"_Any_ capable physicist," McAllen said decidedly. "Just a matter, you
see of how reliable he is." He winked at Barney. "Talk about that
tomorrow too--or one of these days."
Barney stood looking down, with a kind of detached surprise, at a man
who had just pronounced sentence of death casually on himself, and on
an old friend. For the first time in Barney's career, the question of
deliberate murder not only entered an operation, but had become in an
instant an unavoidable part of it. Frank Elby, ambitious and
money-hungry, could take over where McAllen left off. Elby was highly
capable, and Elby could be controlled. McAllen could not. He could
only be tricked; and, if necessary, killed.
It was necessary, of course. If McAllen lived until he knew how to
shut the Tube down safely, he simply would shut it down, destroy the
device and his notes on it. A man who had gone to such extreme
lengths to safeguard the secret was not going to be talked out of his
conviction that the McAllen Tube was a menace to the world.
Fredericks, the morose eavesdropper, had to be silenced with his
employer to assure Barney of his undisputed possession of the Tube.
Could he still let the thing go, let McAllen live? He couldn't, Barney
decided. He'd dealt himself a hand in a new game, and a big one--a
fantastic, staggering game when one considered the possibilities in
the Tube. It meant new interest, it meant life for him. It wasn't in
his nature to pull out. The part about McAllen was cold necessity. A
very ugly necessity, but McAllen--pleasantly burbling something as
they walked down the short hall to the front door--already seemed a
little unreal, a roly-poly, muttering, fading small ghost.
In the doorway Barney exchanged a few words--he couldn't have repeated
them an instant later--with the ghost, became briefly aware of a
remarkably firm hand clasp, and started down the cement walk to the
street. Evening had come to California at last; a few houses across
the street made dim silhouettes against the hills, some of the windows
lit. He felt, Barney realized, curiously tired and depressed. A few
steps behind him, he heard McAllen quietly closing the door to his
home.
The walk, the garden, the street, the houses and hills beyond,
vanished in a soundlessly violent explosion of white light around
Barney Chard.
* * * * *
His eyes might have been open for several seconds before he became
entirely aware of the fact. He was on his back looking up at the low
raftered ceiling of a room. The light was artificial, subdued; it gave
the impression of nighttime outdoors.
Memory suddenly blazed up. "Tricked!" came the first thought.
Outsmarted. Outfoxed. And by--Then that went lost in a brief, intense
burst of relief at the realization he was still alive, apparently
unhurt. Barney turned sharply over on his side--bed underneath, he
discovered--and stared around.
[Illustration]
The room was low, wide. Something undefinably odd--He catalogued it
quickly. Redwood walls, Navaho rugs on the floor, bookcases, unlit
fireplace, chairs, table, desk with a typewriter and reading lamp.
Across the room a tall dark grandfather clock with a bright metal disk
instead of a clock-face stood against the wall. From it came a soft,
low thudding as deliberate as the heart-beat of some big animal. It
was the twin of one of the clocks he had seen in McAllen's living
room.
The room was McAllen's, of course. Almost luxurious by comparison with
his home, but wholly typical of the man. And now Barney became aware
of its unusual feature; there were no windows. There was one door, so
far to his right he had to twist his head around to see it. It stood
half open; beyond it a few feet of a narrow passage lay within his
range of vision, lighted in the same soft manner as the room. No sound
came from there.
Had he been left alone? And what had happened? He wasn't in McAllen's
home or in that fishing shack at the lake. The Tube might have picked
him up--somehow--in front of McAllen's house, transported him to the
Mallorca place. Or he might be in a locked hideaway McAllen had built
beneath the Sweetwater Beach house.
Two things were unpleasantly obvious. His investigations hadn't
revealed all of McAllen's secrets. And the old man hadn't really been
fooled by Barney Chard's smooth approach. Not, at any rate, to the
extent of deciding to trust him.
Hot chagrin at the manner in which McAllen had handed the role of dupe
back to him flooded Barney for a moment. He swung his legs over the
side of the bed and stood up. His coat had been hung neatly over the
back of a chair a few feet away; his shoes stood next to the bed.
Otherwise he was fully clothed. Nothing in the pockets of the coat
appeared to have been touched; billfold, cigarette case, lighter, even
the gun, were in place; the gun, almost startingly, was still loaded.
Barney thrust the revolver thoughtfully into his trousers pocket. His
wrist watch seemed to be the only item missing.
He glanced about the room again, then at the half-open door and the
stretch of narrow hallway beyond. McAllen must have noticed the gun.
