by John Creasey
Woburn looked about him.
The room was thirty feet long, at least, and nearly as wide. The walls were painted a pale green. The fluorescent lighting was the same shade; like imitation daylight. Benches ran along the length of two walls, making one large L. In the open space and against the bare walls were large square things - rather like refrigerators about seven or eight cubic feet capacity. They had stainless steel doors and dull steel sides. In all there were four of these. There were several smaller ones, too.
On the benches was the usual paraphernalia of a laboratory. Big stills, of weird shapes and sizes, looked as if someone was trying to prepare for a new, fantastic world. Long, slender burettes, with their tiny taps. Retorts, bell- jars, beakers, tripods, Bunsen burners - everything Woburn might have expected, and a great number of things he didn’t even begin to understand.
Everything was in position. The place was not only tidy but spotless. The flooring was made of some kind of compound, and Woburn could hardly hear even his own footsteps. A faintly acrid smell made him wrinkle his nose, but it wasn’t strong.
He said: “Lidgett, if we can pull this off, we’ve a chance of getting out of here alive. If we don’t pull it off, you’ll be dead before the night’s out. It’s that simple. Understand?”
“What— what are you trying to do?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m trying to do. I want to find out how this stuff is grown, how quickly the octi grow - is that the word you use for them?” Woburn asked abruptly.
“Yes.”
“All right. How it’s grown or made, how it can be controlled, how it operates, how long it takes to mature, why it explodes, where there are colonies of the things. Call them colonies?”
Lidgett muttered: “No, we— we call them cells.”
“Meaning?”
“It means what it says,” Lidgett told him. “They’re a form of Protozoa-amoebae. You know. Feed on plankton. Davos came across them by accident, very deep down in the Pacific. Years ago.” Lidgett wiped his sticky forehead and his flabby, sticky neck. “Never been brought to the surface before, but they lived. They— come and look.”
He moved towards the end wall of the laboratory, where there were two large windows. As he drew nearer, Woburn saw that there was water beyond the windows. Lidgett put on a light, and the water showed up deep and green. Inside were small stones, small rocks, weeds, very much like any tank in the aquarium at Brighton or the London Zoo; or any zoo. Small fish floated about, and there were tiny things which he didn’t recognise.
On the rocks were tiny patches of a pale, muddy grey colour.
“There they are,” Lidgett said. “Use a magnifying glass.”
He stretched out for one, from a bench, and handed it to Woburn. Woburn kept his distance from the man, and put the glass to his eye. He felt his teeth snap together as he recognised masses of tiny little octi, so minute that it was almost impossible to realise that they were, until magnified by the glass; that when he took the glass away, they looked just like a pale smear of mud.
“Amazing things,” Lidgett said.
Woburn looked at the scientist sharply, puzzled by a change in his manner. It was difficult to understand why, but it couldn’t be mistaken: Lidgett was no longer craven. Something had happened to draw him out of himself, to give him courage. Was there some trick? Did he know that he would soon be rescued?
He was just staring at the grey smears.
“Amazing,” he repeated. “Never really believed it, but there’s the evidence. Put the amoebae at the right temperature and in the proper atmosphere, add a little malic acid, and they grow and grow. Goodness knows why malic acid has that effect. You can almost see them growing. Don’t believe me, do you?” He gave a funny little crow, almost of triumph. “Well, I can show you some growing! When Davos first discovered it he must have gaped like a school kid. Then he saw what it could lead to. All he wanted was enough plankton and malic acid, and he could breed billions of octi. Plenty of plankton in the sea, and malic acid is cheap enough. The big problem was to control the growth, and to put cells in different places. He tried a few experiments - South Seas, New England - you know. That was when he first brought me into it. Told me that he was looking for a way of making rain. Impossible to any great degree, eh? That’s what the world thought! Just imagine, just think what would happen if you could take a few millions of these octi to the Sahara every month, and call it rain. Give the Arabs all the water they want to make that as fertile as the Dutch tulip fields, wouldn’t it?”
