Dimension Of Horror Part 16

"So you will obey my orders?"

"To the letter, sir."

"I hope you won't take this personally, but I'm going to lock you in your room until the examiners arrive. A routine precaution, since you've given me your word . . ."

"Of course, sir. If I were in your place, I wouldn't believe me either."

Dr. Colby stifled a nervous laugh.

London and Berkeley have one thing in common: fog.

Berkeley's normal pattern was summer fog and winter rain, but the drought had made nonsense of normality and turned meteorology from a science into a gamble. The fog came now almost every night, though the season was all wrong for it, and instead of drifting in from the sea, it built up on cold windless evenings over the inland marshes east of the Berkeley hills, finally, in the frigid hours before dawn, spilling through the gaps in the coastal range to cascade in silent gray cataracts down upon the sleeping city and out toward the Golden Gate.

Richard lay on his bed, fully dressed and wide awake, watching the fog outside his window.

And snoring.

The snoring was for the benefit of J and whoever might be listening on the headphones down the hall. Was the fog thick enough yet? Yes. Soon it would start to thin again as the first rays of the morning sun burned it off.

The time to move was now.

Still snoring l.u.s.tily, Richard rolled carefully out of bed and, on stocking feet, tiptoed to the door. He stopped snoring a second to listen, then proceeded to remove the hingepins from the hinges, first the top hinges, then the bottom.

He returned to his bed and picked up his pillowcase, from which the pillow had been removed. He put his tennis shoes in and lay down a moment, then rolled noisily, giving the impression to his listeners, he hoped, that he was turning onto his side.

Then he stopped snoring and waited.

Nothing happened.

He got up and once again padded noiselessly to the door. From his pocket he took a short length of wire he had earlier removed from the lightcord of his bedlamp. The wire was thin, no more than a few strands he had carefully separated from the rest, but he was sure it would be strong enough for his purposes.

He looped it around the door hinge and gently opened the door on the hinge side. The room, fortunately for him, had never been intended to hold a determined escapee. Colby had not bothered to change the hinges he had inherited from the ballet school that had been the building's previous tenant.

Richard squeezed through into the dimly lit hallway, then, pulling on the wire, drew the door back into its frame so that from the outside there was no way to tell the hingepins had been removed. Smiling, he pulled out the wire and pocketed it.

Still in stocking feet he moved swiftly to the door of the room where the tranquilizer pistols were kept. The combination padlock was no serious problem, though he missed the faint, almost imperceptible clicks of the falling tumblers the first time he tried, and had to spin the dial and start over. The second time it opened easily.

He entered the closet and found the pistols, six of them. With his bare hands he bent the barrel of each weapon slightly, enough to keep it from firing accurately, except for the sixth, which he left intact and dropped into his sack, along with several boxes of tranquilizer darts. If these darts are intended for me, he thought, they'll be powerful, powerful enough to knock a man unconscious.

Remembering that the guard would soon be coming to check his room, Richard left the closet and locked it quickly, then descended the back stairs into the pitch-dark kitchen. Guided mainly by memory he threaded his way through the stoves, tables and shelves to the pantry, where, again by memory (for he had watched everything that was happening even before he had begun to speak), he found the burglar alarm and shut it off.

Next he glided to the back door, unlocked it, and stepped out onto the porch.

So far so good!

He put on his tennis shoes, knotted his pillowcase bag to his belt, and proceeded softly down the steps. Crouching, he rounded the corner of the building, moved through the side yard and, after a pause to look and listen, continued into the front yard.

In the distance he could see a blob of indistinct light where the guards at the front gate were talking in low voices. Richard could not make out what they were saying, but their tone of boredom clearly showed they knew nothing of Richard's intentions. Richard checked the fog, the lighting. Some dim yellow light came from the front porch, but not enough to illuminate the thing that interested him.

The flagpole.

He darted across the weed-cracked paving stones to the base of the pole and gripped it firmly. It was better anch.o.r.ed than he'd expected, but three good tugs, with feet planted on either side of it, and it pulled free, making a sc.r.a.ping sound that Richard was afraid the guards might hear.

