GFU01 - The Global Globules Affair

by Simon Latter

  The door was cleverly disguised to appear as an unbroken wall covered with flowering clematis. April swiftly peeled off the sealing of a lock-blowing device, inserted this deep into the oval slot and detonated it. The flat-sounding "phut" wasn't even loud enough to worry the birds, although a black bird went skittering and squawking across the drive—more in protest against her than at any noise, because he started his swoop a second before the miniature explosion came.

  April checked the door surrounds, discovered the alarm strip, saw it was not activated and deduced that a master switch must control it, although probably this wasn't made live until a certain time. She neutralized the strip so that it wouldn't set off the alarm when activated.

  She eased the door closed and stood on a tiled area from which one slope led downwards and the other up. Quartz lighting beamed from cornices set at angles along each wall, alternating from each side. She chose the up slope, followed it around a curve and came directly into a dome-ceiling room containing a row of racks full of cylinders. Trolleys, similar to those used to move oxygen, were lined, soldier-like, against the racks.

  To the left were shelves on which were arrayed an intriguing selection of items. April noted them carefully. Training had not given her the gift of mental photography, but it had turned that gift into the split-second accuracy of a reflex camera. She didn't clutter the screen of her mind with unnecessary or unwanted images, but that which she wished to see and record was implanted there with lightning speed.

  Butterfly nozzles as used in lawn spraying. Several sizes of candy-striped barber's poles. Barber's poles?––She saw Carnaby Street and the strangely speeding poles and felt a tingle of excitement.

  Then a selection of miniature street lamps and traffic signals. What the hell? She inspected these more closely, fiddled with one, and almost lost the top of one finger when she touched a hidden switch and a small but powerful motor attached to tiny metal vanes started up, sending a strong force of air against her hand.

  Next came a collection of street signs. "No waiting" discs. "One way", "Stop", "No U turn" and suchlike, as well as street name plates for wall or post fixing. She discerned only two differences from the real thing. They were thicker, and the underside edges bore a row of tiny holes. She picked up one, expecting it to be heavy metal. It was feather light, metal-simulated polystyrene which looked exactly like the real thing. The rear side had a flat plastic box heat-welded on to the base, a small slide aperture dead centre. Cautiously she moved the slide to the left. A small button was revealed. She pressed it and wasn't surprised to feel a tiny motor buzzing into life. Air flowed out quite strongly from the holes.

  Telephone insulators, dummy plastic but impossible to tell the difference at a few yards' distance, cable insulators, electric light bulbs—which weren't, but in daylight who could tell?—fluorescent tubes, a gaily striped shop or door canopy, the edges of its frame perforated with holes. A varied and amazing selection of natural objects, and almost every one a fake.

  "This is ridiculous!" April muttered. "Who would want to forge street signs?"

  She tested the sliding door in the far wall. It rolled smoothly open. She closed it, surveyed the long, narrow room. Undoubtedly the LAB. Not a science-fiction writer's dream. Very clinical, clean and disappointing. A long work bench, porcelain trays neatly stacked at one end. A row of plastic jerry-cans—all empty. Then a functional sink, a small water heater, electric kettle, a coffee percolator.

  The whole of one wall was lined with dull grey cabinets looking like out-of-work washing machines. April concentrated on these and was happy to recognize the lay-out required for the despised Parsimal theory, from the pressure-filled storage compartment right through to pulsator, separator and air-extraction unit. Now the whole caboodle was going click, click, click in her mind. Karadin the old fraud! Denying Parsimal but copying the whole technical lay-out to prove the theory. All except one important part.

  April flashed her mind back to her student days in Paris. The screen of memory hazed, flickered, then cleared. She went again to the last cabinet, and slid open the inspection flap. The Parsimal Theory didn't require a compressor. In fact a compressor would nullify the earlier stages, so the processing was a waste of time. It was jelling now. For a moment April wished she had gone on to a degree in physics, for she felt her present knowledge inadequate for the task. Then suddenly she had the link—separate and compress instead of separate, diffuse and direct, and what would you get? Molicular globules in suspension! That wasn't the correct technical definition, but the substance was near enough an answer to satisfy her.

