Terror Station
by Dwight V. Swain
It was sheer madness--monstrous creatures appearing out of nowhere at a top-secret desert Base. Yet Stone knew it was not madness he was fighting but a vicious enemy. The Stake: Earth!
He saw the woman first.
Blindly, she stumbled out of the moonless desert night a hundred yards ahead, into the dim right edge of the path slashed by his headlights. Lurching, staggering, she scuffed through the gravel of the highway’s shoulder; reached the asphalt and took two short, uncertain steps out on it, swaying as if the sudden change to smoother footing had almost made her lose her balance.
Stone jammed on his brakes.
Only then, before the car could even start to stop, movement flickered in the murk from which the woman had emerged. Stone glimpsed a shifting scarlet glow, a dipping, twisting streak of color. Oozing through the backdrop of the night, it drew swiftly closer to the roadway and the woman ... then faded, swallowed up in the glare of the approaching headlights.
But as it vanished, a spot of strange translucence materialized to replace it.
Formless, almost without perceptible substance, the splotch moved faster now, gliding across the shoulder and out onto the highway.
Beyond it, the woman half-turned; threw a frantic glance back along the way from which she’d come even as she took another stumbling step.
In the same instant, the translucence swept down upon her.
The woman’s face contorted. Sheer terror etched her features, so deep that even Stone could see it. She tried to lunge away.
But now gleaming tendrils lanced forth from the translucence, curled about her, held her helpless.
The woman screamed.
That scream: It echoed even through the shriek of Stone’s scorching tires, seared itself into his brain so deep that he never would, never could, forget it.
Then, abruptly, the scream cut off. The translucence swirled back towards the roadside and the shadows, dragging the woman with it.
Savagely, Stone jerked the steering wheel right with all his might, trying to follow the horror with his headlights. Skidding, the car rocked round on two wheels. For a spine-chilling split second Stone thought it was going to go over. But at the last moment it righted itself and shuddered to a halt in a choking cloud of dust beyond the shoulder.
Straight ahead, woman and translucence hung spotlighted less than fifty feet away.
Stone snatched his Colt from its holster on the steering post. Leaping from the car, he raced forward.
It was as if the sight of him gave the woman new strength. Her whole body convulsed. Tearing free from the monstrous thing that held her, she lurched towards Stone, blood streaming from a dozen wounds.
The translucence seemed to swell and darken. Then, in a rush, it hurtled towards the woman.
But now Stone was abreast of her. Cat-footed, he leaped between her and the monster; he blazed three fast shots into its center.
The shining surface quivered. For the fraction of a second it drew back.
Stone could see the creature more clearly now. Murkily transparent as oily water, it stood nearly a head taller than his own six feet.
Except that it didn’t have any head.
Instead, a barrel body splayed out into many thin, cable-like tentacles at top and bottom, each terminating in a round disc the size of a quarter. Its only truly opaque matter appeared to be concentrated in a narrow, dully scarlet band perhaps three inches wide that girded the center of its body.
Staring at it, Stone wondered if he were somehow going mad.
Then, abruptly, there was no more time for thinking, observation. With a rush, the monster lunged towards him, moving on its lower tentacles as if they were so many skillfully-coordinated feet.
Behind Stone, the woman cried out: “The light--! Watch out for the light!”
* * * * *
Stone glimpsed it as she spoke:
A small, lensed cube or box that suddenly shot out at the end of one of the creature’s upper tentacles.
He leaped sidewise.
Almost in the same instant, a vivid purple streak blazed from the box.
It missed Stone by inches. Desperately, he snapped a wild shot at the lens, then fired twice more in the onrushing monster’s midriff.
This time, the thing didn’t even hesitate.
Stone jerked the trigger again. A hollow click. The gun was empty.
With a curse, Stone hurled it at the nightmare thing before him. Then, whirling, he raced headlong back towards his car.
Like an evil, gleaming shadow, the monster sped after him. It moved fast--horribly, incredibly fast.
Panting, Stone veered left, not even daring to look back. The headlights blazed blindingly into his eyes.
Something brushed his shoulder. He felt his shirt rip.
Then he was past the lights. Twisting, he dived headlong beneath the car, heedless of the gravel that slashed his face and chest and knees and shins and belly. Driving his elbows into the dirt, he whipped himself out on the far side of the vehicle.
A tentacle groped for his heel.
Savagely, he stamped the disc against a rock.
The tentacle jerked back. Sobbing for breath, Stone scrambled to his knees and clutched the doorhandle.
He got the door open just as another tentacle came through the window on the far side of the car, reaching for him.
Cursing, he jerked back barely in time, slammed the door shut on the tentacle with all his strength.
The latch caught. The car shook as the monster tried to writhe away.
Stone spun about. In three steps he was at the trunk--clawing aside his luggage, breaking his nails on the jack.
His hand closed around the axehandle in the same instant that the car gave a sudden lurch. There was a sound like that of a gigantic rubber band snapping. Then, like an echo, a tentacle-disc slapped against his right ribs just below the armpit.
Clutching the axe, Stone leaped back.
But the disc clung as if it were part of him. Agony exploded around it, tearing at his flesh. Before he could shake the red haze of pain from his eyes, the monster--free of the car now--was upon him.
Convulsively, Stone swung the axe.
It bounced off the barrel body as if it had struck solid rubber. More discs slapped at him.
Stone staggered, axe sagging. The tentacles had him now--constricting, engulfing. He lurched against the monster; felt the discs’ pressure growing, seeking to rend his very body.
Pain-knotted, barely conscious, he twisted the axe-blade against the opaque scarlet band that girded the creature’s midriff.
Reflex-like, a disc low on his spine jerked him back, away.
Stone forgot the agony, the pain-haze. Fiercely, he slashed out with the axe.
A surge of triumph raced through him as its blade bit deep into the unshielded scarlet band.
Now the tentacles tore at him in frenzy, clutched at the axe.
Before they could seize it, Stone swung again--horizontally, this time, so that the rubbery body might have no chance to deflect the cutting edge from the nerve-band.
The blade struck home with a sound like that of a melon shattering on pavement. Clear to the eye it sank--
The tentacles hurled Stone backward, slamming him hard against the side of his car as they let go their hold. He sagged there, raw-nerved and sick and bleeding.
Shambling, uncertain, the monster moved away--and towards the spot where the woman still lay prone and silent.
With an effort, Stone dragged himself erect. Then, axe still in hand, he stumbled after the nightmare creature.
The thing speeded its pace.
Stone forced himself to a run, cutting wide around his adversary.
