A Saucer of Loneliness (27 page)

“What about Pretorio? You infected him, didn’t you?”

“No, damn it, I didn’t!” shouted Croy, his voice angry for the first time since he had started his narrative. “That must have been
an accident—the one crazy accident that fell in line with the things I arranged. Or maybe he injected himself by accident. It doesn’t take much, you know.”

“I know,” said Killilea grimly.

“Well, the day came when I got orders to do the same for you. I didn’t know until then who she was. When I found that out I got some thinking done. It was like coming up out of a dream. I’d never doubted this man’s word any more than I had Pretorio’s, but now I did. I saw then what these deaths meant; I connected them with the Ethical Science Board that I was supposed to take over and run for this man; I saw suddenly how you four—Pretorio, Landey, Monck and yourself—would have stood in his way. I called him back and refused to go on with him.

“He told me then what he was after. He told me what the factor was, what it could do, how the world had to be protected from it. He told me that you developed it, that unless you were stopped it would slip out of your hands and plunge the world into ruin. And about the Board, he said the world wasn’t ready for a group that would efficiently cross-fertilize scientific specialties. We haven’t caught up, as a culture, with the science we already have.

“I agreed with him and promised to go on.”

“Why—the man is crazy! And so are you, for swallowing that drivel!”

“Who swallowed it? I knew then he was crazy, that he was responsible for the death of one of the finest men since Leonardo, that he’d made a murderer out of me and put you two through hell … so I made up my mind to play along with him until I could find out who he was. I was ready to kill him, but how do you kill a man unless you can find him, and how do you find him when you don’t know his name or what he looks like?” He spread his hands, dropped them. “And that’s all. I know it looks bad for me, and I guess I’ve earned what I’m getting. But—like I said … no one but me can find him, and by the time you get proof of that I’ll be dead. He’s going to kill you, you know. He’s got to. He can’t afford to have anyone else know about the factor.” Killilea strode across to the sofa and lifted a heavy fist.

“Killy!” cried Prue.

With difficulty Killilea lowered the fist. “You’re a liar,” he said thickly. “If that ingenious story is true, why did you cut my hand with the ring?”

“I told you. I had to play it his way. But I didn’t inject the factor! It was something else—something that may have saved your life. Progesterone.”

“Why on earth progesterone?”

“Orders were to tell you where
she
was, see to it you went to her. You were looking for her; you wanted her back. It was a wonderful setup for his plan. I didn’t know too much about hormones, but I did what I could. I had the stuff compounded; progesterone and a large charge of SF—hyaluronidase, I think it was—to make it spread.”

“What on earth is that?” asked Prue.

“An enzyme. SF means ‘spreading factor,’ ” said Killilea. “Lectures later, Prue. Go on, Croy.”

“You had enough progesterone in you to bank your fire for a week,” said Croy. “By that time I hoped to have the whole thing cracked.”

“You sure were upset when you found me alive the next day.”

“I was upset when I found you were there. I wanted to get you out of my sight. I didn’t know when my—my would-be boss might see you.”

“Then why all the talk about finding me another chick?”

“I wanted to see if the hormone was working. I wanted to find out where you stood with
her
. But when she came in, there was nothing I could do. It was all right, anyway. As long as you were together, he could assume only that you were taking your time in making peace.”

“An answer for everything,” said Killilea. “How much of this do you believe, Prue?”

“I don’t know,” she said, troubled. To Croy she said, “Why didn’t you tell us this before? Why didn’t you tell me tonight at dinner? Or even after you found Killy here?”

“Do you know of a scientist worth his salt that would even speak to me?” Croy said wistfully. “The first chance I ever had to do something
really fine for science—I wasn’t going to jeopardize that by getting slapped down when you found out who I was. Don’t you see that’s why I was so pleased to be able to work with Pretorio?”

“I remember what Egmont said about him,” mused Killilea.

“Egmont,” said Croy. “The crystallographer? Yes; a good case in point. He can’t stand the sight of me. When he found out I was behind the scenes in the Board membership, I thought he would explode.”

“He did explode,” said Killilea. “Prue, we’ve got quite a story to tell the Egg.”

