"Dr. Pilon, I really came down here to make inquiries about Doctor
Chetzisky."
"Yes?" His eyes took on that cunning look again. He knew something, I
was sure. I wondered how much.
"You knew him, I believe."
"I did. In fact, I visited him once, you know." He looked at me, a
suppressed grin trembling in the corners of his thin mouth, with the
air of a mouse that has deftly side-stepped the swiping paw of a cat.
"A peculiar man, wasn't he? Had some strange ideas."
"Peculiar, yes. In the same sense that Mahatma Ghandi was peculiar," he
snapped at me, the blue eyes gleaming with a fanatic's adoration. "As
for strange ideas, bringing peace to this fear-ridden planet can hardly
be called one."
* * * * *
Ah, so Pilon knew! He realized immediately he had given himself away
and became morosely truculent; I had reached the end of the line with
him. But I had one card left: Pilon's diary.
While talking to him, I had spotted the marble-edged ledger on the
crate-improvised table in the corner of the tent. I was sure it was his
journal; I hoped earnestly that it was.
We drank a final cup of coffee in silence while I ransacked my brain
for some subterfuge to get Pilon out of the tent. In the end the whole
thing was very simple. I asked him if the jeep was ready to take me
back to Katanga. He went outside to see.
I went quickly over to the table, slipped the ledger from under two
other books, technical journals, and leafed swiftly through the pages.
They were dated. I was in luck; it was a diary.
I turned to the date of Pilon's reported visit with Chetzisky and there
I found the entry:
_JUNE 21:--Visited Doctor Chetzisky today. A brilliant man, deeply
concerned for the world. His words moved me as he spoke of policing
the world into peace. His hopes, he told me in strictest confidence,
rest on an ore discovery by Ian MacRoberts of British Columbia, a
university geologist, who seems to have found a new radioactive
element easily controlled. The Doctor has received a sample from
MacRoberts today to verify the preliminary spectroscopic analysis.
When I left, Doctor Chetzisky shook my hand warmly. I wished him
success and promised secrecy. He is one of the obscure great men of
our times._
I barely finished reading when Pilon's footsteps sounded outside. I
closed the book quickly and greeted him when he entered. The jeep was
ready, he said, and wished me a pleasant and safe trip to Katanga.
The jeep was just starting off when a native ran up, shouting that
Bwana Pilon wanted to see the driver. I sat in the car, waiting
uneasily, remembering that I hadn't slipped the ledger back in place; I
hoped Pilon hadn't noticed.
Fifteen minutes went by. I climbed out of the jeep and went in search
of the driver, who was sitting in Pilon's tent, regarding his watch
from time to time.
"Doctor Pilon asked me to wait here for twenty minutes before going,"
the driver explained. "He said something about he might have a package."
My eyes wandered to the corner table. I drew a deep breath. The ledger
was gone.
"I guess we can go now, sir." The driver left the tent.
I followed him and got into the jeep with a growing foreboding. The sun
was low in the sky, fading rays dissolving into twilight. I hunched low
in my seat, the flesh creeping on the back of my neck as if a gun was
sighted on it. Now that Pilon knew I had read his diary, there was good
chance he might try to keep me from getting back alive to Katanga. With
the ruthlessness of the fanatic Pilon might feel he owed that much to
"the great man" Chetzisky.
A mile from camp the trail broke out of the jungle onto a swaying
suspension bridge across a deep gorge. The driver inched the jeep
across. Looking down I felt nauseous; a fall and a man was a shredded
pulp.
Half way across the span it happened. A rifle cracked. The air whined
at my ear. The driver slumped stupidly against me and the jeep swerved
crazily out of control. I leaped out on the bridge just as the jeep
dropped into the gorge. I ran a few yards and hurled myself to the
boards; a bullet whistled over me.
I was on my feet again. Another shot rang over. I thanked God for the
sway of the bridge; it put the crimp in anyone's marksmanship.
I disappeared into the shelter of the jungle on the other side. The
battle was joined; it was Pilon's life or mine. He couldn't let me
live, and I couldn't let him. If I got away, he would get in touch with
Chetzisky who probably wouldn't wait till the deadline to pull the
switch.
* * * * *
Crouched in the brush, panting and slightly dizzy from unaccustomed
exertion, I watched Pilon stalking across the bridge, rifle at the
ready. My breath began to come easier and my head cleared.
He was across now. He moved into the trail, eyes straining into the
shadows. For a moment I had the mad notion of rushing him until I
realized in what poor condition my academic life had left me for any
wrestling with an outdoor type like Pilon.
