything else one has to know to accomplish this."
Crobe did. He was finished.
The Countess then said to him, "Will this pass the examination?"
"Indisputably," said Crobe.
"Good," said the Countess. "You are finished with that. Now, pay attention. You remember the man you saw in your laboratory in Spiteos. Blond hair, blue eyes. Mancian. If you ever see this man you will become terrified. You will then run and run to be safe from him. You know that if you touch him, tentacles will spring out of your ears and strangle you. One contact with an electric knife or a fingertip upon that man will cause you to cease to breathe. Have you got that?"
"Yes," said the hypnotized Crobe.
"You will now forget everything that has happened here. You will walk out into the office. You will stand by the door to the hall. You will stand there and wait."
She put all the papers in the pocket of her dressing gown. She clicked off the switch.
Crobe got up. He looked at her in a dazed fashion. The letters said:
FEAR
He went out of the room and into the main office and stood by the hall door.
The Countess went into the "thinking room." She touched Heller's shoulder. "Dear," she said, "why not get up and have a cup of coffee with me?"
Heller sat up, wide awake. He looked at her oddly. But he got up and slid into a white terry-cloth robe.
She held open the door and they went into the main office.
There was Crobe.
He saw Heller.
Crobe screamed!
He turned around, threw open the door and ran with all his might!
Heller turned to the Countess. "That was Doctor Crobe," he said. "What's he doing yelling and screaming and running?"
"The spearmint Bavarian Mocha is a new kind," said the Countess Krak.
"What was Crobe doing here?" said Heller. "Why did he run away?"
"Oh, Crobe? Well, he just brought these formulas to give you. He saw no need to stay. He had another appointment."
Heller looked at the open door to the hall. He took the papers from the Countess and glanced over them.
"Dear," he said, "you look like you've been up to something."
"Me? Jettero," she said.
Chapter 5
Doctor Crobe had gone by the guards so fast they had not been able to grab him.
He raced into a stairwell and instead of going down, went up!
The chief guard was on the radio as he ran. "What the blast happened?"
"He saw an enemy!" I cried. "After him, after him! Don't let him escape!"
"He's going down the stairs!" cried the guard.
"He's going UP the stairs!" I disputed. "UP, UP, man!"
Crobe burst out into a hall two floors above. An elevator was open. He dived in.
"He's in elevator number five!" I cried. "He's going down. No, he's going UP!"
The guards were invisible to me. But Crobe wasn't. His elevator stopped. The door opened. He raced out and got to the stairwell again. He was going UP once more. Good Gods, was he trying to get back to Voltar using the Empire State Building as a launching pad?
"Go up to the fiftieth floor, quick!" I told the guards. "And then start running down the stairs!"
They did.
But Crobe darted back into a hall, grabbed an elevator and went up again!
I sent the guards up again in an elevator. They got to the top floor. Another elevator door opened.
Crobe rushed out. And right into their waiting clutches!
"We got him," said the chief guard.
They had him all right. Crobe was looking wildly about. "They're after me, they're after me," he was saying in Voltarian.
The elevator operator, a girl, said, "I'll phone for the building police!"
I told the guard with the radio, "Tell her something, quick."
"It's all right, miss," the chief guard said. "He's just a nut that thinks he's from oute
r space."
"Oh, one of those," the operator said.
Crobe's screen letters were reading:
TRIPLE TERROR
He was struggling. His eye suddenly focused outside the building and he thought, apparently, he was falling, for he abruptly slumped. The letters shifted to:
OUT COLD
"What do we do?" the chief guard asked me.
THAT was the question. If they brought him back to the base in Turkey, Faht Bey would scream and rant and try to get me to pay for the wasted air passage and maybe even shoot Crobe. A destructive person like the doctor was far too valuable to be shot. In the Apparatus we value a planet-wrecker. Crobe must be saved!
Suddenly, inspiration came to me. There was only one other person I knew who was as potentially destructive as Crobe: Madison!
Only Madison would know how to use this lethal weapon in the war to destroy Heller.
I told the guards to collect Crobe's bag and get him to 42 Mess Street.
That (bleep), (bleep), (bleep) Krak had ruined my first plan but there was still hope.