Ten seconds later, he stood between it and the woman.
The creature hesitated.
* * * * *
Stone bared his teeth in a savage grimace. The fact that he had outdistanced the hideous thing; that it paused now, grasping and indecisive--such were more than enough to strip away his own pain and weariness.
“Damn you!” he grated harshly. “We’ll see who gets her!”
He lifted the axe; took a quick step forward.
The monster fell back before him.
Then, of a sudden, a tentacle speared out.
--The tentacle with the lightbox.
Stone charged in, swinging, as the purple streak blazed forth.
The creature shifted, undulating away from the axe. The streak of purple fire missed Stone.
Missed, by far too wide a margin to be coincidence.
Like an echo, a choked cry of agony rose behind him.
Stone spun about, numb panic flaring in him.
The woman no longer lay limp and prostrate. Now, instead, her whole body jerked in a continuing spasm. Her hands clutched her side, and her lips spilled blood.
Stone whirled again, back to the monster.
But the creature was already fleeing--gliding out of the arc of the headlights’ beam, into the empty blackness of the desert. Even as Stone glimpsed it, the night swallowed it up.
Only a lunatic would have followed.
With a snarl of frustration, Stone ran to the woman; dropped on his knees beside her.
Her whole side was burned black where the purple beam had struck. She clutched his hand, her nails biting deep. “Kill me, quick! Please! I can’t stand it--”
Sweat stood out on Stone’s forehead. Desperately, he forced his voice gentle, level: “Easy, now. You’ll be all right. I’ll get you to my car. It’s only a couple of miles to the proving ground--”
“No, no. I can’t stand it. I’m dying--” The woman’s voice trailed off in a bubbling scream. Her body twisted. Then: “Maybe--my husband--the robots--back there beyond the mesa--”
“Easy....” Stone whispered. But his lips were dry.
“My ... my husband....”
A shudder ran through the woman’s body. Then, suddenly, she sagged limp.
Dead.
Sickness twisted at Stone’s belly. Gently, he crossed the woman’s arms across her breasts ... straightened the tormented twisted body ... wiped away the blood and smoothed the dark hair back from the small, plain face.
She was young, he saw now; far younger than he’d thought--not more than twenty-five at most.
So young ... and so dead.
And somewhere, out there in the desert night, lurked the creature that had killed her.
And what was it the dying woman had said, about robots on a mesa--?
Stone’s spine prickled. Stiffly, he started to get up.
Only then, out of the night, a voice clipped, “Hold it!”
A chill, somehow familiar voice.
Stone froze.
“That’s it. And get your hands out where we can see ’em.”
Wordless, Stone obeyed.
“Now turn so the light shines on your face.”
Again, obedience. “Well! If it isn’t our Mister Stone!” The words carried an ugly inflection. And then: “Come on, you guys....”
Figures converged from the blackness--erect, helmeted, uniformed figures, armed with rifles and carbines.
Soldiers.
The tension drained out of Stone. Of a sudden he felt weak, wobbly, half-hysterical.
And that voice--of course it was familiar!
“Sergeant Bjornberg,” he announced, “I’ve never been so glad to see anybody in my life!”
He dropped his hands.
Instantly, a gun-barrel gouged his back. “Keep those hands out!”
“What--?” Stone stared. “Sergeant, you know me....”
“Do I? Don’t try to pull any fast ones on me, mister!” The sergeant moved into view as he spoke. His usually good-humored features showed heavy now, set in sullen lines. Striding over to the woman, he flashed a light onto her dead face. “Well, now! Ain’t this pretty!”
With an effort, Stone held his temper. “The way she was killed was anything but pretty, sergeant. And the thing that did the job is still running loose. I’d suggest you post a heavy guard, then get me to headquarters as soon as possible.”
The sergeant sneered openly. “You’re telling me what to do?”
“I’m merely suggesting.” In spite of himself, Stone’s voice took on a brittle edge. “However, I do happen to have charge of certain aspects of security for this area, and I doubt that Captain Hayes would think I was out of line.”
“Oh?” Sergeant Bjornberg grinned--an ugly grin, utterly without mirth. “Well, I think I got a better idea, Mister Stone.”
“Well?”
“I’ll post a guard, all right; and I’ll take you to headquarters.”
“Fair enough.”
“But I’ll do it my own way, you lousy civilian phony--and that’s under arrest, as a prisoner and a murder suspect!”
CHAPTER II
Glines’ taste ran to richly aromatic tobaccos. Even now, long after midnight, his office hung heavy with the stink of the stuff.
Stone wrinkled his nose in distaste, again shifted his weight in the hard chair, trying to ease his aching muscles. The welts where the monster’s discs had clutched him stung like new burns. Bruises and scratches plagued him every time he moved, a continuing, continuous irritation.
And still Glines did not come.
Now, in the silence, the ticking of the leather-embellished desk clock seemed to grow louder, till the sound of it echoed in Stone’s ears like an infuriating off-key drumbeat. He found himself resenting the desk itself, with its precise, too-neat arrangement of office trivia. The air the lazy ceiling fan pushed against his face pressed thick as warm, wet cheesecloth.
Yet his mouth stayed dry. When a rill of icy sweat trickled from his armpit, it sent a tremor through his whole body.
He gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes tight shut, trying to shut out the awful memory of the monster and the woman.
But shutting his eyes only made the picture come back clearer, sharper. Better to leave them open....
Once more, he shifted cursing under his breath as new pain pulsed through him.
Besides, the chair creaked.
Stone frowned. It was idiotic, the way he found himself giving way to every tiny irritation ... almost as if the whole base--this office especially--somehow had come to radiate tension.
And tension was one thing he couldn’t afford just now.
Grimly, he sucked in air--a deep breath that filled his lungs held it for the count of ten ... expelled it in a rush, letting himself go limp and jelly-like.
The third time he did it, he knew that some of the raw-nerved stiffness was leaving him. Closing his eyes no longer conjured up macabre visions.
Now, however, he found his mind turning to Bjornberg.
The sergeant’s open hostility baffled him. In the past, they’d always been on a pleasant enough footing--friends, almost. Back in his service days, he’d even soldiered in some of the same places as had the sergeant. It gave them a common ground of past and interest, something to talk about over a beer.
Yet tonight, Bjornberg had called him a “lousy civilian phony”.
Stone shook his head slowly. It just didn’t make sense.
He became aware that the clock’s tick was growing louder again ... fraying at his nerves--
Then, abruptly, footsteps echoed in the hall outside. The door opened. Glines waddled in.