Instead I would lure him to the edge of the gorge. Disturbing the
undergrowth to look for a stone would be suicide; the noise would
attract his attention and fire. As a substitute missile I slipped off
my wrist-watch, clipped my pen on the band, and lofted them across the
trail into the brush near the gorge, praying they would make enough
noise.
They did.
Pilon turned sharply. For a moment he listened. I was certain he would
hear my heart pounding wildly. Cat-like he made his way to the spot
where my missile fell, probing the leafy undergrowth with the rifle.
Then, calling on four years as blocking back at Princeton, I raced out
of hiding. Pilon half twisted in surprise as I smashed into him with
a rolling hip block that sent him teetering backwards over into the
gorge. I can still hear that long shrill scream of terror echoing in my
ear.
The impetus of my drive carried me into the bush. I disentangled myself
and looked over into the dry, rocky bed of the gorge. Two forms lay
motionless there, in dark spreading splotches.
Thoroughly shaken, I stumbled over the bridge and back along the
darkening trail to Pilon's camp, where I collapsed in a stupor on the
dead man's cot, too exhausted for superstitious misgivings, and fell
into a deep sleep.
In the morning a native runner went into Katanga to notify the
authorities of the deaths and to have another jeep sent out for
me. For two days I was held up in Katanga during the inquest and
inquiry. Disney flew down to talk with me, angry that I should upset
the leisurely routine of his existence. My explanations, from which
I omitted any mention of Chetzisky, didn't satisfy him, but he let
matters rest rather than perturb himself by probing further.
_EXTRACTS, HOSPITAL CASE HISTORY NO. 3007_:
_6:35 P.M. Thrombopenia very far advanced. Blood bubbling at
patient's lips. Lab reports heparin in blood stream.... 6:50 P.M.
Noted radiologist flown in by jet bomber from Los Angeles. Says
there is no hope. Radioactive element absorbed through lacerations
in patient's body and is now fixed irrevocably in bone marrow.
Patient seemed to smile at radiologist._
I wonder who that serious looking gentleman is who was just examining
me. I couldn't help smiling at his pompousness; you'd think he was a
judge reading out a death sentence.
Where was I? Oh, yes, back in Katanga. From there I wired the
University that I would be unable to give my last two lectures of the
semester. The Congo dateline on the telegram must have raised the
shaggy brows of the venerable Chancellor who till then thought I was no
farther away than my rooms at the opposite end of the campus.
Armstrong I had cabled immediately with the information about
MacRoberts. I was sure that while I marked time in Africa he would be
Starting the chase in far-off British Columbia. Still, the waiting made
me restive, and more so when after leaving Leopoldville I lost another
day. Engine trouble forced the _Constellation_ down at Accra, where
foul weather closed in to keep us grounded.
Finally back in Washington, I ticked off another day on the pocket
calendar. Only seven days more.
I went directly to the _Statler_ where Armstrong had his rooms. He
greeted me enthusiastically, ordered up some drinks, and plunged right
into business. "Arnold, thanks to the lead you picked up in the Congo,
we have a good idea where Chetzisky is."
Armstrong unfolded a map with places circled in red and notations
scribbled in. "He is somewhere in this area north of Ootsa and Burns
lakes. Trappers in the region have identified his photograph. Also
we've traced some significant shipments into the area. Paraffin,
boron-steel, graphite among other things."
They were significant; they were all materials that could be used in
an atomic reactor, principally as moderators to control the neutron
irradiation.
"Any word of MacRoberts?" I asked.
Armstrong gave me a quick briefing on the Canadian geologist. Single,
fairly well off, Ian MacRoberts spent his summers away from his
teaching chores at the University prospecting for minerals, chiefly in
one of the least explored portions of the continent, the Rocky Mountain
Trench. A transport lost there in 1940 has never been found.
Notes found in MacRoberts' lodgings in the Vancouver suburb of
Kerrisdale revealed he had discovered a strange new mineral of
marked radioactivity. He made his first find near Lake Babine and
traced outcroppings of it as far south as lower California. From his
fragmentary data MacRoberts was convinced that a vein of this mineral
dipped through the earth's crust at an inclination of 27.6°. Six months
ago he had been given a leave of absence from the University; since
then he had been seen twice in the company of a man fitting Doctor
Chetzisky's description. Information indicated both had headed for the
Interior.
"Well, Jim, what are your plans?"
"I have arranged already for groups of searchers to move secretly out
of Prince George and Hazelton." His pencil slid over the map. "But
you're the key man, Arnold; these groups will only close in on the word
from you.
"You're going to fly into Tweedsmuir Park, ostensibly as a tired
business man on vacation. It's not unusual up there. Even Hollywood
stars like Crosby have escaped into the Tweedsmuir reserve for rest and
a new horizon."
* * * * *