It was early. There were only the remains of the night watch when they carried Crobe into 42 Mess. The reporter on duty offhandedly told them to wait in Mad's office. They went in and began to fan Crobe with press releases. He revived, possibly from the stink. One of the guards got some hot coffee from a machine, found a bottle of whiskey in Mad's desk and put some of it in the coffee. This further revived Crobe.
There was a roar outside. The Excalibur. J. Walter Madison had arrived.
"Now, put your radio to your ear and tell him what I say," I told the chief guard.
Crobe looked at Madison. The public relations man was all groomed and sleek, the perfect example of the sincere, honest and appealing young American executive.
Repeating what I said, the chief guard addressed Madison. "Mr. Smith has sent us. We are here to present you with a perfect weapon in the war against the Whiz Kid."
"War?" said Madison. "Oh, no, you have it very wrong. We are engaged in the purest possible public relations and our motives are far beyond reproach."
Acting on my orders, the chief guard said, "May we introduce Doctor Phetus P. Crobe, the eminent psychiatrist."
"Who's talking on that radio?" said Madison. And before the guard could grab it back, he took it. "Hello. Who is this?"
"Smith," I said.
"You must be awfully nearby to be using such a little walkie-talkie," said Madison. "Why didn't you come in yourself?"
I realized I had to think fast. It was awfully close to a Code break. All he had to do was look at the nameplate on that radio to read:
Voltar Communications Industries
"I'm using Miss Peace's equipment," I said. "I have to be quick because it's in heavy demand. Look over the credentials of Doctor Crobe and I am sure you will be able to use him."
Madison sat down at his desk, laid the radio on his blotter and put out his hand for the credentials. He inspected them.
Unfortunately, Crobe got in the act. He reached across the desk and tapped Madison on the nose. He said, "Deed eet effer oggur to you dat you voot book moch butter rnit a libido instad of a nose dare? Or maybe a bellybutton? Unt your hands. Dey voot loook nicer mit fish flippers." And he got out an electric knife! A guard grabbed him from behind.
Madison stared at him. Then he snatched his telephone. He push-buttoned very fast.
I raised the sound volume on Crobe's viewer. The answering voice came through from the phone, "Bellevue Psychiatric Section," and then in a musical, lilting voice, "Good morning."
"This is J. Walter Madison, 42 Mess Street. Send a wagon quick."
The guard had retrieved his radio. But he wasn't listening to it. The other one was holding Crobe back from the desk, trying to get the electric knife away from him.
Madison pointed at the outer office with a quivering finger. "You hold him down at the foot of the stairs until the wagon comes!"
There was nothing I could do.
The Bellevue loony wagon shortly came, with all bells clanging. Two white-uniformed attendants leaped out and grabbed Crobe.
The guards, (bleep) them, handed Crobe's suitcase in. They pushed Crobe in. The doors closed.
In a terribly smug voice, the chief guard said into the radio, "Well, that's that, Officer Gris."
"Quick, quick," I said. "Follow that wagon! You've got to rescue him."
"As I was saying, Officer Gris. That's that. Those attendants looked pretty competent. One even had a blackjack handy. Our charge has been delivered into safe hands."
"WAIT!"
"I'll hand this radio over to Agent Raht at the office. If you want to discuss this further, you can talk to him. We're coming home. End of transmission." The radio gave a final emphatic click and went dead.
I mourned.
Chapter 6
Bitter in my defeat, I wandered out into the yard. The day was very cold. The sky was gray. A wind was snarling through the bleak shrubs like a hunting wolf. And it was after me.
I saw Ters. I walked over to him and said, "Where is the taxi driver?"
He gave his evil laugh. "I think he giving Utanc new car a test drive."
"New car?"
"Just deliver this noon. Mercedes-Benz. Brand-new. Very nice. Taxi driver have friend who sell."
I frowned. I suddenly realized that Utanc had not come crawling on her knees to me for money as expected. And here she was with a new Mercedes-Benz! They cost a double fortune! Where was she getting any money? Credit cards? A surge of rage raced through me. I would have it out with her!
"Where did they go?" I demanded. "Which way?"
"I think Agricultural Station." And he laughed his evil laugh.