It was typical that he should be freshly shaven and fully dressed, even to tie and clean white shirt. Emergencies might come and go; but if they wanted Glines’ attention, they’d have to wait till the last button was properly secured and the pink chops smooth and anointed with perfumed shaving lotion.
With an effort, Stone kept his voice pleasant. “Hi, Herb. Sorry to drag you out with this nonsense.”
“Nonsense--?” Glines’ fat face stayed stiff, his manner unbending. “I’m not sure I like your choice of words there, Stone.”
Stone stared. “Herb! What is this? Just because you take over my job for two weeks while they call me in to Washington--”
“Don’t evade the issue, Stone!” Glines posed, too erect, beside the desk. His lips pursed. “As I see it, neither your job nor your trip to Washington has anything to do with the things Sergeant Bjornberg’s told me.”
“I see.” Stone clipped his words. “In that case, Glines, maybe we’d better get a few things straight. It happens I’m your superior here. And if I’m not ‘Carl’ to you, then I’m damn’ well ‘Mister Stone.’ Is that clear?”
“No.”
“What--?”
“No, I said. It isn’t clear--not clear at all.” Glines stood openly defiant, insulting. Insolently, he thrust out his puffy lower lip. “You talk a lot about being my superior here, don’t you? Well, as of this moment, I’m not at all sure that you are.”
Stone drew a deep, incredulous breath. Then, slowly--very slowly--he came up from his chair. When he spoke, his words were measured: “Glines, you’re either drunk or crazy. In either case, I’m sick of it. The MP’s have my statement of the facts of what happened tonight. I’m worn out, and I want to get a shower and have the medics disinfect these cuts and then go to bed. This cross-examination business can wait till morning.”
He turned on his heel, strode towards the door.
Behind him, a drawer rattled. Glines’ voice rang, shrill and angry:
“Oh, no, you don’t!”
Stone ignored him.
“Stone! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Stone came up short; half-turned, staring.
* * * * *
Glines stood crouched behind the desk, his eyes black, beady slits above fat cheeks. He gripped an automatic, a heavy Army Colt, in one pudgy hand.
“Back!” he cried shrilly. “Come back here, Stone, before I shoot you like you deserve!”
Stone stood very still, trying without avail to fathom the things that seethed in the black eyes.
First Bjornberg; now Glines. Had the whole base gone mad?
“Easy, Herb,” he said soothingly. “Easy does it. I’ll come back.”
Careful of every movement, he made his way to the desk. “You can put the gun down now, Herb. I won’t try to leave again till you say to.”
“I’ll say you won’t!” Glines bared uneven teeth in a taunting smile. And then: “Oh, you were clever, all right, Stone. But not clever enough to fool me.”
“I wasn’t?”
“No. It all came to me in a flash as soon as Bjornberg told me about you and that woman, and the crazy story you tried to put out about fighting some monster.”
Glines’ face grew more flushed as he spoke, his words and breathing jerky and uneven. The hand that held the gun quivered.
New prickles of tension touched Stone’s spine. “Sure, Herb; sure....”
It was as if his fat little aide hadn’t even heard him; as if the man were talking to himself, almost.
“The minute I woke up, it all clicked into place. Just like that.” Glines giggled, high and ragged. “Oh, I’d been suspicious all along, of course. I checked your record while you were gone--the way you sneaked into security work, pretending to be an American agent while you fought with the Communists in Spain; the business of playing professional soldier in China; those years you spent with the OSS during the war. You cut quite a figure, all right. It made you look tough, dangerous, trustworthy, experienced. But it was all aimed at just one thing: This job here, in charge of civilian security on the country’s top top-secret project. You were willing to wait, to bide your time. Because you knew that when you got this spot here you could really do the job right when you betrayed us!”
A numbness crept over Stone. It was incredible, this mad net of distortion Glines was weaving about him.
Something was behind it, surely ... some dark and evil pattern.
Yet what--?
It was a question pregnant with frustration. Because he didn’t dare to argue; not with an obvious madman. He couldn’t even probe too deeply.
He tried to speak calmly: “Did you figure out the rest of it, too, Herb?”
“The rest--?”
“Sure. How it all fits together. How the business about the woman and the monster could help me betray anything?”
Scorn distended Glines’ eyes. He radiated contempt. “Do you think I’m completely stupid? I knew it the instant I woke up, of course, just like the rest. You wanted some kind of cover to hide behind so that no one would suspect you when news about the project got out. So you killed that poor woman, then made up the story about the monster. You knew that as soon as it got to the papers there’d be dozens of reporters swarming over the base; you can’t guard every inch of a government reservation as big as this one. Then you could blame the reporters for the leak on the project.”
“I see.” Stone nodded slowly. “Well, I guess you’ve got it all, then. You might as well call in MacDougal.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call him.” Again Glines giggled. “Only first I’m going to wrap this all up good and tight. You’re too good a friend of his for me to take any chances. Besides,”--his eyes grew suddenly cold and wary--“besides, I’m not too sure where he stands. Even a base director’s suspect, when he’s friends with a traitor!”
* * * * *
Stone made an elaborate business of shrugging. “That’s carrying it a little far, isn’t it, Herb? Mac’s going to have the final report to make on this business, and he might not like it if he thought you were trying to pull a fast one on him.”
“If he knew, he might.” Glines’ eyes glittered. “But then, I plan to handle it more simply than that, without any red tape. Bjornberg understands. He’ll take care of it.”
“He’ll--take care of it?”
“Yes.”
Glines smirked. “Ley del fuego, they call it in Spanish. The law of flight. Shot while attempting to escape.”
Stone’s palms were suddenly slick with sweat. The ticking of the desk clock echoed in his ears like the knell of doom. He made it a point to breathe deeply, evenly. “That’s a big responsibility for a man to take, Herb.”
“Let me worry about that, Stone. I think I’ll find it a pleasure.”
As he spoke, Glines came round the desk, waddling as always.
Ordinarily, the way Glines moved made Stone want to smile. Only now, of a sudden, it wasn’t funny.
Especially when the gun the fat man held stayed so very steady.
Abruptly, ignoring the weapons, Stone turned to the desk ... picked up the clock ... stared down at its face. “You’d better hurry, then, Herb.”
“What--?”
“Time’s running out. The sergeant goes off duty in a couple of minutes.”
He lifted the clock so Glines could see it.
The black, beady eyes flicked to the dial.
Stone hurled the clock, square at Glines’ head.
His aide jerked away, barely in time to dodge the missile.
