The house was quiet. The rain pattered hesitantly against the window, easing off now, the mist clearing from the lower slopes of the moors it had shrouded. She tested the compact TV circuit. Reception was poor, but by climbing on a chair and reaching up to where a TV aerial lead-in passed the window she obtained a stronger signal.
The voice was mushy and his picture blurred, but Roberts, the link man in London, could hear her. He listened carefully to her report and gave her the information for which she'd been waiting. "Good," she said. "Just what I wanted. But the British S.B. aren't holding the girl, are they?"
"There's not really any charge against her. In fact, she could charge Mr. Slate with assault."
April chuckled softly. "I bet she would too. Now listen, Robbo—get on to Slate's friend Jeff and fix for him to hustle Suzanne into that nursing home we control in London. You know?"
"I know. Are you asking for assistance?"
"Not yet. I must find out the purpose of this place before we make any attack. This is a lone-wolf job. If we bungle it, the whole organization may fade away." She paused, hearing footsteps. "Danger comes. Over and out."
She leapt to the door, hammering on it with her fists and yelling: "Hey—you there—hey!" The lock snicked back. She had to jump away to avoid being hit by the door as it crashed inwards.
"You stop," said Greco. "No shout—see?" His big hand stretched out, dirty spatulate fingers almost touching her lips.
Revulsion filled her with sudden fury.
"Don't paw me—you big clunk!" Her hands fastened on wrist and elbow. She moved fast and sure. Greco yelled as the bone snapped in the same second that his body was impelled in a flying arc across the room. He crashed on to the washbowl, head first. It split asunder as his head lolled back among the debris. She stepped across and took the gun from his pocket.
"Oh, well!" April Dancer shrugged. "I guess I was too good to last." She walked downstairs.
The elderly man at the console stared at her. Then at the leveled gun. His fingers eeked towards a red button.
"Please don't," said April. "I dislike killing, and wounding is messy."
The man's fingers stopped moving.
"I want one thing from you, Pop—just one. On which extension can I speak to Dr. Karadin?"
"Extension 12." He flicked a finger towards the board. "You just depress this key." He grinned. "You've got guts, lass, but you'll not get out of here. Yon moor is a scary place for a girl on her own, even if you do."
"Well, well! A soft-hearted custodian. And Yorkshire to boot!"
"Aye." His eyes widened. "Nay, lass, wait..."
The tiny sleep gun spat accurately. He clapped a hand to his chest, his eyes filled with fear.
"It's okay, Pop," she said softly, coming close. "You'll just sleep, that's all—just sleep."
His eyes glazed even as she spoke. April eased him into the corner, where the console hid him from a casual glance. She sped to the front door, turned a massive key and gently opened the heavy door. The rain had stopped. Golden shreds patterned the sky. She surveyed the path curving between shrubbery to the eastern wing, paused for a moment, then stepped hack into the morgue-like hall. She called extension 12.
"Karadin," he snapped. "Sam, I told you not to call me unless it was urgent."
"I've remembered what I wanted to tell you," said April. "We have Suzanne. She is in the Baldini Clinic in west London. Phone them and confirm it. We also have Ginger Coke—and a few others."
She heard him gasp before she lowered the handset, sped to the front door and out on to the path, ducking under a bush when she saw Karadin and two white-coated figures rushing along the verandah.
Her trained, experienced and highly intuitive mind reasoned that Moorfell was more a testing base than a research centre. The extensions to the original house, although cleverly constructed of local stone, were not more than a year old. The switchboard's intercom key tags bore only one marked LAB. April had noticed three marked TEST, and two marked RANGE. Therefore the extensions must be mainly functional and contained few sleeping and living quarters—probably only four, excluding the three rooms on the second floor—because the other key tags were numbered 8 to 12. Karadin was 12 and he'd come from this end. He wouldn't go chasing the length of the building each time he wanted to leave, or at times of test on what could well be outside areas—or ranges.
The door was cleverly disguised to appear as an unbroken wall covered with flowering clematis. April swiftly peeled off the sealing of a lock-blowing device, inserted this deep into the oval slot and detonated it. The flat-sounding "phut" wasn't even loud enough to worry the birds, although a black bird went skittering and squawking across the drive—more in protest against her than at any noise, because he started his swoop a second before the miniature explosion came.
April checked the door surrounds, discovered the alarm strip, saw it was not activated and deduced that a master switch must control it, although probably this wasn't made live until a certain time. She neutralized the strip so that it wouldn't set off the alarm when activated.
She eased the door closed and stood on a tiled area from which one slope led downwards and the other up. Quartz lighting beamed from cornices set at angles along each wall, alternating from each side. She chose the up slope, followed it around a curve and came directly into a dome-ceiling room containing a row of racks full of cylinders. Trolleys, similar to those used to move oxygen, were lined, soldier-like, against the racks.
To the left were shelves on which were arrayed an intriguing selection of items. April noted them carefully. Training had not given her the gift of mental photography, but it had turned that gift into the split-second accuracy of a reflex camera. She didn't clutter the screen of her mind with unnecessary or unwanted images, but that which she wished to see and record was implanted there with lightning speed.
Butterfly nozzles as used in lawn spraying. Several sizes of candy-striped barber's poles. Barber's poles?––She saw Carnaby Street and the strangely speeding poles and felt a tingle of excitement.
Then a selection of miniature street lamps and traffic signals. What the hell? She inspected these more closely, fiddled with one, and almost lost the top of one finger when she touched a hidden switch and a small but powerful motor attached to tiny metal vanes started up, sending a strong force of air against her hand.
Next came a collection of street signs. "No waiting" discs. "One way", "Stop", "No U turn" and suchlike, as well as street name plates for wall or post fixing. She discerned only two differences from the real thing. They were thicker, and the underside edges bore a row of tiny holes. She picked up one, expecting it to be heavy metal. It was feather light, metal-simulated polystyrene which looked exactly like the real thing. The rear side had a flat plastic box heat-welded on to the base, a small slide aperture dead centre. Cautiously she moved the slide to the left. A small button was revealed. She pressed it and wasn't surprised to feel a tiny motor buzzing into life. Air flowed out quite strongly from the holes.