“There’ll be time for that later. Killy, suppose he’s right? Suppose there really is someone else who knows about your factor—someone as dangerous as Croy says?”

“We’ll hear from him,” said Killilea.

“He won’t be as clumsy as I was,” said Croy. “I tell you you’ll be dead before you know who killed you.”

“I guess I’ll have to chance it,” said Killilea. “You said if you lived you could find him for us. At least you can tell us how, so we can try.”

“There would be only one way—to trace him when he calls me. He won’t call me after I’m dead.”

Killilea watched Croy narrowly. “If you had a chance to catch him now, would you do it?”

“Would I! If I only could!”

“We’ve killed you,” Prue pointed out.

“You did what you could; you were right as far as you knew. And I suppose I have to pay for what I’ve done … I’m not angry at you two.”

“All right then. Either you’re the cleverest liar or one of the bravest men I’ve ever met,” said Killilea. “Now I’m going to remind you of something. You said that when he ordered you to inject me with the factor, you balked.
You called him back
. Give us that phone number and you’ve proved your point.”

“The phone number,” Croy breathed. “It hadn’t occurred to me, because he always said it was useless to call except in the afternoon; he wouldn’t be there at any other time.”

“Ever try it?”

“No.”

Killilea pointed to the phone. “Try it.”

“What shall I say?”

There was a heavy silence. “Get him here.”

“He wouldn’t come here.”

“He would if his whole plan depended on it,” said Killilea. “Come on, Croy. You’re the boy for intrigue.”

Croy put his head in his hands.

“I knew he’d balk,” snarled Killilea.

“Shut up,” said Croy, startlingly. “Let me think.”

He crouched there. He covered his eyes, then suddenly raised his head. “Give me the phone.”

“Better tell us first what you’re going to say.”

“Oh, Killy,” said Prue, “stop acting like a big bad private detective! Let him do it his way!”

“No,” said Killilea. “He’s dying, Prue. And if he isn’t half-cracked just now, we know he has been. How do we know he isn’t going to pull us in the hole after him?”

“Phone him,” said Prue evenly.

Croy looked from one to the other, then took the phone from the end table. From his wallet he took a piece of paper and dialed. “You better be right,” Killilea whispered to Prue. He went to Croy and took the paper out of his hand and put it in his own pocket. Through the silent room the sound of the ringing signal rasped at them. At the sixth unanswered ring Killilea said, “Even if he’s there now, Prue, it might be just a trick.…”

Croy covered the transmitter. “I haven’t time for tricks,” he said. And just then the receiver clicked, and a hoarse voice said, “Well?”

Prue gripped Killilea’s biceps so hard that he all but grunted. Croy, pale but steady, said, “I’m in trouble.”

“It better be bad trouble,” said the voice. “I told you not to call me this late.”

“It’s bad, right enough,” said Croy. The reversion to an English accent under strain was quite noticeable. “She took me to her apartment. Killilea was here.”

“Alive?”

“I should say so. Alive and very much aware of what’s happening. I hit him with the poker.”

“Go hit him again.”

“I can’t—I can’t do that. Besides, he told her everything. She knows, now, too.”

“Where is she?”

“Tied up. What shall I do?”

A long pause. No one breathed. “I’ll come over. Where is it?”

Croy gave the address and apartment number. “And hurry. I don’t know how long he’ll stay under. Take you long?”

“Fifteen minutes.”
Click
. Croy looked up at them. “Have I got fifteen minutes?” he asked. His face was wet.

Killilea looked at his watch. “How do you feel?”

“Not good.”

Killilea went into the bedroom and came out a moment later with a hypodermic in his hand. “Lie down,” he said.

“Relax. Relax,” he said again, touching the side of Croy’s neck, “completely. Better.” He slid the left sleeve up, squirted a drop of fluid upward from the needle, and buried the gleaming point in the large vein inside the elbow. “Just take it easy until he gets here. You’ll last.”

“What is it?”

“Adrenalin.”

Croy closed his eyes. His lips were slightly cyanotic and his breathing was shallow.

“Are you sure he’ll last?” asked Prue.

“Sure.” Killilea smiled tightly. “Believe him?”

“Mostly, I think.”

“Me too. Mostly. We could be making an awful mistake, Prue.”