But in that split second of distraction, reflex movement, Stone lunged in--knocking Glines’ gun aside with a left-foreman block, driving a hard right into the pit of the fat man’s bulging paunch.
Glines crashed back against the wall, tottered, and slid to the floor his face scarlet as he fought agonizedly for breath.
Stone stomped down on his wrist; kicked the Colt aside. Then, scooping it up, he stood straining his ears, listening for some outside reaction to the scuffle.
None came. Wordless, he strode to the door.
Panting, now, Glines glared up at him eyes sparking hate. “Go--go ahead--Stone! See--how far--you get!”
“Bjornberg?”
“That’s right. I gave him orders to stand guard outside the building--and to shoot on sight!”
Stone smiled thinly. “That’s why I’m not going out.” He threw the door’s heavy bolt in place. “You see, there’s just one catch to all your theories, Glines: They’re not true. So we’re going to get MacDougal down here right now and square things away.”
As he spoke, he strode swiftly to the desk; picked up the phone, dialed the base director’s quarters number.
Four rings. Then MacDougal’s sleep-thickened voice: “Base director speaking.”
“Carl Stone, Mac. Get down to Glines’ office fast; this is urgent. And it might be smart to bring along a couple of guards.”
The sleepiness faded from MacDougal’s voice. “Of course, Carl. If you say so.” A pause. “I didn’t know you were back. When did you get in?”
“Awhile ago. But something’s happened I don’t want to talk about on the phone, and I can’t leave the office, here.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
* * * * *
He made it in four--a big, shaggy man with shoulders like mine beams and John L. Lewis eyebrows. Two armed guards followed him in.
“You’ve got troubles, Carl?”
“You might say so. Glines, here,”--Stone gestured to the fat man, still sitting slumped against the wall--“has suddenly decided I’m a traitor. His solution to the problem was to arrange to have me shot while attempting to escape.”
MacDougal’s shaggy eyebrows lifted. “Well, now! That’s one way of eliminating a problem, isn’t it?--Though I doubt that he’s actually got it in him to pull the trigger when the cards are down.”
Stone shrugged. “He didn’t plan to.”
“No?” The base director cocked his head. “Then who--?”
“Sergeant Bjornberg. Whether he shares Glines’ delusions or not, I can’t say. But Glines tells me he stationed the sergeant outside the building, with orders to shoot me on sight.”
MacDougal frowned. “Things really have been happening to you, haven’t they, Carl?” And then, turning to Glines: “How about this, Herb? Got anything to get off your chest?”
The fat man scrambled to his feet and stood pompously erect in a belated effort to regain his dignity. His eyes sparked. “I certainly do, Mr. MacDougal. There’s not a word of truth in what he says--about the shooting part, that is. What actually happened was, Sergeant Bjornberg caught him down the road a couple of miles, crouched over a woman’s corpse. You can see how cut up he is”--a contemptuous gesture towards Stone--“as if they’d fought before he killed her. He tried to alibi himself with a wild story about them both being attacked by some bug-eyed monster--”
MacDougal interrupted: “You can skip that part, Glines. The driver from the motor pool told me about it on the way over.”
“Yes, sir.” Glines nodded tightly. “Well, anyhow, after he’d given his story to the MP’s, Sergeant Bjornberg still wasn’t satisfied. Under the circumstances, and all, and what with Stone acting so peculiar, he asked me to come over and talk to him. When I got here, Stone was ugly and insulting. He refused to talk to me, and insisted on going to his quarters. I was already worried about the way he was acting, so when he got so hostile I pulled a gun on him. After all”--he flushed--“we were alone here. I hadn’t thought to have a guard stand by.”
“And then--?”
“He attacked me. I didn’t want to shoot him, of course, and he’s stronger than I am. He got hold of the gun, and then called you.”
MacDougal frowned; studied the floor briefly. Then, after a moment, he turned to Stone: “Well, Carl?”
Stone could feel heat rising in his face. “What do you mean, ‘Well, Carl’? Glines picked a fight with me from the moment he walked into this room. He accused me of being a traitor, went through a long rigamarole about how I was to leak information on the project--”
“If you’ll check his record, you’ll see that I have ample reason for thinking as I do, Mr. MacDougal!” Glines broke in sharply. “He fought with the Communists in Spain. He trained troops at Yenan. He went into Yugoslavia for the OSS; served more than a year with the Partisans. He’s a Communist and a traitor, I tell you--”
Of a sudden, Stone’s patience ran out. Inside him, something snapped. In one long stride he closed the distance between him and Glines; caught the fat man by the coat-front. Savagely, he slapped the pudgy cheeks--once, twice, three times.
The next instant the guards were upon him--dragging him back, slamming him against the wall.
“Gentlemen!” MacDougal roared. “We’ll have no more of this!” His face was beet-red, his blue eyes flashing.
With an effort, Stone slowed his breathing. “Sorry, Mac,” he apologized. “I guess I just haven’t had enough practice at being called a Communist.”
“Nor in curbing your temper, Mr. Stone!” The base director’s voice rang ice-brittle. He pivoted to the panting, ruffled Glines. “Mr. Glines, I’d diagnose your aliment as jealousy, pure and simple. If I see any more symptoms of it, it may show up on your efficiency report.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. MacDougal.” The fat man made jittery motions, smoothing and straightening his coat. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
* * * * *
Ignoring him, MacDougal swung back to Stone. “As for you, Carl--well, I’m still in doubt.”
“In doubt--?” A cold knot seemed to draw tight in the pit of Stone’s stomach. Of a sudden he seemed to sense a change in his friend’s manner--a strange, rising tide of latent hostility like that he’d felt in Glines and Bjornberg.
“Yes, in doubt.” MacDougal’s brows drew together into a shaggy hedgerow. “The dead woman, and this monster business ... your accusations and violence against Glines, here ... your expressed fear that Sergeant Bjornberg, one of your best friends on the base, plans to assassinate you--I don’t like the sound of such talk.”
Stone stood mute, not trusting himself to answer.
“Take your tale about Bjornberg,” MacDougal went on. “You claim he was on guard outside this building, waiting to kill you. But it so happens that when I called the motor pool for transportation, they sent him to drive me. He’d been there ever since he brought you to this office.”
The walls seemed to close in about Stone. He knew every eye in the room was upon him; knew he had to speak. “So--?” he asked at last.
MacDougal paced the floor, bigknuckled hands clasped behind him.
“I don’t like to do this, Carl,” he said finally, “but considering the delicate nature of our work here, the high degree of secrecy surrounding our mission, I’m afraid I don’t have much choice.”
