by Lin Carter
“A clever bunch,” mused Doc Jenkins thoughtfully.
“Too dang clever,” snapped Menlo Parker.
“I am going to the Cumberland Towers to supervise the Yard officers,” said Zarkon. “We may find fingerprints, although I doubt it.”
“I doubt it too,” muttered Menlo.
“Mebbe they wuz wearin’ gloves?” volunteered Scorchy Muldoon. “Didn’t look like it, but blue hands or blue gloves, who could tell?”
“Want us to stay put here, Chief?” inquired Ace Harrigan.
Zarkon nodded. “All except for you, Ace. I’ll need you to drive me to the hotel. And after that, it will be time for my rendezvous with my liaison officer at the Yard.”
“Where do we meet him?” asked the test pilot.
“At the London branch of the Cobalt Club,” said Zarkon.
They left the run-down hotel by the back entrance, leaving the rest of the Omega team and little Joey Weston to cool their heels and await the return of their leader.
“Round One goes to them boys in blue, dagnabbit,” groaned Scorchy Muldoon.
“So what, Pint-Size?” drawled Nick Naldini, fitting a long cigarette into the end of an even longer ivory cigarette holder. “There’s always Round Two ...”
Scorchy balled his small but capable fists belligerently. “Who you callin’ ‘Pint-Size,’ you fugitive from a jaundice ward?” he growled.
This was doubtless in reference to the remarkably sallow coloring of Naldini’s complexion. The vaudevillian flushed dangerously.
“If you don’t watch your tongue, Two-Bits, you’ll be Round Two,” said Nick. A noisy squabble, mostly of the verbal variety, swiftly ensued.
Doc Jenkins turned to Menlo Parker.
“Them two are at it again,” he grunted morosely. “Wonder if they got room service in this fleabag hotel? I could use some candy bars ...”
“I could use a little peace and quiet!” snapped the waspish scientist, glaring at the squabbling duo.
CHAPTER 7 — At the Cobalt Club
After an hour going over the phony suite at the Cumberland Towers, Zarkon asked Ace Harrigan to drive him to the London branch of the Cobalt Club, where he was to meet with his liaison with Scotland Yard. The building was on a quiet side street off Park Lane, only a few blocks from the Cumberland.
Zarkon’s membership card gained him a respectful admission. In the handsomely appointed lounge he found a lean and leathery man with silver hair awaiting him.
“Prince Zarkon?” said this gentleman, rising to shake hands. “I thought I should be here to greet you, in case your liaison officer is a bit late. He’s the only son of my old comrade-in-arms, Dr. Petrie, and his wife, Karamaneh. My name is Nayland Smith.”
“How do you do, Sir Dennis,” murmured Zarkon. “My liaison —?”
“Young Val Petrie is a bit late, I fear. Come, let me introduce you around, and perhaps you will have a cocktail with me. Young Petrie inherited, so to speak, my roving commission from the Yard; you will find him an excellent officer. Now that I’ve retired to the country, I sometimes miss the excitement of the city. I’ve rented The Hall down in St. Mary Mead. A pretty little village about twenty-five miles outside London, between Loomouth and Market Basing. The Hall is a bit capacious and grandiose for my tastes, but, after so many years of living in a London flat, it’s a pleasure to be playing the part of the country squire a bit.”
In the members’ lounge, Nayland Smith led Prince Zarkon to where two men were sitting, chatting idly over cocktails. Both were lean and tan and fit; one had iron-gray hair which did nothing to conceal the twinkle of devilry in his cool eyes, or the reckless grin on his smooth-shaven, buccaneer’s face.
“Prince Zarkon, may I introduce Mr. Templar,” said Sir Dennis. They shook hands.
The other individual was younger, with a black comma of hair hanging over one eye. He also rose at the introduction.
“And Commander Bond.”
“A pleasure,” murmured Zarkon. He knew both men by sight, from their pictures, and they instantly recognized him. Bond gestured to a comfortable leather chair.
“Have a seat, Highness. Let me order you a cocktail,” said Bond. Zarkon rarely drank alcohol, and then only on social occasions such as this, so he nodded. A waiter materialized out of thin air at Bond’s shoulder.