He paused, licking his lips.
Woburn said: “Yes,” but he didn’t think that Lidgett noticed. There had been a miracle of transformation in front of his eyes. Here, in his own surroundings and on his own subject, Lidgett was a changed man. He could lose himself wholly in his work. There was brightness in his eyes, and his body was erect; he had a confidence that hardly seemed possible in the craven of the room upstairs.
Was it just this laboratory and the subject? Or did he know that help was coming?
He went on, hoarsely: “Astounding things, of course. Their growth is controlled by the amount of malic acid. They store hydrogen in vast quantities, and they’ve a catalyst we’ve never been able to identify. When the things burst the hydrogen shoots out and contact with the oxygen in the air makes water. It happens with explosive speed, the jet has tremendous power. And once the octi reach maturity, any shock or blow will burst them. Fact! They can burrow under mountains, under the bed of the ocean, anywhere. I’ve seen masses of them burst almost at once - like a water spout. The first to go off toss the others up, then they go—like a cloudburst, if it happens in the open, or a tidal wave from the sea. First experiments were on an island in the Samoan group. In a few weeks the octi had taken over the island. Invaded a trading schooner, too. The island just vanished. Amazing! We were doing the impossible by then, manufacturing fresh water in an ocean. Couldn’t stop at that, of course. Davos pressed on, looking for ways of controlling the octi completely. We made several culture plates, and the result was always identical— add malic acid to any of the culture, and they grow into octi, in a few hours.”
Lidgett broke off, gasping for breath.
“It’s true. Look, I’ll show you. Show you the culture. Everything—”
He turned round.
His mouth dropped open, his whole attitude changed in a flash; fear crowded back. He knocked into Woburn. In a corner a green light was blinking. “That’s— that’s the telephone,” he gulped. “Telephone. Someone must— must know we’re here.”
17
There was no sound, only the flashing light. Woburn felt himself going cold and scared as he looked at it. He had been shaken out of the world which Lidgett had created, the world of scientific fantasy, and there was the light. He could let it alone, simply refuse to answer. But if no one answered and anyone outside had reason to believe that someone was in the laboratory, they might come down to investigate.
He said: “Answer it.”
“But—”
“Answer it,” Woburn repeated roughly. “Give some excuse for staying down here for a bit longer.” He pushed the man towards the corner. “Don’t make any mistake!”
He didn’t know whether Lidgett would be able to speak intelligibly. The man’s lips were trembling, and he kept making little blub-blub-blub sounds. There was froth at the corners of his mouth, and tiny bubbles kept bursting. But he moved forward, with Woburn on his heels, and stretched out a hand for the black telephone.
“Hurry,” Woburn breathed.
“I— I— I’m trying,” Lidgett muttered, and picked the telephone up. He put it to his lips, slowly. The light stopped flashing. He said: “This— is Lidgett,” with great care, which must surely alarm anyone who was answering.
He listened.
He gaped, sagged, and turned to Woburn, the instrument quivering in his hand.
“It— it— it— it’s for you,” he breathed. “It’s Miss Eve, she— it’s for yo
u.”
Woburn said thinly: “All right, give me.” He had to fight off the effect of Lidgett’s manner, had to watch Lidgett, had to try to understand how it was that Eve knew he was here, and what she wanted. His voice was abrupt. “Hallo, is that you, Miss Davos?”
“Bob,” Eve said, breathlessly, “we’ve only got a moment, I’m relieving the operator. Are you all right?”
“Yes. I—”
“We’re all to meet in the drawing-room at seven-forty-five. My father will be there. If you’re late, they’re bound to start looking for you almost at once. I don’t know what it is, but there’s been some kind of trouble. Are you— are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“How— how did you get down there?”
He said: ‘How did you know where to find me?”
“I telephoned everywhere,” Eve said,” and couldn’t trace you. Then the butler told me he’d seen you with Lidgett. Bob, don’t trust him! And you must be in the drawing-room at a quarter to eight.”
It was now a quarter past seven.