The cold knot in Stone’s stomach drew tighter.
MacDougal ended his pacing; dropped on one hip on the corner of the desk. His tongue moved slowly back and forth along his lower lip, and his eyes stayed focussed on the floor. When he spoke, his words were careful, casual.
“Did you know we’d acquired a psychiatrist since you left for Washington, Carl?” he asked.
“A psychiatrist--!” Stone burst out in spite of himself. He started forward.
A guard’s restraining hand stopped him. “Yes. She’s here on a research project.” The base director’s eyes still studied the floor. “Supposed to be pretty good, too. Up on all the latest stuff.”
Between clenched teeth Stone grated, “MacDougal, if you think I’m crazy, say so. But so help me, if you turn me over to some headshrinker, count on it that you’ll regret it to your dying day!”
As if the words were a signal, the base director’s massive head came up, jaw jutting. The blue eyes shone hard and expressionless as marbles--shone with the same strange light that Stone had seen in Glines’ and Bjornberg’s.
MacDougal said, “That’s all I needed, Carl: Your threats and hostility turned on me. That’s the convincer that you do need help.” He turned to the guards: “Mr. Stone’s hereby ordered to the hospital for mental tests and observation, on my responsibility.
“Take him away!”
CHAPTER III
Dawn. A chill, grey desert dawn that made Stone shiver beneath his blankets.
Or maybe it wasn’t the cold. Maybe it was the things in his mind, the thoughts and nightmares that kept him tossing, twisting, restless. There’d been little enough sleep for him, Lord knew--fitful moments only, from which he started up in wild-eyed terror, racked by aching bones and stinging cuts and the dark uncertainties that wormed insidiously through his brain.
And now, the dawn.
Fretfully, once more he squirmed and shifted--closing his eyes against the dim light, striving to find some new position that would ease the nagging restlessness that plagued him.
But the thin-padded hospital cot only creaked the louder. New lumps and knots created pressure points against his body.
With a curse, he gave it up. Rising, he shrugged on a robe and shuffled to the open window.
If he could call a window open, when it was fitted with a safety screen so heavy that a man with an axe couldn’t break through it.
He laughed aloud--short, harsh, without mirth.
Outside, the base still lay bleak and silent, a hollow city with no excuse for being except The Project. The bare, regimented streets stretched deserted between their rows of characterless prefabricated housing. To the south, the tiny airstrip spread desolate, its lone helicopter strangely skeletal at this distance in the chiaroscuro of early morning.
Stone crossed to the other window, the closed one; peered west, towards the bulk of the central Project Building.
The next instant he stiffened.
For where two weeks ago the structure had loomed square and squat, now a tower rose, from its center--a tower somehow disconcertingly unique in styling, not quite like anything he’d ever seen before.
Protuberances of unfathomned purpose marred its symmetry. Catwalks rimmed it at half-a-dozen levels. Even the material of which it was constructed resembled nothing with which he was familiar.
Stone frowned. True enough, there were plenty of things he didn’t know about The Project. That was as it should be, at a base at which security measures were so vital.
Yet at the same time, it seemed strange that he’d have heard no hint as to a construction job of such proportions.
It didn’t even fit in with the architectural plans. He’d seen those, and they contained no provision for a tower. None was needed. This was a development base, not a proving ground.
Of course, plans changed. New discoveries and problems necessitated new measures, new approaches.
Even new buildings.
The trouble was, so many things seemed to have changed here in the brief span of his fortnight’s absence.
The attitudes and atmosphere, for instance. And the people.
People like Bjornberg and Glines and MacDougal.
Or maybe it was he that had changed, the way they said.
Maybe he was really crazy.
He was still brooding about it when the door opened.
The click of the lock took him unawares. There’d been no warning, no sound of footsteps.
Instinctively, he spun about.
Reva stood framed in the doorway.
It rocked him, hard. So hard he could only stand gaping at her cool blonde loveliness, groping for words he couldn’t find.
“Good morning, Carl.” Her face, her voice, were grave. Briskly, she stepped across the threshold, crisp and neat in a starched white smock, and closed the door behind her.
The spell broke. “Reva--!” he choked. “Reva, what are you doing here?”
Her manner stayed detached, impersonal. “I was assigned here nearly two weeks ago, Carl.” And then: “I’m Doctor Adams now, you know.”
“You mean--you’re the psychiatrist?”
She nodded, grey eyes steady. “I’m afraid so, Carl. And I know it’s going to be difficult for both of us after the ... personal ... relationship. But I didn’t have much choice, since I’m the only qualified person here. Mr. MacDougal made that rather plain.”
* * * * *
Pin-pricks of rising fury seethed through Stone. “You’re going along with this farce, then? You’ll run me through the mill like any other screwball, in spite of everything--the way it was between us, as close as we were together?” He didn’t even care that the words came out thick and angry.
The grey eyes dodged his, now. As if to cover it, Reva moved to the room’s lone chair; sat down.
“Answer me!” Stone stormed. “Give it to me straight: Are you going to help them frame me?”
“No one’s going to frame you, Carl. It’s just that you may be ... sick. That’s all that I’m to check on.”
A tremor crept into Reva’s voice as she spoke. Hastily, she brought out a pencil and a notebook. “There’ll be a few tests, that’s all--Minnesota Multiphase Personality, Inventory, Rorschach, TAT, electronencephalogram, in case you’re interested in the names. And I’ll want to talk to you, of course--discuss these things you’ve done that seem to bother Mr. MacDougal and the others. There won’t be anything unpleasant about it. We can work most of it out over coffee, probably--”
“We’ll do it straight, you mean!” Stone clenched his fists, trying to fight down the red tide of rage that surged within him. “Forget your damn’ coffee, Doctor Adams! I’m just one more nut to you. Quit trying to hide it!”
Reva’s face went stiff. She rose quickly; stood very tall and straight “Very well, then, Carl. We’ll handle it just as you prefer. The electroencephalogram comes first. The machine’s down at the end of the hall to your right. Just follow me.”
High heels clicking, she left the room.
As quickly as it had flared, Stone’s fury ebbed. Numbly, he stumbled down the hall after her.
What was it that held him so on edge, so close to the ragged brink of violence? The fight with the monster? The trouble with Bjornberg and Glines and MacDougal? The lack of sleep?
But no. Those were only symptoms of an ever-growing inner tension.
Yet why should he be tense? He’d seen trouble before--lots of it. Violence, too; blood by the bucket. But it hadn’t affected him this way. Through all of it, he’d won a reputation as a man who thrived on situations fraught with worry and frustration. That was why they’d sent him here in the first place, to handle security problems on this base....