“Try one of mine,” suggested Bond. Zarkon shrugged, and Bond said: “Charles, His Highness will have a vodka martini, very dry —”
“Shaken, but not stirred,” added Templar with a chuckle. Bond’s tastes were quite familiar to his friends in the Cobalt Club. Charles vanished, only to reappear seconds later with a perfect martini which Zarkon sipped politely, then put down.
Nayland Smith hunched forward in his chair, keen eyes bright with eager curiosity, tugging on one earlobe — a nervous habit of his which the years had done nothing to break.
“Naturally, we have all heard about the surprise raid on the Cumberland Towers,” he said in his rapid way. “Damned bold of the gang, striking in broad daylight like that, making a raid on one of London’s most prestigious hotels!”
“I quite agree, Sir Dennis,” said Zarkon.
“D’you think they did it because of that press conference you held before leaving Knickerbocker City?” demanded the older man eagerly. “Sounded to a lot of us over here like you were issuing a challenge to draw them out into the open — throwing down the gauntlet, as it were.”
“Indeed?” murmured Zarkon with a small grin. Sir Dennis did not miss his expression of quiet amusement. He snapped his fingers delightedly.
“So that was the reason for the press conference!” he crowed.
“And it certainly worked,” admitted Zarkon. He explained about the hidden cameras and the video tapes of the Blue Men in action. Nayland Smith chuckled in high good humor at the trick.
“And how’d you manage the substitution? Everyone in the country with a telly saw you and your team leave the airport —”
“Permit me to correct you, Sir Dennis,” murmured Zarkon. “They saw empty limousines depart the airfield; my men and I remained aboard the Skyrocket until after it was towed into a hangar. Whereupon we left by a side door and cabbed to our present residence. A simple bit of misdirection, as Nick Naldini would say.”
“Clever,” nodded Nayland Smith, judiciously. “So the whole thing was arranged —?”
“Simply to get pictures of the famous Blue Men in action,” suggested Templar lazily. Zarkon smiled.
“Precisely. The concealed television cameras had been put in place earlier. Incidentally, Sir Dennis, I’ve sent duplicates of the video tapes by messenger to Scotland Yard. Perhaps the Yard’s technical experts will be able to notice something my men missed.”
“Doubt it,” drawled Templar.
Just then a tall, bronzed man with a noticeable jaw and silver hair entered the lounge and said hello to the others. One Nayland Smith hastened to introduce Prince Zarkon to one Major Drummond, he of the bulldog jaw. They shook hands. Nayland Smith glanced at his watch.
“Young Petrie is damnably late. Usually a punctual chap,” he remarked a bit worriedly.
The waiter, Charles, materialized again, this time at Nayland Smith’s elbow.
“Telephone, Sir Dennis,” he murmured deferentially. The older man excused himself and stalked off. Drummond turned to view Zarkon quizzically.
“Understand you’re here to deal with this ‘Blue Men’ business,” he stated crisply. “Any ideas, so far?”
“A few,” said Zarkon. “Some conclusions are obvious. But there are, of course, many mysteries which as yet remain unanswered ...”
“Such as, why are they robbing importers and manufacturers of subminiaturized electronic components?” suggested Templar. “Frankly, that one has me baffled. If I had a posse of invulnerable and bulletproof men at my disposal, it would be the jewelry shops and bullion banks I’d be after, not these electronic fellows.”
Bond chuckled. “Yes, we all know about
your early criminous and sometimes burglarious days, Simon. Fortunately, for the Yard, those days have long since passed by ...”
“Miss them, sometimes,” admitted Templar, wistfully. Sir Dennis entered the lounge and approached the place where they were sitting. He turned to Zarkon. “Young Petrie apologizes, but Yard business has held him up. He suggests, if it would be convenient, that you meet him there, and as swiftly as possible, Highness.”
“Of course,” said Zarkon, rising to his feet.
Commander Bond also rose.
“I have to be getting along myself, Highness, and my car is outside. May I give you a lift to the Yard?”
“With pleasure,” nodded Prince Zarkon. “Let me instruct my driver to return to our hotel. I’ll only be a minute.”