“I’ll be there,” he said. “See you later.”
He rang off.
Lidgett could have tried to pull a trick while he was on the telephone; but he hadn’t moved, and was sweating. The call had jolted him out of that mood which had been so near exaltation. Woburn sensed that he wouldn’t get back into it very quickly, that the spell was broken.
“How— how did she—”
“She doesn’t like the plans for the future any more than I do,” Woburn said sharply. He mustn’t waste a second. “Now, these octi. Show me everything, and don’t stand there slobbering!”
Lidgett said: “All— all right.”
He moved towards one of the big refrigerators, stood outside it for a moment, and then turned the handle. As he did so, he muttered: “Incubator.” He had the door wide open, and drew out a large, round saucer-like container. It was made of plastic, Woburn judged, had a base and a lid— it was rather like the cardboard boxes which packet cheeses are sold in, but twice as large. Inside it, top and bottom and at the sides, were little smears.
“There— there’s the culture,” Lidgett muttered. “You can get billions of octi - billions. Feed them on plankton, keep them alive, and then give them malic acid, and they grow. You can see them growing!”
“How long will they keep, outside of that incubator?”
“Oh, they keep. Can freeze ‘em or boil them, and they’re rot-proof.” That was almost a giggle. “Only known thing to destroy them is simple. Cyanide of potassium.”
“Cyanide?” Woburn echoed.
“S’right. Cyanide of potassium kills them off. Malic acid builds ‘em up. Look.” Lidgett was recovering now, his subject affected him like a drug. He turned to another incubator, after closing the door of this one; he still held the flat container, with the smears inside. The next incubator had a number of small glass boxes in them, like small tropical fish tanks. He drew one of these out. “Nice crop,” he said. “See?” There were the muddy-coloured smears, rather like those in one of the other tanks at the end of the room. “Now!”
He put a long piece of steel, like a knitting needle, into the tank, touched a smear, and drew the steel out. There were some tiny specks at the end of it. He put the tank back, closed the door, and went to another incubator. Here, there were more glass tanks, but they were empty.
He shook the needle over one of them.
Woburn said: “There isn’t enough time—”
“Just wait a minute,” Lidgett said. The quiver of excitement was back in his voice and in his body again. “Won’t take long to start.”
Woburn thought with a shock: “It can’t be as quick as that.”
He stared.
At first he could hardly see the specks which had been put on the bottom of the tank. He did not believe that they would grow in front of his eyes, and was prepared for this to be Lidgett’s attempt to fool him. But Lidgett was watching with bright eyes, the father-to-a-son look in them.
“Look,” he breathed.
The octi were beginning to grow.
There were not one but dozens of them, specks which in those few seconds had become as large as pin-heads; and in five minutes were large enough for the shape to be made out with the naked eye. And they kept getting larger. In a few hours they would be as large as the octi which Woburn had seen near Wolf Village.
Lidgett was rubbing his hands together in a kind of ecstatic satisfaction, and now had a ‘see, what did I tell you?’ look on his flabby face. He took the little tank to a sink, turned it upside down, and watched the tiny, squirming octi for a few seconds. Then he picked up a beaker, and squashed them. Even at that stage the water spurted out, and some of it stung his hand.
Woburn said in a taut voice: “Now let me get this straight. They start from this culture, which you produce here. It will live in any conditions except cyanide of potassium. When the culture has grown large enough you call it oca’. When it is put in malic acid, the octi begin to grow. Is that it?”
“Couldn’t put it plainer.”
“How were they introduced into the rocks here?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Lidgett. “Drilled a few holes, took advantage of natural caves, spread the babies about, and then sprayed malic acid. We’ve tried it before, and the result’s always the same. They find cracks in the rocks, can actually burrow through the softer stone, and get very deep. On maturity they explode at the slightest pressure. Fascinating. Sometimes they burst themselves in trying to force their way through rock, but there’s nearly always a spot where it’s fairly easy. Fantastic thing is the way they grow and multiply. These things round here haven’t been introduced into the soil for more than two weeks. Absolutely riddled the place. Of course, we’re safe. You’ve got to give the old devil his due, he’s no fool! Had a survey made of the land, and had a big trench dug - said it was for irrigation. Then cyanide of potassium was put into the trenches and pumped into the earth. Made a kind of gas curtain, and experiments show the octi seldom go deep, then burrow on the level and upwards, but not far down - to get under anywhere and make a job of it you have to bury them deep in the first place. Easy enough - just drill, as for oil - up here, on the sea-bed, anywhere.”