And to blow up at Reva, still feeling about her as he did ... to let go at her, when all he could really think of was the hunger in him for her; the desire to take her, hold her, crush her to him....
Ahead of him, the heels stopped clicking. Reva pushed open a door; stepped aside. “In here please. Lie down on the couch. I’ll attach the electrodes. It won’t hurt a bit....”
The morning came and went, a jumble of accordion-folded graph sheets and pictures, ink blots and questions. Stone sorted cards, made up stories, drew figures, lay in black silence while electrical impulses eddied through his brain.
There was no coffee, no byplay. Reva stayed Doctor Adams. To the hilt. Lunchtime found Stone alone in his cubicle.
Thirty minutes later they were back at the tests.
But only half Stone’s mind was on them.
The other half kept reappraising Reva.
She’d changed, somehow, just like the others. Her impersonality carried a hard, suspicious edge. A dozen times--a hundred--Stone caught her eyes upon him. Not just measuring either: Cold; almost actively hostile.
Especially when she probed him with questions about the woman, and the monster.
* * * * *
Late afternoon found them in her office, with Reva cross-examining him about his feelings toward Glines and Bjornberg.
The implication was that he’d always hated them both; that the clashes were only the culmination of long-repressed resentment.
Stone’s palms grew moist, his heart action uneven.
Of a sudden, he could take no more of it.
“Damn it, Reva!” he exploded. “They jumped me, don’t you get it? They started sticking knives in me the second that they saw me!” Vaguely, he was aware that his voice had risen; that he was shouting. He didn’t care. “What would you have done, damn it? How would you feel if people accused you of murder and treason to your face, when you’d done nothing--?”
He broke off, seething.
The phone rang before Reva could speak again. She picked up the receiver, cool and efficient, her eyes still on her notebook. “Doctor Adams speaking.” A pause. “No, Mr. MacDougal. I’ve hardly begun, let alone finished. These things take time.” Another pause. “Yes. Yes, I have uncovered a certain amount of pertinent data. But--”
A longer pause. While Stone watched, the smooth planes and curves of Reva’s face seemed to stiffen. Her fingers tightened visibly on her pencil, pressing down. The point snapped, loud in the stillness.
She said, “Very well, then, Mr. MacDougal. If you insist.--Yes, I’ll be waiting in my office.”
She hung up the phone.
Stone smiled thinly. “Report time?”
She didn’t answer.
“I know how it is. They always push you.” Stone leaned back in his chair. For no good reason, all once he felt more in command of the situation than he had since this whole mad tangle had erupted.
Reva looked away, still saying nothing.
Stone pressed on: “It’s too bad things had to work out the way they did.... Between us.”
Reva’s eyes stayed on the wall. “We each got what we wanted.” Her voice was flat, controlled.
Too tightly controlled.
“Did we?” Stone grimaced. “Maybe you did. I didn’t. Because I wanted you. And I didn’t get you.”
Was it his imagination, or did Reva’s breathing quicken just a fraction?
“Being married to a security man’s no cinch. I know that. It can get pretty damn’ worrisome and lonely, like you said when you broke it off. But right now, I’m wondering if psychiatry can’t be lonely, too--”
The mask that was Reva’s face drew tighter ... tighter.
“Especially if you’re a woman, Reva--a woman like you, who knows what love is, and needs it--”
In a flash, like an eggshell shattering, the mask cracked and fell apart. Reva turned on him--teeth bared, eyes suddenly streaming. “Shut up!” she screamed. White-knuckled, her small fist beat a convulsive tattoo on the desk’s polished surface. “Shut up, I tell you! Leave me alone--alone ... alone....”
Her voice died. She slumped on one arm across her notebook, face hidden. The slim shoulders shook with her sobs.
From the office doorway, MacDougal said, “That was dirty, Carl. As dirty as anything you’ve ever done.”
Stone started. Reva gasped aloud and came erect in one swift movement, even as she turned away.
MacDougal stalked heavily to the nearest chair and sat down. Face hewn in granite, he ignored Stone; addressed Reva: “I’m sorry about this, Doctor Adams. Believe me, I wouldn’t run you through such a mill for all the world, if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”
“It’s ... quite all right, Mr. MacDougal.” Face almost composed once more, Reva resumed her seat. “I’ll give you my tentative report as soon as the attendant returns Mr. Stone to his room.” She reached towards a buzzer button.
MacDougal halted her with a gesture. His blue eyes were cold. “Don’t bother, Doctor. I’m not inclined to spare Stone’s tender feelings, after what he just did to you.”
“It’s not a matter of feelings, Mr. MacDougal.” Abruptly, Reva was very much the doctor. “There’s a therapeutic issue involved. And Mr. Stone’s my patient.”
* * * * *
Tight-lipped, Stone leaned forward. “Get on with it!” he clipped. “I want to hear what you’ve got to say as much as he does. If I’m crazy, I’ve got a right to know it.”
“‘Crazy’ is hardly a meaningful term, medically speaking, Mr. Stone.” Reva stared down at her notes. “However, if you insist....”
“I do.”
“Very well, then.” She turned to MacDougal; tapped an accordion-folded graph on the desk. “Are you familiar with electroencephalography, Mr. MacDougal?”
The base director shrugged. “Only vaguely.”
“Then let me begin by explaining that the electroencephalograph is a device which measures currents within the brain and records them on a chart. A trained technician can then interpret the patterns in diagnostic terms.”
“I see.”
“In Mr. Stone’s case”--Reva studied the chart--“the electroencephalogram shows marked deviation from the norm. I’m inclined to believe that the pattern indicates he’s a victim of epidemic encephalitis.”
“Encephalitis--?” MacDougal frowned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain, Doctor. I’ve never heard of it.”
Reva nodded gravely. “That’s not surprising, sir. No acute cases have been reported since 1925. The ones we see today are chronic--the aftermath of an epidemic that swept the country, beginning in 1919.”
“And the results?”
“That all depends.” Reva sketched meaningless patterns with her pencil. “You see, the disease wreaks havoc in the brain. There’s tissue damage and, later, of course, residual lesions. Ganglion cells and neurons degenerate or disappear. Behavior difficulties often follow, too--chronic irritability, emotional instability, psychopathic conduct.”
“You tell it scary,” Stone said tightly. “There’s just one catch, though: So far as I know, I never had any such disease.”
Reva didn’t look up. “I’m afraid that’s easily possible, Carl. It may have run concurrently with influenza or some other sickness. Plenty of cases weren’t detected. But the damage still was done.”