Zarkon was just leaving the members’ lounge to rejoin Bond on the street, having said good-bye to Nayland Smith, Templar, and Drummond. Just then a remarkable-looking individual hove into view, and one the Master of Omega recognized.
He was short, and very broad in the shoulders, with dangling, simian arms and a powerful chest. He was also remarkably homely, with innocent blue eyes peering out from under low, apelike brows, thatched with hair that resembled rusty roofing nails.
Spotting Zarkon, the newcomer waved cheerfully and came waddling across the lounge to wring the other’s hand.
“Howdy, Prince! Sure is good to see a familiar face from home,” chirped the apelike man in a high, squeaky voice that could easily have belonged to a ten-year-old child and which sounded incongruous, coming from such as he.
“Colonel Mayfair,” acknowledged Zarkon politely. “Always good to see you again.”
“Guess you’re here about this spooky Blue Men mystery,” Mayfair piped. Zarkon nodded, then smiled.
“I certainly hope that you and your colleagues are not here in London on the same affair,” he remarked. Mayfair shook his head and grinned.
“Nope!” he admitted cheerfully. “Me and Doc and the boys are on our way to Sweden. I just stayed behind one day to tie up some of my business.”
Zarkon was well aware that, despite his gorilla-like appearance and painful inch of brow, Mayfair was one of the most respected industrial chemists in the modern world.
“Well, I gotta git,” said Mayfair. “Lotsa luck!”
Zarkon thanked the other and voiced similar wishes. Then he watched as Mayfair waddled out of the lounge. He wore an astonishing plaid jacket whose colors were so loud they virtually shrieked.
Behind him, the dapper Templar and the well-dressed Drummond were watching Mayfair’s exit from the lounge with incredulity.
Bond’s car, Zarkon noticed, was a Saab 900 Turbo. Bond caught his glance, and smiled a bit ruefully.
“Used a Mark II Continental Bentley for years,” he confessed. “Superb machine. I finally dispensed with it; the Saab gets better mileage for the fuel intake, and can convert from gasoline to gasohol, if needed. And we’re a fuel-poor country, it seems, these days. Do get in.”
Seated inside the Saab, Bond drew a flat gunmetal case from his breast pocket and offered Zarkon a cigarette, which Zarkon declined. Bond lit his own and inhaled lustily.
“These are made for me by Morelands of Grosvenor Street,” said Bond. “A bit lower in tar content than anything currently available on the market.”
They tooled away from the curb and headed across London.
“I should have thought that you, or another of the double-O agents, would have received this ‘Blue Men’ assignment, Commander,” remarked Zarkon. Bond shrugged.
“As for me, I’m off for Nepal in a couple of hours,” he replied.
“Ah! Not the rumors of an assassination attempt to be made on the Dalai Lama?” inquired the Nemesis of Evil. Bond gave his passenger a glance of quiet admiration.
“Your intelligence service must be extraordinary,” he said. “Yes, that’s the case. Uncertain as to who’s behind it —”
“Red China?” suggested Zarkon. Bond shrugged.
“Or S.P.E.C.T.R.E.,” he said.
Then, with an inquiring glance at Zarkon’s expressionless profile, he asked:
“I’m not exactly up on all your cases, Prince. Ever gone up against S.P.E.C.T.R.E.?”
“Not to my knowledge,” admitted Zarkon quietly. “Or, at least, not yet.”
Bond chuckled.
“That’s rather lucky for S.P.E.C.T.R.E.,” he said. Then, pulling up with a flourish. “Here we are at the Yard, sir. Good hunting!”
“Good hunting yourself,” smiled Zarkon.
CHAPTER 8 — Nine Strange Men
Scotland Yard looked nothing at all like the sort of building most Americans would have expected. Instead of a grim, Victorian structure of granite, it more closely resembled a modern office building of glass and steel. Zarkon found Val Petrie’s office without difficulty.
Petrie, a lithe and handsome young man with a clear tan, a strong handshake, a jaw like the prow of a battleship, and eyes like gray steel, welcomed him.
“Sorry to have left you hanging at the Cobalt,” he said tersely. “We’ve been devilishly busy here.”
“Another break-in by the Blue Men?” inquired Zarkon.
