by Simon Hawke
"Well, they've got a damn peculiar way of going about it!" Tremayne said, rubbing his head.
"You still have your revolver?"
"Blimey, I didn't even think to check!" He slapped the pocket of his coat. "No, it wasn't taken," he said, pulling it out and checking it to make sure it was loaded.
Grayson pulled out his own revolver, a Webley, and looked around at the fog-shrouded street. "You say both Doyle and Stoker were following the Count as well?"
"All the way from the Lyceum," said Tremayne. "Left their coach when he did and followed him on foot. Damnedest thing, I thought at first they were
together and merely traveling by separate coaches, but it soon became clear that
they were dogging him just the same as I was."
"Which way did you last see them go?"
"Straight down that street there, into that courtyard."
"A cul-de-sac," said Grayson. "Nothing down there but an old warehouse. Hmmm . . . strange. How long would you say you were unconscious?"
"Damned if I know," Tremayne said. "Why? Does it make a difference?"
"It does if you were struck over the head after I was informed of it," Grayson said. "It took me perhaps half an hour to drive here by coach. If we assume that your assailant coshed you, then immediately took a coach straight to my lodgings to inform me of it, and allowing for the time it took me to arrive here, then we would have to be dealing with a time span of something over an hour at the very least and one has to wonder how they knew you would remain unconscious for so long. No, Tremayne, I do not think it could possibly have happened that way. Our friends in the Green Dragon are orchestrating these events in a most singular and peculiar manner, a manner that suggests complex organization."
"I don't understand," Tremayne said.
"Don't you?" said Grayson. "It seems obvious to me. They knew that you were following the Count because they were shadowing him themselves. You must have been spotted following him from the Lyceum, whereupon our friends in the Green Dragon sent word to me that you could be found unconscious here, long before you were actually assaulted. They planned to take you down right here, on this
very spot, and they must have used some means to do it whereby they would know with some certainty how long you would remain unconscious— undoubtedly one of those strange Oriental fighting tricks of theirs—which can only mean that they knew Dracula would come here because they had trailed him to this place before. But why did they knock you out and then make certain I would be present on the scene a short while later? Because they wanted us here, but only at a specific time."
Tremayne stared at him, utterly confused. "I can make no sense of that, sir.”
"Can't you? There is only one possible answer to it all. The Green Dragon has been deeply involved in these events, possibly since their very beginning, and they have known far more than we have all along."
"What does it all mean?" Tremayne said.
"I wish to God I knew," said Grayson, frustrated. "Almost from the beginning, I have had the certain feeling that there was a great deal more to this case than met the eye. I continually had a sense that there were other presences involved. First these American scholars, who are clearly not involved in scholarship, but something far more complex and mysterious, to the extent that at least three of them were posing as British subjects—two as newspaper reporters and one right under our very noses in the crime lab! And now we learn that the Green Dragon is involved! Why? We have stumbled onto some sort of fantastically complicated plot,
Tremayne, but to what end?"
"Perhaps we need more men,” Tremayne said nervously.
"I wish I had an entire regiment with me," said Grayson, "but I fear there is no time to summon any reinforcements. Clearly, it was intended that I should be here now, in this precise place and at this very moment, but for what reason has yet to become apparent."
He looked around uneasily.
"The streets appear unusually deserted," he said, "even for this desolate part of town and for this late hour. Yet, I have the strongest intuition that we are not alone. There are unseen forces all around us. I can almost feel it. as a palpable tension in the very air!''
'
Tremayne glanced at him fearfully. "What are we to do, then?"
"You have your watch?" said Grayson.
"Right here."
"Good. Wait here for me. And watch yourself. If you hear me blow my whistle, you had best come running. Otherwise, if I have not returned within ten minutes, go for help."
"Where are you going?"
"Where it is apparently intended I should go," said Grayson. "To have a look around inside that warehouse."
13 __________
They ran through the narrow subterranean corridor, stumbling in the dark over soft, furry shapes that squealed in protest and snapped at their shoes, but neither man gave any thought to the rats as they fled. They ran blindly in the dark, their hands held out before them, hearing behind them the howling of the creatures released from their dungeon cells and the crashing of glass and equipment as they destroyed the underground laboratory.
Stoker grunted with pain as he fell forward onto the stairs leading up to the great hall of the castle and Conan Doyle dragged him to his feet, hooking his arm around him.
Hurry, man! We must flee for our very lives!"
They half ran, half stumbled up the damp stone steps, feeling their way along the slimy wall in the darkness. Behind them, the inhuman screaming sounded terrifyingly closer. At last, they reached the door at the top of the steps and threw it open. Gasping for breath, they lunged through it and then slammed it shut, throwing their weight against it.
"The bolt!" said Doyle. "Quickly, throw the bolt!" "It's stuck!" said Stoker.
Doyle added his strength to that of Stoker's and the iron bolt shot home.
"That should hold them!" Stoker said.
"I would not wish to stake my life on it." said Doyle. breathing hard. "I shall not feel safe until we're gone from this accursed place!"