He paused, the pole swaying above him.

No, the guards went on talking in the same bored tone.

Richard, balancing the pole in his hands, sped across the paving stones toward the side fence. As he entered the grove of trees on one side of the walkway, he again relied on memory to guide him. In the darkness and fog his eyes were not much help. Up ahead must be the wire-mesh fence topped with barbed wire. Exactly how high had it been? Exactly where was it located? If he was going to vault it, he'd have to be high enough not to get caught in the barbed wire, but low enough so he wouldn't fall back or, clearing the fence, break his neck on the other side.

He set the base of the pole on the ground, then lowered the shaft carefully, finding the point where he thought he should hold it. Here? No, here!

He lifted it, hefted it for balance. Yes, that felt right. He was now holding it parallel to the ground.

He advanced toward the unseen fence, careful not to strike anything with his awkward seesawing burden.

There was the fence, exactly where he'd expected it.

He measured it with his eye, then retreated for his run. It would have to be perfect the first time. It wasn't likely he'd get a second chance.

He wheeled, swinging the pole into position, took a deep breath, and started. Even now, running full tilt, he made very little noise, less noise than the distant guards, who now burst out in a gale of harsh laughter, as if at some particularly obscene joke.

The fence appeared out of the fog, looming ahead.

The point of Richard's pole dropped, dug into the ground. Richard, clinging to the pole, soared upward and, at the top of the arc, thrust the pole back and himself forward.

The barbed wire grazed his elbow as he plunged.

The ground, though he tried to do a parachutist's roll, socked him with the force of a wrecker's demolition ball, knocking the wind out of him, setting the universe spinning. Had it not been for the soft ground cover of pine needles, he could easily have cracked a rib.

On the other side of the fence the pole fell with a clatter that seemed deafening.

The conversation of the guards ceased.

A flashlight beam swung from side to side in the fog. One of the guards-perhaps both of them-was coming. Richard, rolling from his back to his belly, could hear the tramp of heavy boots. Yes, both of them were coming. He could tell by the sound.

Richard thought, Shall I run for it?

He realized he could not. He was still too dazed from the fall. He waited, hardly daring to breath.

The flashlight beam pa.s.sed directly across the fallen pole and continued on. Didn't those idiots know this was no mere stick of wood? Didn't they notice the old flagpole was not in its usual place?

"Nothing here," said the first guard.

"Always a lot of funny noises around here at night. Maybe it was a deer. A lot of deer have been coming into town because of the drought. Nothing green out in the woods anymore," said the second.

"Yeah, right. It must have been a deer," agreed the first.

The two men turned and tramped back toward the front gate.

Richard exhaled.

When he felt able, he crept away, listening to the resuming bored conversation of the guards, and scaled a high wooden picket fence, dropping catlike into someone's backyard. From the yard he pa.s.sed along the side of a stucco-faced cottage and found himself on a narrow winding street lined with parked cars with their wheels up on the curb, spa.r.s.ely lit by fog-shrouded yellow streetlights.

"I can't believe it was so easy," Richard whispered to himself, as his previous anxiety was replaced with a rush of delighted exhilaration. He picked a direction and started to jog along at an effortless mile-eating pace, pausing to crouch in the bushes only when eyes or ears warned him of an approaching car.

When he had run what seemed to him at least three miles, he came in sight of a small two-story brown shingle-sided house where he could see, through the picture window, a flickering television screen.

He slowed to a walk, climbed the front steps, and pressed the doorbell. From the other side of the door he could hear some sort of beast roaring on the TV, and a woman screaming, then approaching footsteps.

A peephole opened at about eye level, and someone looked out. "Who is it?" demanded a gruff, weary voice.

Richard stood back so the man could see him, saying, "My name is Howard DeVore. I'm an ambulance driver. We've had an accident down the road. Could I use your phone to call in?"

"Well, eh, all right. I suppose so." The man grudgingly opened the door, after first unlocking a deadbolt lock and removing a door chain. "The phone's right here in the hall."