Young Petrie nodded, his face serious.
“This time about forty miles from London,” he said. “Several electronics importers maintain a components stockpile there. Under heavy guard, of course, since all these recent troubles.”
With concision and brevity, Val Petrie outlined the events at the town in question. They were largely the same as previously encountered. Again, vans had been exchanged, foiling pursuit.
“Were firearms employed?” asked Zarkon.
Petrie nodded wearily. “Yes, the guards were well armed. But bullets don’t seem to be able to halt these rascals. Incidentally, sir, we wish to thank you for sharing the video tapes of the raid on the Cumberland Towers with us. Our experts are toiling over them at this moment, but with few results. Did you happen to notice, from your own study of the tapes, the odd, exaggerated caution with which the Blue Men walked — even on the thick hotel carpeting?”
Zarkon had noticed it, but he could offer no ready explanation for the fact. It was merely one of several peculiarities that had come to light regarding the Blue Men.
Petrie fished some papers out of a cubbyhole and handed these to Prince Zarkon.
“This card is your temporary commission in the higher echelons of New Scotland Yard,” Petrie explained. “And here are similar commissions for your agents. With these, you should obtain instant cooperation from all law enforcement agencies in the United Kingdom.”
“Thank you; I am most grateful for the honor,” stated Zarkon.
Petrie grinned, suddenly looking more boyish than his years.
“Nonsense! It’s we who should feel grateful to you! By the bye, this document might come in handy as well.” He handed Zarkon a crisp, letter-sized paper on letterhead embossed with a royal crest, and signed with a famous signature. Zarkon was impressed.
“Thank you,” he said, tucking the papers away.
Petrie then handed him a card. “You can get me at this number at any hour of the night or day,” said the younger man. “I have one of the new ‘personal phones’ which I will be carrying on my person throughout the duration of this current emergency.”
“I appreciate your cooperation, and that of Her Majesty’s government,” Zarkon acknowledged, rising. “Please share with me whatever information your experts arrive at, in study of the video tapes. We shall be in touch.” He left New Scotland Yard, and hailed a cab.
Returning to the sleazy hotel on the side streets off Piccadilly Circus, Zarkon found his men chafing at the enforced inactivity.
“Anything new, Chief?” chirped Scorchy Muldoon. Zarkon related the recent events at Fenchurch St. Paul. He looked sober as he gave the account.
“Anything odd about it, Chief?” drawled Nick Naldini.
“Not particularly,” admitted Zarkon. “But there was one
thing. You recall that the Blue Men were three in number when they struck at the Consolidated Shipping Company warehouses in Soho at the beginning of this case?”
Nick nodded.
“And that they were seven on the next raid, the one Sir George Gideon told us about during our flight to London?”
Nick nodded again.
“Well, now there are nine of them,” said Zarkon somberly.
The Omega men digested this interesting fact in silence.
“Howcum, I wonder?” muttered Scorchy Muldoon to Nick Naldini. The ex-vaudevillian shrugged carelessly.
“Who cares, Small Change? What can it mean, after all?” said Naldini. Scorchy, for once, swallowed the insult regarding his diminutive size. He was busy thinking:
Now they were faced by nine strange men who appeared to be somehow bulletproof and indestructible.
They were now outnumbered …
While the other Omega men were having something to eat, Prince Zarkon drew Menlo Parker aside. He showed the waspish little scientist the list of the miniaturized subelectronic components which the Blue Men had stolen on their latest raid. Menlo scanned the list intently.
“Same as before, Chief,” said Menlo thoughtfully. “Can’t figure out why ...”
“There is a certain resale value involved, especially on the black market,” Zarkon pointed out. Menlo nodded, then shrugged.
“Sure; but not enough to make a burglary worth it, far as I can see,” grumbled Parker. “Just can’t make out a reason why these danged crooks are after these danged components.”
“What could one make from such?” inquired Zarkon. Menlo looked meditative.
“Electromagnetic closed fields,” he muttered, deep in contemplation — peering again at the list. “Heterodyning, overlapping: but for the life o’ me, I can’t figger out why these Blue Guys are so hot for these particular components! Not much commercial use, so far as I can see ...”