Woburn said thickly: “I see. Where does he get the cyanide of potassium?”
“Oh, we make it here,” Lidgett told him. “See that plastic door?” He pointed to one near the two large tanks at the far end of the room. “That’s a lethal chamber.” He giggled; as if he were really unbalanced. “There’s a gas-tap beyond the door, then another plastic apron. See the gas masks hanging up? Have to wear one before you go through the door, otherwise - curtains.”
He stood there with a nervous grin.
Woburn looked at the gas chamber, the masks hanging just outside it, and then back at Lidgett.
“Where are the cultures?”
“Eh? Oh. In that incubator—”
“I don’t mean that. What parts of the country has he put the cultures - the octi?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” said Lidgett, offhandedly. “He and Faversham fix that.” Now he licked his lips, and began to look scared again. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with that, Woburn. I just carry out my own job. I’m a scientist, you can see that, can’t you? I know that the old devil’s got some crazy idea of starting a new world, going to isolate this place and breed perfect humans and animals, going to grow everything - new Garden of Eden, I suppose. We’re going to stay here to hold a watching brief! Check everything day by day, draw up reports - you know, prepare scientific data.” He was spluttering and frothing again. “I’m just a scientist, and scientists can’t afford to worry about a few lives.”
Woburn said flatly: “No. Where is this radio transmitter?”
“You mustn’t use it! If Davos found out—”
“Where is it?”
“There,” Lidgett said, and pointed to a steel door, rather like the door of a safe
, which was built in the wall. He moved across and pulled at the handle; the door opened.
“Easy to open, isn’t it?” asked Woburn.
“Yes, the current’s off. When it’s off, okay. Usually it’s on, but he doesn’t seem to be so careful today.”
Woburn thought: “Why should Davos relax precautions?” but couldn’t answer and didn’t ask Lidgett to try.
The transmitter was small, and like many used by amateur enthusiasts the world over. He could operate it; and there wasn’t a minute to spare.
“I assure you, in the interests of science—” Lidgett began.
“In the interests of humanity,” Woburn said very softly, “I don’t think I dare let you live.”
He stood quite still, watching the man, seeing how the fat lips worked, how the terror burned in his eyes. There were some simple facts to face. Lidgett had told him all he could. Lidgett was a genuine craven, and would crack under pressure. To curry favour with Davos or Faversham, he would rush to tell them what had happened.
So Woburn was face to face with the inevitable.
He could not afford to let Lidgett live.
Lidgett had raised his hands, as if trying to fend him off. And he backed away, reading his doom in Woburn’s eyes. He must have known that death was inevitable, and he didn’t beg for a reprieve with so many words; he couldn’t make the muscles of his throat move properly. His mouth worked; there was froth at the corners.
Woburn was thinking in a cold, remote way: “What can I do with the body?”
Then he thought: “The cyanide chamber. He can kill himself.”
He glanced at the masks.
Lidgett screamed: “No, no, no!” and flung himself forward. He was big and powerful and, if once he got the upper hand, he would be hard to throw off. Woburn smacked a clenched fist into his stomach, bringing him forward, whelping; then struck once at the flabby jaw.
Lidgett flopped down; unconscious.
Woburn picked up the mask.
He put it on, slowly, and went to the cyanide chamber. He studied the double plastic doors to see how the gas-trap worked. He saw. He hoisted the unconscious man to his feet, and dragged him towards the chamber; by the time he reached there he was gasping for breath, and didn’t think he could finish the job without a rest.
