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!
[Illustration]
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!”