  The apparatus also would satisfy the British authorities, because similar processes could be used for research into air pollution via rain, fog, mist or steam condensation. Dr. Karadin didn't have to disclose his method or techniques and formulas. April's excitement grew as she discovered proof linking to what, in the first instance, had been a hunch on her part. But she still needed more evidence.

  The next door had to be persuaded. It wasn't difficult to break the magnetic circuit, but the task took time. At last she was inside the Karadin sanctum––this was obvious by the furnishings, the desk photograph of his daughter and himself. The far door was partly open, as was a steel filing cabinet. Proof of his hurried exit.

  "Well, thank you, Dr. K," April muttered. She closed the door and went swiftly to the files. This took time, but it was not time begrudged. She ignored the ordinary business files of letters after a quick glance through them. A slim file at the back held her attention. It contained photostat copies. The originals, according to code symbols, were in America. She didn't wait to decipher these in full, but pressed on to the contents. These were written in Urdu.

  This variety of Hindustani is not commonly known to Westerners. Much of its vocabulary is taken from Arabic and Persian. But April had learned Arabic as a child when her father was serving in the Middle East, and later in India found it comparatively easy to learn Urdu, which was spoken by the Moslems. No doubt Karadin and his organization bosses considered that such documents, if written in Urdu, would not require any higher security than a stout steel file cabinet. That this was unlocked would be due only to the abrupt departure of Karadin from the office.

  April searched around for a container of some sort, and soon found a leather-capped zipper shoulder bag next to fishing tackle in the far corner. The bag smelled fishy but was clean and dry. She stowed the papers into it, as well as a. sample of letters from some British manufacturing chemists referring to supplies. She stowed her own purse in it as well. She was about to zip up the bag when she heard footsteps.

  She opened her purse, took out the lipstick and moved to one side as the door opened. A small dark woman came in, a mannish-looking woman with cropped hair, wearing a white coat and slacks. She looked at the open file cabinet, closed it, took keys from her pocket and locked it, muttering:

  "Oh, really, Carl—you panic too quickly, you poor darling!" April closed the door. "Yes, doesn't he?" she said quietly. The woman gasped and whirled around. She was in her thirties, dark-eyed, fine drawn, with crows feet of tiredness or strain pouching her eyes. She leapt to the desk, hand reaching for the drawer nearest her. April dropped the bag and leapt just that shade faster. She had the drawer open, fended off the woman with the other hand, using the woman's own impetus to spin her off-balance, to crash against the wall.

  April took out the gun, snicked off the safety-catch. It was a Voegler automatic with silencer.

  "Thanks," she said. "I thought there must be one some where, but I hadn't got around to looking for it." The woman moved. "No, dear—don't try it." The gun spat. The bullet plucked the shoulder seam of the woman's white coat and thudded into the wall.

  "Mmm—quite accurate," April observed. "The next one will hurt you, so please—no heroics, huh?"

  The woman's face had paled, her eyes scared. "I've heard that your sort of woman is ruthless. That you even like killing. But it won't help you to kill me."

/>   April smiled. "I wouldn't dream of killing you. I said hurt you—ping, ping in nasty juicy places––unless you are sensible." She frowned quizzically. "My sort of woman? Now I wonder what that means?"

  "I've heard all about you. Why, he even admires you—though he admits you're dangerous."

  "Ah! That's men for you—two-faced, aren't they? Funny thing, Bertha, but I admire Carl darling too."

  "My name is not Bertha."

  "Is it not? It suits you though." She paused. "So what do we do now, Bertha?" She slid the swivel chair clear of the desk. "I think you'd better come and sit down." She waggled the gun as she added sharply: "Come on, now, Bertha—my sort of woman is very short on patience."

  The woman came slowly at first, then with a little shrug of resignation moved swiftly to the chair, sat down and looked up at April, who had hitched one thigh on the desk corner. They both heard the sound of the helicopter taking off, growing louder as it passed overhead. Tears filled the woman's eyes.