"But how?" said Stoker. "How do we get hack home?"
"Steady, old friend,” said Doyle. "One problem at a time. We are not safe
yet. Quickly, we must find our way out of this place."
They started to run across the great hall when a deep, reverberant voice cried out. ''Stand where vou are!"
Startled, both men stopped in the center of the great hall. Drakov stood above them on the curved stairway, with Jasmine and Moreau.
"Who are you?" said Conan Doyle.
"The question, sir, is who are you." said Drakov, "and how did you get here?"
Before they could reply, the door to the stairway leading down to the dungeon splintered and broke and the hall became filled with the howling screams of the creatures from the dungeons. Drakov's head jerked towards them as they streamed out into the great hall and in that moment. Jasmine's foot whipped out and kicked the laser from his hand. They grappled for a moment and then Drakov shoved her away from him. She fell into Moreau and they both tumbled down the stairs.
“STOP!” Shouted Drakov.
The creatures all fell silent instantly and stopped where they were, staring up at him fearfully.
"My God. Arthur," Stoker said, as they backed slowly away from the suddenly immobile creatures. "Look how they watch him!"
"With the manner of whipped dogs," said Doyle. "Whoever this man is, he is obviously their master. And our fate is entirely in his hands.”
"Dear God, Nikolai," Moreau said, staring at the creatures who cowered before Drakov. "What have you done'?"
"I would not advise anyone to move," said Drakov. "Moreau, I will thank you to retrieve my laser and return it to me, otherwise I will have them tear those men to pieces right before your eyes. Remember. I am all that protects you from them now. One word from me and they will attack without mercy."
"Arthur, what do we do?" said Stoker.
"For the moment, it appears that we must stand very still a
nd do whatever that man tells us." Conan Doyle said. "If we triedto run now, they would bring us down before we had run twenty feet.”
"The laser, Moreau," said Drakov. "Now!"
Moreau felt Jasmine tense and he took hold of her firmly. "We must do as he says. he told her.
Together, they went over to where the laser pistol had fallen and Moreau bent down to pick it up. Drakov remained where he was, on the long stairway leading down from the upper floor. Doyle and Stoker stood closeto one another in the center of the great hall, between Drakov and his creatures.
"Look at them!" said Stoker, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "They cannot possibly be human!"
"No. Stoker, Doyle said, staring at the creatures, "I am afraid they are. Only something terrible has been done to them, something beyond all reason. Their minds have snapped, poor devils, and vet this man controls them with a word. He has them mesmerized. It appears that we have found the guiding intelligence behind these awful crimes and he is without a doubt a madman."
"And who are you, sir, to call me mad?" said Drakov. "I repeat my question. What are you doing here and how did you get here?"
"My name is Arthur Conan Doyle and this is Mr. Bram Stoker. As to how we came here, we were rendered unconscious and abducted, brought here against our will by Count Dracula. And now you have the advantage of me, sir.-
"Indeed I do," said Drakov with a smile. "I admire your composure, Dr. Doyle, but then I would expect no less from the distinguished creator of Sherlock Holmes. My name is Nikolai Drakov. Forgive nit for not having recognized you, but I hardly expected to find you here, of all places. I had heard that you were working with Scotland Yard. Allow me to congratulate you for having come so far. And as for you, Mr. Stoker, your presence here is an exquisite irony. Where is Dracula?"
"It was he who released those wretches from their dungeon cells." said Stoker.
"And has doubtless been torn to pieces for his trouble, the sentimental fool," said Drakov. "What a pity. What a criminal waste. He was my prize, my greatest achievement! You should have seen him, Moreau!”
Moreau raised the laser pistol, but Conan Doyle shouted,-Don't do it, man! Don't be a fool! He is all that holds these murderous creatures in check!"
Moreau hesitated.
"Well, Moreau," said Drakov, smiling down at him, "go on, shoot. You wanted to kill me. You will never get another chance. But kill me and you condemn yourself
and the others to a decidedly unpleasant death."
With an air of helpless resignation, Moreau started to lower the weapon.
"Wait, Mr. Moreau!" said Doyle, his voice ringing out in the great hall, echoing off the ancient walls. "So long as you possess that weapon, we still have a chance. Kill him, and the creatures will be freed from his will, released to butcher every one of us. But so long as you possess that weapon, you still have the threat of death over him. And that, I assure you, is undoubtedly all that is keeping us alive! We are at a stalemate."
Jasmine ran to Moreau's side and clutched his arm. Moreau raised the laser once again and pointed it at Drakov.
"Very good, Dr. Doyle," said Drakov. "Moreau was always spineless, but I had not counted on you to bolster him up. Between you, the girl, and his newly awakened sense of morality, he is becoming a veritable pillar of masculine vigor.”
"Don't let him rattle you. Moreau," said Doyle. "He wants to make you angry. Anger makes people's hands shake, their aim becomes unsteady."