“Then how is it I’ve survived? Why haven’t they carted me off before now?”
“Because of the nature of the disease, Carl.” For the first time, Reva faced him squarely. “You see, it can become progressive, even after months and years. When that happens....” Helplessly, she spread her hands.
A numbness crept through Stone. He slumped in his chair. The room seemed to grow dim around him. He hardly heard the things the other two were saying.
Was this to be the end for him, then? Must he live out his life walled away from the world in some mental hospital?
Again, he lived through the night before ... tried to recall the way he’d felt, the things he’d done.
He’d been tired, yes; but that was to be expected, what with the long trip in. And his spirits had certainly been good enough.
Then he’d seen the woman ... fought the monster.
And whether anyone believed him or not, the battle had been reality, not delusion. He had the scars to prove it.
Chronic irritability? Emotional instability? Psychopathic conduct? Those were terms that fitted Bjornberg and Glines better than they did him.
Though he had to admit he’d been on the jumpy side, ever since he’d reached the base.
Ever since he’d reached the base--!
With a rush, the pieces fell into pattern. Last night, he’d fought a monster--a creature like nothing ever seen on earth, in hell or heaven.
The dying woman had gasped of robots on a mesa.
Bjornberg had accused him of murder.
Glines had sworn he was a Communist.
MacDougal had ordered him checked for mental aberration.
An unscheduled, other-worldish tower had risen atop the Project Building.
Reva had diagnosed him as an encephalitic, fully capable of psychopathic conduct and suitable for confinement.
He himself had developed a sudden tension so nerve-shattering as to make him question his own sanity.
It all added up to just one thing: Something horribly dangerously wrong.
But not with him. No.
With the base!
But what? What could possibly account for such mad deviation?
* * * * *
He looked up sharply. Reva was still talking:
“--so after your description of Carl’s behavior, Mr. MacDougal, my first thought was paranoia. The systematized delusions and hallucinations tied in with it, and so did his tendency to violence. But I’ve given him the Rorschach test, and the TAT, and neither of them show any indication of it. So tentatively, I’m forced to fall back on encephalitis. It manifests itself so many ways--it’s more polymorphic than syphilis, even....”
Systematized delusions--? Hallucinations? Stone felt a sudden, quick twinge of excitement. The behavior of the people here on the base fitted that pattern.
Yet how could a whole organization turn paranoid?
Besides, Reva had just said that he himself didn’t check out for it on the tests.
Thoughtfully, he studied her. She knew about these things, these mental twists, and she’d just come here.
Could the trouble be some strange infection she’d brought with her?
For that matter, why would a psychiatrist be assigned to a development base, anyhow?
It was an interesting question. Spontaneously, he cut in on the conversation: “Reva....”
She looked around. “Yes, Carl?”
“Just what is this research project of yours?”
Her face froze, lips half-parted. The grey eyes--it was as if shutters had suddenly slammed closed behind them.
Cold, hostile shutters.
MacDougal said quickly, “I’m afraid we’ll have to bounce that one, Carl. Verboten. Doctor Adams’ work is classified, highly confidential.”
Ice hung on his words--the same kind of ice that glazed Reva’s eyes.
And Glines’. And Bjornberg’s.
Stone held his face immobile. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
Reva had come here. Strange things had happened.
Reva was a psychiatrist. Base personnel showed something close to mental disorder.
Cause and effect?
It could bear some thought. Quite a bit of thought, in fact. Not to mention thorough investigation.
MacDougal’s blue eyes had narrowed. Abruptly, he turned to Reva. “Doctor Adams, I’m afraid I’ve imposed on you. It’s not fair to ask you to treat patients, in addition to your ... other work.”
Reva’s slim shoulders moved a fraction. “I admit the facilities are hardly adequate, Mr. MacDougal.”
“Then you recommend a mental hospital?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“We’ll have him flown out tonight in the helicopter, then. Right now.” The base director surged to his feet. “Let’s go, Carl.”
Stone gripped the arms of his chair. One wrong question--and in seconds they’d arranged to put him out of circulation.
Which meant he’d been right: There was a relationship between Reva’s coming, her work, and the changes on the base.
Only a lot of good knowing it would do him, locked away in a back ward of some asylum. Even if he was actually all right it would take months to convince the doctors.
So much for his plans.
Unless--
“Hurry it up, Carl. This is all for your own good, you know.”
Wordless, Stone arose. Carefully casual, he glanced out the nearest window.
It was almost dark.
So much the better.
He moved on into the hall and shuffled towards the detention room where he’d spent the night. Reva and MacDougal followed.
The door was locked. Stone stood aside, waiting loose-muscled while Reva inserted the key and opened the door.
“I won’t keep you waiting long, Carl,” MacDougal said. “We’ll pick you up just as soon as I locate a pilot.”
Stone drew a deep breath, “Any time.” He started forward.
The base director shifted aside to let him pass. Stone smashed down his foot with all his might on the other’s instep.
MacDougal cried out ... tottered off-balance.
Twisting, Stone shoved him hard against Reva. Together, the pair sprawled on the floor of the detention room.
Stone slammed and locked the door behind them. It muffled their cries most satisfactorily.
Bleak-eyed, then, he strode down the corridor and the stairs and out into the night....
CHAPTER IV
Base Directory Service gave Stone both Reva’s addresses--her prefab, and the building assigned her for her project.
Hanging up the phone, he pushed his way out of the crowded drugstore, then stood hesitating on the curb of the broad, bright-lighted parkway that ran round the parking center.
Home, or office? Which should it be?
He frowned.
The base alarm system blasted in the same instant.
The noisy crowd fell suddenly silent. People paused, fell back a step. Eyes shifted, searched.
The siren’s shrill scream died away.
Ripples of apprehension rose on its echo. Little groups drew close together, milling aimlessly.
A tiny chill ran through Stone. He had no choice now. Distance was the vital factor, and the office address was the closest.
With an effort, he held his steps even and unhurried. Crossing the parkway, he headed south on the nearest street.
All about him, men and women were emptying from the prefabs--peering this way and that talking excitedly. Off to the right, out by the Project Building motor pool, a jeep’s lights flashed on. A gunned motor roared. The lights swerved north as the vehicle raced away.
Seconds later, another followed. Then another, and another.
Elsewhere, in all directions, other motors droned as the base security system came to life.
The chase was on.
Stone veered between the buildings, out of sight, then broke into a dogtrot.