  "So he's gone to his daughter?" said April softly.

  The woman's hands covered her face. "Damn her!" she said huskily. "Damn her, damn her, damn her—the little bitch!" She lowered her hands and glared at April. "And damn you too!"

  "Good for you!" said April. "Let's have a good damn all round. Damn the project, damn the organization—damn everything except that which binds my man to me. Is that it, Bertha?"

  The woman lowered her gaze, began fiddling her fingers, locking and unlocking them, surveying them, flexing them.

  "My name is Ingrid."

  "Nice. Swedish?"

  "My mother was. I shan't tell you anything."

  "Who cares?" said April airily. "What would you have to tell anyway? I doubt if you know the whole story." She looked shrewdly at Ingrid. "A biology degree, a career- woman complex, perhaps a doting mother who hated men. A few rather boring jobs. Then suddenly the charming Dr. Karadin—the secret research work, the close contact, the sweet, sad fire of suddenly discovered passion expressed through the experienced doctor. The togetherness, the seeming fulfillment, the promise of fortune and a future shared—and a ready-made daughter in a package deal."

  Ingrid's eyes stared widely. "How could you know all that? How could you?"

  April shrugged. "Right?"

  "Almost to the letter. In God's name—how?"

  "You are legion," said April sadly. "Oh dear heaven, yes—you are legion! We could have a long, cozy, girlish chat, but there's no time, and I'm afraid it would bore me. Because, dear Ingrid, your sort do bore me."

  "We can't all be as hard as you. You're some sort of agent, aren't you?"

  "Mmm—some sort."

  "You must live an unnatural life."

  April laughed. "What is natural?—the tiger in a cage or in a jungle? The cloistered nun or the cluttered housewife? The prissy missy or the supercilious spouse? The idealistic teenage infant or the mature and marvelous mother? We are them all—you and I—each in our own way—past, present or future. So spare me that guff about being unnatural. Would you like to tell me how many guards are left in this house?"

  "He's gone, so what does it matter?"

  "That's a fair conclusion. Maybe he'll come back for you?"

  "He won't. He'll get her away—out of danger. Not me." She shivered. "I've got to look after myself now. I've done nothing wrong."

  "Well, if you have—it's got to be proved."

  "I don't know exactly what the globules are for. They will certainly neutralize sulphur in the air." She glanced up, eyes clear now. Intelligent eyes. "But there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

  "Yes, dear—a lot more."

  She nodded slowly, then smiled. "There's only Greco and Prodder and me here. There are five guards out on the moors searching for you."

  "Prodder?"

  "You shot him, didn't you? The switchboard operator."

  "Only to sleep," said April.

  "Well, he's sleeping. I've given Greco first aid, but he needs a doctor."

  "All in good time. How long have you worked here?"

  "Nearly two years. It's been—it was—the most wonderful time of my life. Until she came over from France six months ago. Then he had a lot of money. That luxurious house in London—and these tough men always about the place."

  "Did you ever see Sirdar the Turk?"

  "So you know about him too? Yes, he stayed here for about a week. A horrid man."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Quite a few visitors. Important men. Some foreign, some American, and a few British, who came to see the range experiments."

  "So Carl put on a show for them?"

  "Well, yes, he had to. You know what this country is like. You need lots of permits and licenses—things like that. So they send these inspectors and officials. It was a great joke to Carl. He'd say: 'Come along, darling, let us put on our magicians' act for these earnest little men.'"

  "But not using the Urdu formula?"

  Ingrid looked startled. "I'm not saying any more. Shoot me if you like. I'm saying nothing that will harm him."

  "Oh brother!" April murmured. "You sure are legion!" She manipulated the lipstick, eased off the desk and sauntered around the chair. She pressed the secret contact. The needle containing chloral hydrate shot out ready for use.

  "I don't know where you go from here," said April, "but I'd make it a long way if I were you." She pressed into Ingrid's arm where the sleeve had ridden up. Surprisingly, Ingrid didn't cry out.

  "I don't care," she said. "I don't care any more." She was still saying it as she fell asleep.