Richard entered, brushing past the man, glancing at him only long enough to notice that he was bald, middle-aged, and wearing a T-shirt decorated by a picture of Howard the Duck.

"I saw your light," Richard said.

"Yeah," the man answered with a yawn. "I couldn't sleep, so I stayed up to watch the Creature Feature show on the b.o.o.b tube. You know how it is."

"Yes, I know how it is." Richard located the telephone and lifted the receiver.

The man hovered around, apparently hoping to listen in on the conversation.

"Do you mind?" Richard demanded acidly, and the man retreated into his front room, muttering. The television continued to roar and scream and play violent crashing symphonic chords.

Richard dialed a number, thinking, It's been fifteen years. I hope they're still keeping this number going.

The answer came on the second ring. "Tomcat Skip Tracer Service." The man's voice was cultured, slightly contemptuous. Thank G.o.d, thought Richard. But then he realized he needn't have worried. The Tomcat Skip Tracer Service was a wholly-owned clandestine subsidiary of the CIA. Once opened, a CIA front business never closes, no matter how little money it makes or how useless it is as an intelligence tool. The theory is that someday, somehow, it will come in handy.

"This is Richard Blade. I need help. Can you patch me through to Ordway?"

There was a silence, then the voice on the other end of the line said, "We haven't heard anything about you for a long time, d.i.c.k."

"You're not supposed to hear things about me if I'm doing my job right."

"You've got a point there. Okay, I'll put you through to Ordway, but for your sake I hope you're in deep trouble. If you're not, you will be. Ordway likes his beauty sleep."

In the small gymnasium with the disquieting mirrors J stood by the wall phone frowning, the yellowish naked lightbulb overhead accentuating his unhealthy complexion and the flaccid purple sacs under his eyes.

"Lord Leighton, is that you?" J demanded.

"Of course it's me. Who did you expect?"

"I don't know. I don't know. Listen, Leighton . . "

"You sound upset, J old boy. Has there been some new disaster over there?"

J drew out his pocket handkerchief and clumsily mopped his glistening brow. "Exactly. Two new disasters in fact."

"Give them to me one at a time, and pause in between. Let me savor the first to the full before I proceed to the second."

J noted with annoyance that Leighton's dry sense of humor, normally dormant, was becoming active under stress. "The first is Zoe. She has vanished."

"Run off somewhere, no doubt, to have a bit of fun."

"No, literally vanished-poof-before the eyes of witnesses."

"Some sort of shabby stage legerdemain, I'll wager. A cheap magic trick to make a fool out of you!"

"The magician, in this case, was the Ngaa."

"I see. That puts a different face on it, doesn't it? Has the Ngaa been up to any other tricks?"

"No, but isn't that enough?"

"You mentioned two disasters. What's the second?"

"Richard Blade has vanished, too."

"Poof? In front of witnesses?"

"No. He escaped."

Leighton began to chuckle. "Really? Right out from under the noses of the head of MI6 and a squad of our best cloak and dagger boys? Out of a high-security sanitarium? Tut tut!"

"It's not our fault. This place was never intended to hold someone like Blade. d.a.m.n! If only I'd insisted on a decent door on his room!"

"He would have gotten out anyway. You know that. It might have taken him ten minutes instead of five, or whatever it did take. Richard has never stayed very long anywhere he didn't want to stay, no matter how decent or indecent the doors."

"I suppose you're right, but you see, I'm sure, that this means a change of plans. We can't have those examiners from the Prime Minister's office coming here to examine Richard now."

"What do you expect me to do about it?"

"Stop them! Stall them somehow!"

"My dear boy, they're already on their way. I'll wager they're halfway across the Atlantic by now."

"Oh my G.o.d." J slumped against the wall.

"Are you turning religious on me? They say there are no atheists in the front lines, and we're in the front lines in a sense, aren't we?"

"d.a.m.n you, Leighton! How can you be so calm?"

"I've given up all hope. You should try it. Does wonders for the nerves."

"Given up? But . . "