A cross-street. Pausing in the shadows, he strained his eyes against the night, searching both ways for signs of the blockade the jeeps were setting up, according to plan.
It was a good plan, too; he’d helped devise it. Once the vehicles reached their stations, a rabbit couldn’t move across the base undetected.
After that, there’d be a block-check, certain capture.
But until then--He strode across the street, not too fast till again he reached the welcoming shadows. There, once in the darkness, he broke into a pelting run.
More cross-streets; more speed. Then the last line of prefabs.
Beyond them spread the dim expanse of the Related Projects Area, with its high wire fence and guarded gates.
Stone halted, breathing hard, and smoothed his shirt and combed his hair. Then, boldly, he strode towards the nearest point of entry.
The guard on the gate watched through the mesh, cold-eyed and silent, as he approached. Stone said, “Message for Doctor Coughlin, Materials Research. Here’s my pass.”
He extended his wallet as he spoke. Cradling his rifle, the guard unlatched the gate and reached out to take it.
Stone smashed the free-swinging gate violently against him.
The guard lurched back; tried to jerk up his rifle.
Side-stepping, Stone lunged in close. Savagely, he hammered an uppercut to the other’s jaw.
The guard dropped.
Ripping the man’s shirt into strips, Stone bound and gagged him in seconds. Then, snatching up the rifle, he ran for the shadows.
The small, one-story brick building that housed Reva’s project stood apart from its fellows, far back in an isolated corner of the Related Projects Area. A steel framework like a miniature radio tower rose close beside it, perhaps fifty feet tall.
Smashing open the locked door with the rifle-butt, Stone snapped on the lights and surveyed the place.
* * * * *
The room in which he stood was a typical office. Filing cases banked one wall. A desk flanked by bookshelves stood against a second. There was a long table littered with papers and, incongruously, a small bowl of flowers. Three chairs, a water cooler, and a coatrack completed the furnishings.
Hurriedly, Stone crossed to the nearest of the two inside doors.
The first led to a washroom.
The second was locked.
Stone hesitated, a vague uneasiness upon him. It was as if the tension that rode him had been suddenly, sharply heightened. His muscles ached; his fingers showed a tendency to tremble.
The humming impinged on him, then.
It was as vague as his uneasiness--a sound that was not a sound, almost.
Stone turned slowly--straining his ears; trying to trace the murmur to its source.
Finally he placed it: It centered on the door beside which he stood.
He swung the rifle-butt. Once--twice--three times.
Lock and door stood fast. Once again Stone hesitated. Then, reversing the rifle and standing aside to avoid a ricochet, he triggered a shot at the lock.
Metal jangled through the echo. Another blow with the butt, and the door creaked open.
The windowless room beyond, from its cramped size, had probably been planned primarily for storage.
Now, though, it overflowed with electronic equipment, from floor to ceiling a buzzing maze of tubes and condensers and coils and complicated circuits such as Stone had never seen before.
Could this machine be responsible for his uneasiness and the strange behavior on the base?
There was one sure way to find out.
Narrow-eyed, nerves atingle, he pivoted, searching for the master switch ... located it at last, set at the far end of the narrow space between a transformer and the wall.
He reached out; gripped the shiny black handle.
Then, before he could throw it, a harsh voice from the office behind him snarled, “Move an inch and you’re dead!”
Stone went rigid.
“Now come out! On the double!”
Stone’s spine tingled. He let go the switch and slowly turned.
Colt in hand, hard-eyed and lethal, Sergeant Bjornberg stood hunched in a gunman’s crouch on the far side of the office.
Glines flanked him.
Stone’s lips felt stiff. Of a sudden he could feel death’s hand on his shoulder.
Bjornberg moved a quick step forward. “Come out, I said!”
The smirk on Glines’ fat face would have fitted a cat better. A well-fed cat, toying with a mouse.
Stone sucked in air.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Stone?” It was Glines talking now--sneering, mocking. “You took a gun away from me last night. Why don’t you take the sergeant’s?”
“Shut up!” rasped Bjornberg. And then, to Stone: “I said come out! Away from that equipment!”
‘Away from that equipment....’
Ever so slowly, Stone let out the deep breath he’d been holding. “No, thanks, Sergeant.”
“What--!” Bjornberg’s finger went white on the trigger.
* * * * *
Stone smiled stiffly. “I said no, Joe. I’d rather let you shoot--because whether you hit me or not, that forty-five’s going to tear up a lot of transistors.”
Bjornberg’s mouth worked. “Damn you, Stone!” And Glines came in high and shrill. “You should have hit him with the barrel from behind, Sergeant! You shouldn’t have warned him!”
Ever so casually, Stone leaned back against the framework of the machine.
“I’ll still take him!” Bjornberg snarled. “Here, cover me!”
He passed the Colt to Glines and started forward, hands raised in a judo fighter’s guard.
Stone lunged for the switch.
This time, there was no turning back, no hesitation. He slammed the black handle down even as Bjornberg crashed against him.
The humming died in a click of circuit breakers. The tubes began to dim.
Twisting, too cramped to strike a blow, Stone grappled with Bjornberg. Together, they rocked back to the far side of the doorway, fighting with knees and teeth and elbows.
Then the sergeant broke free; leaped back, out into the office.
Instead of trying to follow, Stone spun about and smashed his foot through a device that looked like an off-beat magnetron. Clutching whole handfuls of wiring, he tore one of the upper racks of equipment out bodily.
Then Bjornberg was upon him again. The man’s weight hammered him down. He caught a wicked blow in the back of the neck that sent him sagging to his knees on the floor.
Now a fist jarred his head back. Desperately, he caught one of Bjornberg’s ankles and wrenched it up and around, twisting with savage force.
It was the sergeant’s turn to crash to the floor. Rolling clear of him, Stone scrambled to his feet.
His adversary did likewise.
Then, as they started to circle, each searching for an opening, a voice cut through: “Carl! Sergeant! Stop it!” It was Glines, almost shouting. “Stop it, I tell you! Stop it!” Wary, still gasping for breath, Stone drew back.
It was only then that it came to him, dazedly, that the strange tension he’d felt for the past twenty-four hours had left him. In spite of Bjornberg’s blows, his head seemed clearer than it had been since the night before. His muscles no longer ached with strain. His hands had lost their tendency to tremble.
Instead of all such, now, an intense, overwhelming weariness hung upon him; nothing more.
Across from him, Bjornberg shook his head jerkily, as if to clear his brain. The hard lines had vanished from his face. Suspicion clouded his eyes no longer. They were open now, wide open, frank and friendly the way Stone had always known them.