I jumped into the car. "Take me there!" I demanded. The station contained Faht Bey's office. Was this some sort of plot to impoverish me?
We roared away. I was looking up and down the road, trying to spot Utanc and the new car. We pulled up at the station. No sign of that car.
I rushed into the hall just outside Faht Bey's office. I was on the brink of stepping through the door. Fortunately, my reflexes are very fast. Faht Bey was in some sort of a conference. I stopped. Several Turkish women and men were sitting around his desk, backs to me.
Faht Bey saw me. He made a motion with his hand, a sign to go away. I backed up quickly.
As I backed, one of the women looked toward the door.
Yikes! Even through the veil, I recognized her as one of the first women I had had in the car!
Faht Bey crossed the room. He came into the hall and closed the door behind him. "Listen," he said, "I wouldn't go in there right now if I were you."
"Some kind of trouble?" I said.
"I don't know yet," said Faht Bey. "In fact, I don't know what it is all about yet. About an hour ago, that woman of yours, Utanc, came by to tell me that some people wanted to see me, and they've just now arrived."
"Have they said anything?" I pleaded.
"Only something about pregnancy. Listen, why don't you come back later? I may know what it is by then."
"Pregnancy?" I said. "Listen, if there's any trouble with pregnancy, it can be handled. Don't promise anything! But it can be handled!"
I rushed out. I jumped into the car. "Take me to the hospital!" I demanded.
If one of those women was pregnant, the answer was very plain. I had not been a Rockecenter family "spi" without learning anything. You handled pregnancy with abortion every time! And Prahd was the man to see on this. I would get his agreement to do an abortion on that woman and everything would be all right.
I rushed into the hospital, through the lobby and to Prahd's office. I leaped in. He was sitting at his desk.
"Pregnancy!" I said. "You've got to handle it!"
Young Doctor Prahd Bittlestiffender looked at me. In a sad voice he said, "I am glad you have finally come to confess."
"I didn't mean to," I said. "It was an accident. She looked so beautiful lying there, I
could not resist."
"And you took no precautions."
"How was I to know she would get pregnant just that one time! It was up to her to take precautions!"
"And you expect a young girl to know these things?" he said.
"She's not that young!" I disputed.
"She's young enough that her father is raving mad about it! And she isn't even of age."
A horrible thought struck me. "Who are we talking about?"
"Nurse Bildirjin," said Prahd. "Oh, Officer Gris, to think that you would contribute to the delinquency of a minor behind my back, to leap on her and rape her– – "
"Hold it!" I cried. "If we're talking about Nurse Bildirjin, SHE raped me!"
"You just confessed that she was just lying there and you could not resist jumping on her!"
"No, no! That was somebody else!" My head was spinning. Suddenly I got a grip on it. "Wait, you sleep with Nurse Bildirjin all the time!"
"No, no," said Prahd. "I take the most careful precautions. You don't think a qualified cellologist would take a chance like that-she being a minor and all. Besides, I've made scope tests and examined the gene pattern, and just like the Widow Tayl's, it's indubitably yours. And now you infer there is some other woman, too! Officer Gris, you should control yourself! You can't just run around impregnating women left and right, day in and day out. And on two different planets, too!"
"Listen," I said. "As a cellologist you would have no trouble at all terminating these pregnancies. I tell you the planets are overpopulated anyway. Just perform some abortions and that will be that."
"That would not be that," said young Doctor Prahd. "That would be murder. And murder is something not even you can make me do, Officer Gris. Unlike some I know, I have my own moral standards, to say nothing of the cellologist's code. Murder is out!"
"Then what can I do?" I cried, wringing my hands.
"You're asking me after you seduce my girl?"
"Prahd, remember that we are friends, and what is a girl between friends?"
"Trouble," said Prahd. "You see, it wouldn't be so bad if she had not been morning-sick. Her father is the leading doctor of the area and noticed it. And she told him. You probably know that his favorite sport is quail hunting. That's why he named his daughter Bildirjin, which means 'quail' in Turkish. He's one of the best shots in the country and he has one of the biggest shotguns. And as she is a minor, you could also go to prison. Have you ever seen the inside of a Turkish jail?"
Mission: Earth Fortune of Fear Page 20