The fact that he hadn't bothered to take it away, of at least to
unload it, might have been reassuring under different circumstances.
Here, it could have a very disagreeable meaning. Barney went quietly
to the door, stood listening a few seconds, became convinced there was
no one within hearing range, and moved on down the hall.
In less than two minutes he returned to the room, with the first slow
welling of panic inside him. He had found a bathroom, a small kitchen
and pantry, a storage room twice as wide and long as the rest of the
place combined, crammed with packaged and crated articles, and with an
attached freezer. If it was mainly stored food, as Barney thought, and
if there was adequate ventilation and independent power, as seemed to
be the case, then McAllen had constructed a superbly self-sufficient
hideout. A man might live comfortably enough for years without
emerging from it.
There was only one thing wrong with the setup from Barney's point of
view. The thing he'd been afraid of. Nowhere was there an indication
of a window or of an exit door.
The McAllen Tube, of course, might make such ordinary conveniences
unnecessary. And if the Tube was the only way in or out, then McAllen
incidentally had provided himself with an escape-proof jail for anyone
he preferred to keep confined. The place might very well have been
built several hundred feet underground. A rather expensive proposition
but, aside from that, quite feasible.
Barney felt his breath begin to quicken, and told himself to relax.
Wherever he was, he shouldn't be here long. McAllen presently would be
getting in contact with him. And then--
His glance touched the desk across the room, and now he noticed his
missing wrist watch on it. He went over, picked it up, and discovered
that the long white envelope on which the watch had been placed was
addressed to him.
For a moment he stared at the envelope. Then, his fingers shaking a
little, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the typewritten
sheets within.
* * * * *
The letterhead, he saw without surprise, was OLIVER B. MCALLEN.
The letter read:
Dear Mr. Chard:
An unfortunate series of circumstances, combined with certain
character traits in yourself, make it necessary to
inconvenience you in a rather serious manner.
To explain: The information I gave you regarding the McAllen
Tube and my own position was not entirely correct. It is not
the intractable instrument I presented it as being--it can be
"shut off" again quite readily and without any attendant
difficulties. Further, the decision to conceal its existence
was not reached by myself alone. For years we--that is, Mr.
Fredericks, who holds a degree in engineering and was largely
responsible for the actual construction of the Tube--and I,
have been members of an association of which I cannot tell
you too much. But I may say that it acts, among other things,
as the present custodian of some of the more dangerous
products of human science, and will continue to do so until a
more stable period permits their safe release.
To keep developments such as the McAllen Tube out of
irresponsible hands is no easy task these days, but a variety
of effective devices are employed to that end. In this
instance, you happened upon a "rigged" situation, which had
been designed to draw action from another man, an intelligent
and unscrupulous individual who lately had indicated a
disturbing interest in events connected with the semipublic
fiasco of my "matter transmitter" some years ago. The chances
of another person becoming aware of the temporal
incongruities which were being brought to this man's
attention were regarded as so remote that they need be given
no practical consideration. Nevertheless, the unexpected
happened: you became interested. The promptness with which
you acted on your chance observations shows a bold and
imaginative manner of thinking on which you may be genuinely
congratulated.
However, a perhaps less commendable motivation was also
indicated. While I appeared to stall on coming to decisions
you may have regarded as inevitable, your background was
being investigated by the association. The investigation
confirmed that you fall within a personality category of
which we have the greatest reason to be wary.
Considering the extent of what you had surmised and learned,
falsified though the picture was, this presented a serious
problem. It was made more acute by the fact that the
association is embarking on a "five-year-plan" of some
importance. Publicity during this period would be more than
ordinarily undesirable. It will therefore be necessary to see
to it that you have no opportunity to tell what you know
before the plan is concluded. I am sure you can see it would
be most unwise to accept your simple word on the matter. Your
freedom of movement and of communication must remain
drastically restricted until this five-year period is over.
Within the next two weeks, as shown by the clock in your
quarters, it will have become impossible for me or for any
member of the association to contact you again before the day
of your release. I tell you this so that you will not nourish
vain hopes of changing the situation in your favor, but will
adjust as rapidly as you can to the fact that you must spend
the next five years by yourself. What ameliorations of this
basic condition appeared possible have been provided.
It is likely that you will already have tried to find a way
out of the cabin in which you were left. The manner of doing
this will become apparent to you exactly twenty-four hours
after I conclude and seal this letter. It seemed best to
advise you of some details of your confinement before letting
you discover that you have been given as much limited
freedom as circumstances allowed.
Sincerely yours,