  April took the key bunch and left.

  The keys opened the way to swift inspection of Ingrid's own office, a lobby containing dresses made of the silvery-glinting metal. April detached samples for analysis. A monitoring room next to the hall gave her a laugh when she manipulated the instrument controls and saw the guards spaced out over the moors, probing into bushes and gullies, looking for her. All were wearing metal suits. She also saw that three cameras were focused on the "ranges"—sites placed at three levels on the moors. Not much to see. Merely skeletal structures of varying heights stepping up to a tower. April connected these with the collection of items in the first room and obtained a fair picture of the purpose.

  She also found in the monitoring room the alarm/protection system of controls, trip wires and infra-red beams which worked thunder flashes, smoke pots and other warning devices. She set all the switches at "alert". She could now proceed through the rest of the building knowing she couldn't be taken by surprise.

  CHAPTER SIX: GO— GAL— GO!

  MARK SLATE ran the Aston Martin around the back of some bushes, climbed to a vantage point and surveyed the house and the moor surrounding it. He saw the men working their way over the moor, but they were far distant enough to give him time to get inside. There was no movement in the grounds, nor lights, even though dusk was near.

  He'd circled around as far as he dare take the car in case it got bogged down and was approaching the house from the opposite side to the trees and driveway. A high fence ran from the original wall at the front to meet up with the same wall at the rear; it was electrified and no doubt connected with alarms inside the house. He searched for the contact wire and feed junctions, found and neutralized them.

  Within five minutes he was inside the grounds. He had scarcely gone three yards when a thunder flash exploded, and two smoke pots fizzed off acrid clouds.

  "Aw, to hell with it!" he exclaimed. "They daren't use any killer devices here. The worst I'll get is some scorch marks." He sped over grass in a straight line. His guess was good, for the devices were staggered so as to catch the intruder who zigzagged. Mark set off only one flash before reaching a side door. "Bash on!" he muttered. "They'll turn the dogs loose any minute." Drawing his U.N.C.L.E. gun, he blasted the lock, crashed the door open and leapt inside.

  The room was filled with racks and shelving. Metal suits hung on the racks, gumboots, gloves and shiny hats shaped like fir
emen's helmets, and items that looked like hand fire extinguishers, filled the shelves. He pressed on. No time for detailed inspection. April Dancer must be somewhere in the center of this rambling house.

  He went through a small office containing two bunk beds, a desk, portable typewriter. Graphs hung on the walls. A notice board held lists of duty rosters.

  He slid open a partition, was faced with a steel door, and tentatively tried the catch. The door swung inward. He stepped into a long white room, apparently a mixture of laboratory and packing room. He whirled as a voice behind him said:

  "What kept you?"

  Mark holstered his gun.

  "Blast you, April! Can't you ever be the distressed damsel rescued at the last minute by the great dumb he-man?"

  She flashed a smile at him, leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  "Hiya, he-man!"

  He returned the kiss. "Hiya, damsel! Did you have a bad last minute?"

  "Uproarious!" She chuckled. "I set all the alarms so I wouldn't be disturbed. Then I saw you, but I was too late to switch off." She waved a hand. "Very busy here. You got news?"

  "Most of it will keep, but Headquarters are rather keen for us to call in the French choppers if we need help. Seem to be nervous of us starting anything in England."

  April's eyes widened. "Oh golly! Headquarters—I forgot all about them!"

  "Forgot! That, me old darling, can be construed as famous last words. Well, goodbye—nice to have worked with you!"

  She tapped the bag, said in a wheedling voice: "I've got goodies. Formula, samples, lists, suppliers—and I'm just about to collect the gem of all the goodies—a real live sample of K.S.R.6."

  "Which is what?"

  "This." April walked to where a large vat stood next to racks of small containers. "Neat K.S.R.6. You press the end of a container in here. It's compression-filled and self- sealing." She moved a sliding cupboard door. A small tap fell out. "Then you screw this into the sealing and you have yourself a prescribed dosage of K.S.R.6 for any purpose—distance no object."