“Mmm. Either way.”

He took a turn up and down the room. “Morals and ethics,” he said. “You never really know, do you?”

“You do the best you can,” she said. “Killy, you do very well indeed.”

“Do I?”

“You react ethically much oftener than morally. You react ethically as much as other people do morally.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Killy, you never said a word to me about what I did. With those men, Karl and the Koala.…”

“What word should I say?”

She looked at her hands. “You’ve read books. Insane jealousies and bitterness and distrust.…”

“Oh,” he said. He thought hard for a moment. “The things you did were … just little, unimportant, corroborative details. The big thing was that you had gone. I didn’t like your going. But I didn’t feel that a part of me was doing those things; which is the feeling jealous people have. You didn’t stray when you were with me. You won’t when you come back.”

“No,” she said almost inaudibly. “I won’t. But, Killy, that’s what I mean when I say you don’t react morally. Morals, per se, would have killed what we have together. Ethics—and here it’s just another name for our respect for one another—have saved it. Another argument for the higher survival value of ethics.”

They sat quietly then, together in the easy chair that was built for one, and were quiet, until Killilea looked at his watch, extricated himself from the chair, and went to Croy.

“It’s almost time, Croy,” he said levelly. “Go into your act. You feel up to it?”

Croy swung his feet down and shook his head violently. “My face is made of rubber and my heart thinks I’m running the three hundred meter,” he said. “I’ll make it, though.”

“Come on, Prue.”

They went into the bedroom, turned out the light, and closed the door until just a finger’s breadth of golden light showed from the living room lamp.

They waited.

The doorbell rang. Croy started for the door. “That’s downstairs,” Killilea murmured. “Push the button in the kitchenette. And don’t forget the door here is locked when you try to open it. Speak fairly loud so he will too. I’ll take your cues. And Croy, God help you if—”

Prue’s hand slid up and covered his mouth. “Good luck, Mr. Croy,” she said.

The buzzer hissed like a snake. Croy drew a deep breath, crossed the room, unlocked the door and opened it. “Where are they?” said a hoarse voice.

“In there,” said Croy, “but wait … what are you going to do?”

“What do you expect?” said the newcomer. Killilea could see him now—short, heavy, almost chinless; wide forehead, low hairline.

“You’re going to kill them,” said Croy.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Have you thought about the details—what happens when the bodies are found, what will the police do?”

The stranger opened his overcoat and from what must have been a special pocket drew out a leather-covered wooden case. He set it on the table, opened it, and took out a hypodermic. He grinned briefly. “Heart failure. So common nowadays.”

“Two cases at once?”

“Hmm. You have something there. Well … I can take one of them away in my car.”

“I was wondering,” Croy said tightly, “if you’d expect me to do it.”

The man regarded him without expression. “It’s a possibility.”

“It would mean I’d have to leave here alive. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

The man laughed. “Oh, I see! My dear fellow, you needn’t fear for yourself. Aside from considerations of friendship—even admiration—I couldn’t possibly complete my plans for the Board without you.”

Killilea, his eye fixed to the crack of the door, felt an urgent tugging at his shoulder. Killilea backed away and let her work her way silently around him so that she could see as well.

The man started toward the bedroom. Croy said evenly, “Where have I seen you before?”

The man stopped without turning. The needle glinted in his hand. “I have no idea. I doubt that you ever have.”

“I have, though. I have—someplace.…”

Prue gasped suddenly. Killilea took her shoulders and with one easy motion flung her through the air. She landed on the middle of the bed. The gasp alerted their visitor who dove for the door. Killilea stepped aside and let it crash open. Light from the living room flooded the man’s broad back as he stopped, blinking, in the darkness, peering from one side to the other. Killilea stood up on tiptoe and with all his strength brought the edge of his right hand down on the nape of the man’s neck. He went down flat with no sound but his falling, and lay still.

Killilea was gasping as if he had run up steps. He bent and lifted the man’s shoulder. It fell back loosely. “Out, all right,” said Killilea. “Prue, what got into you? You almost gave us away by making that silly—Prue! What—”

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands over her face, shuddering. He put his arms around her. “It’s Koala,” she said. “Oh, Killy, it’s Koala.…”