"Time does much the same thing. Dr. Doyle," said Drakov. "How long do you think we can all stand here before his arm starts to become tired?"
"However long it takes for us to resolve this stalemate and leave here safely," Doyle said. "If his arm should become tired, he can pass the pistol to the girl. She seems capable enough."
"As are you, apparently,” said Drakov. "What happens now? Even if I were to let you leave, under the threat of being shot, how far do you think you would get before they ran you down? Look at them. They need but one word from me and they will tear you apart. They have been down in the dungeons for a long time. And they are hungry.”
"We could take you with us as our hostage," Stoker said. "I do not think so, Mr. Stoker. I have no intention of moving from this spot. Perhaps you would try taking me by force?" "Stay away from him!" Moreau said. "He has at least three times your strength and he is an expert in the art of unarmed combat. You would have no chance against him."
"At the risk of sounding immodest," Drakov said, "he is quite correct. Your position is untenable. Dr. Doyle. I am not sure how long I can hold them back. They are quite difficult to control, sometimes. Personally. I do not wish either
you or Mr. Stoker any harm. I never intended that you should become involved in
this."
"Precisely what did you intend?" said Doyle. "These poor creatures have obviously been the victims of some sort of brutal and perverse medical experimentation. Leaving aside the despicable act itself and the question of morality, it took the skills and knowledge of a genius to accomplish this. How could a man of such obvious intelligence do such a horrifying thing? What possible reason could there be to justify such cruelty?"
"Cruelty. Dr. Doyle'?" said Drakov. "You speak to me of cruelty? What do you know of cruelty, you who have enjoyed a life of pampered indolence and taken it for granted, your facility with words netting you sums of money that would feed entire families for months? Your trade is that of obfuscator! You weave pretty little spells to entertain the masses, or at least those privileged enough to have one shilling to spend for a copy of Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. Spells meant to distract them from the squalor of reality; stories meant to entertain them so there will be no necessity to think! Lord forbid that they should think, for thinking is dangerous and most of them do not do it very well! Let them think and they will devise new ways to further degrade themselves and despoil the world, a world they look upon as nothing more than property to be used, bartered and developed!
"The beasts of the jungle have more ethics than they do," Drakov continued. "When the tiger makes a kill, it consumes enough to satisfy itself, but it leaves something behind for the hyena and the hyena in turn leaves something for the rodents and the insects, each—by instinct—taking only what is needed to survive, each leaving something for the others. And what does your noble species do, Dr. Doyle? They kill for the sake of pleasure and they consume for the sake of greed, leaving nothing behind for anyone! Their instinct is only for rape and domination, their drive towards self-destruction!”
"I have had generations in which to study cruelty, Dr. Doyle, to experience it firsthand! I have seen humanity spread out over the world like maggots on a carcass, breeding on it, choking it, all in the name of progress, when their true motives were gluttony for wealth and lust for power and their only progress was the progress of decay! You call what I've done cruelty? No, Dr. Doyle, it is a kindness, the last kindness that anyone can give to a beast in its dying agonies, the kindness of the coup de grace!”
"The man is hopelessly insane!" said Stoker.
"He is worse than insane," said Doyle. "He is a cynic. For a madman, it is at least possible to feel pity. For a cynic, one can feel nothing, because the cynic does not suffer. He does not feel. He has enclosed himself within his armor of disdain; his buckler is contempt and his shield is bitterness. His lance is sarcasm and his
sword is pessimism, but they are blunted weapons, dulled by hopelessness. Yes, Mr.
Drakov, I do have a facility for words, as you put it, not unlike yourself, yet the words I live by do more than merely entertain. They set forth the principles by which I believe we can avoid those dying agonies you speak of. There are things worth living for, worth dying for, and it is that which separates us from the jungle beasts, that the best of us will live for honor and die for an idea. If I die here today, I die knowing that I have done my best and that even if I ultimately failed, the struggle was worth it even so. I will have died for something. You, on the other hand, se
em to have nothing left to live for and your death, when it comes, will have no meaning. In these poor, tortured creatures, you have not recreated humanity stripped of its pretensions, as you might believe. Rather, you have made them living mirrors of yourself. I shall pity them, even as they kill me, but I shall never pity you, because you are not deserving of it."
"I could not have said it better," Forrester said.
Drakov spun around. “You!"
Forrester fired.
The plasma blast took Drakov in the chest and blew him back against the wall as he exploded in a ball of fire. The creatures howled and surged forward, but the time commandos opened up with their disruptors on a wide spray pattern, laying down a deadly stream of neutrons. Moreau tackled Doyle and Stoker, knocking them off their feet and shielding them with his body as he yelled at Jasmine to get down. Creatures wreathed in a blur aura of Cherenkov radiation staggered forward for a step or two before their atoms were disintegrated. Forrester added the firepower of his plasma pistol to the disruptors of the commandos and creatures erupted into flames, flames which consumed them before they even had the time to scream. With all of them bunched up the way they were, there was no chance for any of them to escape. It took less than a minute.
