Telephone insulators, dummy plastic but impossible to tell the difference at a few yards' distance, cable insulators, electric light bulbs—which weren't, but in daylight who could tell?—fluorescent tubes, a gaily striped shop or door canopy, the edges of its frame perforated with holes. A varied and amazing selection of natural objects, and almost every one a fake.
"This is ridiculous!" April muttered. "Who would want to forge street signs?"
She tested the sliding door in the far wall. It rolled smoothly open. She closed it, surveyed the long, narrow room. Undoubtedly the LAB. Not a science-fiction writer's dream. Very clinical, clean and disappointing. A long work bench, porcelain trays neatly stacked at one end. A row of plastic jerry-cans—all empty. Then a functional sink, a small water heater, electric kettle, a coffee percolator.
The whole of one wall was lined with dull grey cabinets looking like out-of-work washing machines. April concentrated on these and was happy to recognize the lay-out required for the despised Parsimal theory, from the pressure-filled storage compartment right through to pulsator, separator and air-extraction unit. Now the whole caboodle was going click, click, click in her mind. Karadin the old fraud! Denying Parsimal but copying the whole technical lay-out to prove the theory. All except one important part.
April flashed her mind back to her student days in Paris. The screen of memory hazed, flickered, then cleared. She went again to the last cabinet, and slid open the inspection flap. The Parsimal Theory didn't require a compressor. In fact a compressor would nullify the earlier stages, so the processing was a waste of time. It was jelling now. For a moment April wished she had gone on to a degree in physics, for she felt her present knowledge inadequate for the task. Then suddenly she had the link—separate and compress instead of separate, diffuse and direct, and what would you get? Molicular globules in suspension! That wasn't the correct technical definition, but the substance was near enough an answer to satisfy her.
The apparatus also would satisfy the British authorities, because similar processes could be used for research into air pollution via rain, fog, mist or steam condensation. Dr. Karadin didn't have to disclose his method or techniques and formulas. April's excitement grew as she discovered proof linking to what, in the first instance, had been a hunch on her part. But she still needed more evidence.
The next door had to be persuaded. It wasn't difficult to break the magnetic circuit, but the task took time. At last she was inside the Karadin sanctum––this was obvious by the furnishings, the desk photograph of his daughter and himself. The far door was partly open, as was a steel filing cabinet. Proof of his hurried exit.
"Well, thank you, Dr. K," April muttered. She closed the door and went swiftly to the files. This took time, but it was not time begrudged. She ignored the ordinary business files of letters after a quick glance through them. A slim file at the back held her attention. It contained photostat copies. The originals, according to code symbols, were in America. She didn't wait to decipher these in full, but pressed on to the contents. These were written in Urdu.
This variety of Hindustani is not commonly known to Westerners. Much of its vocabulary is taken from Arabic and Persian. But April had learned Arabic as a child when her father was serving in the Middle East, and later in India found it comparatively easy to learn Urdu, which was spoken by the Moslems. No doubt Karadin and his organization bosses considered that such documents, if written in Urdu, would not require any higher security than a stout steel file cabinet. That this was unlocked would be due only to the abrupt departure of Karadin from the office.
April searched around for a container of some sort, and soon found a leather-capped zipper shoulder bag next to fishing tackle in the far corner. The bag smelled fishy but was clean and dry. She stowed the papers into it, as well as a. sample of letters from some British manufacturing chemists referring to supplies. She stowed her own purse in it as well. She was about to zip up the bag when she heard footsteps.
She opened her purse, took out the lipstick and moved to one side as the door opened. A small dark woman came in, a mannish-looking woman with cropped hair, wearing a white coat and slacks. She looked at the open file cabinet, closed it, took keys from her pocket and locked it, muttering:
"Oh, really, Carl—you panic too quickly, you poor darling!" April closed the door. "Yes, doesn't he?" she said quietly. The woman gasped and whirled around. She was in her thirties, dark-eyed, fine drawn, with crows feet of tiredness or strain pouching her eyes. She leapt to the desk, hand reaching for the drawer nearest her. April dropped the bag and leapt just that shade faster. She had the drawer open, fended off the woman with the other hand, using the woman's own impetus to spin her off-balance, to crash against the wall.
April took out the gun, snicked off the safety-catch. It was a Voegler automatic with silencer.
"Thanks," she said. "I thought there must be one some where, but I hadn't got around to looking for it." The woman moved. "No, dear—don't try it." The gun spat. The bullet plucked the shoulder seam of the woman's white coat and thudded into the wall.
"Mmm—quite accurate," April observed. "The next one will hurt you, so please—no heroics, huh?"
The woman's face had paled, her eyes scared. "I've heard that your sort of woman is ruthless. That you even like killing. But it won't help you to kill me."
April smiled. "I wouldn't dream of killing you. I said hurt you—ping, ping in nasty juicy places––unless you are sensible." She frowned quizzically. "My sort of woman? Now I wonder what that means?"
"I've heard all about you. Why, he even admires you—though he admits you're dangerous."
"Ah! That's men for you—two-faced, aren't they? Funny thing, Bertha, but I admire Carl darling too."
"My name is not Bertha."
"Is it not? It suits you though." She paused. "So what do we do now, Bertha?" She slid the swivel chair clear of the desk. "I think you'd better come and sit down." She waggled the gun as she added sharply: "Come on, now, Bertha—my sort of woman is very short on patience."
The woman came slowly at first, then with a little shrug of resignation moved swiftly to the chair, sat down and looked up at April, who had hitched one thigh on the desk corner. They both heard the sound of the helicopter taking off, growing louder as it passed overhead. Tears filled the woman's eyes.
"So he's gone to his daughter?" said April softly.
The woman's hands covered her face. "Damn her!" she said huskily. "Damn her, damn her, damn her—the little bitch!" She lowered her hands and glared at April. "And damn you too!"
"Good for you!" said April. "Let's have a good damn all round. Damn the project, damn the organization—damn everything except that which binds my man to me. Is that it, Bertha?"
The woman lowered her gaze, began fiddling her fingers, locking and unlocking them, surveying them, flexing them.
"My name is Ingrid."
"Nice. Swedish?"