“The accelerator, Nero.”
Jones manipulated a larger lever, and the sound from the ceiling rose to a high-pitched scream that made the Saint’s skull feel in danger of shattering.
“Now!” Warlock cried.
He plunged his finger down on a button, and there was a sound like lightning splitting the air before the deep roar of thunder. The shiny black shoe disintegrated into a heap of something like dark ash.
“The molecular bonds have been destroyed by the sound waves,” shouted Warlock. “Now the multi-laser beam!”
As the turbine-like whine associated with the ultra-sonic sound abruptly faded, there was a new, throbbing noise that surged rapidly to a climax. The lights in the cellar dimmed to a candle-glow as the power apparently was sapped by the laser apparatus.
“The power of light!” Warlock exulted as he bent to press a new button. “The death ray!”
A brilliant red beam materialized between the Cyclops eye above Amity and the remains of the shoe on the table between her legs. The leather flashed like magnesium and was gone.
Within a few seconds the cellar lights were normal and all sounds had stopped coming from the machinery. The Saint saw Amity’s body, which had been stiff with terror, relax as she heaved a great sigh. Warlock was laughing, all but bouncing up and down with glee. Simon looked at him with blue eyes that might have been taken from the heart of an iceberg.
“I didn’t mind you so much when I could think of you as some kind of an overgrown child playing with his overgrown toys,” he said in a low steady voice. “But it’s a different thing when you start playing with people I like.”
Warlock was still openly intoxicated with the power of his invention. His face was red and refulgent with perspiration. His jowls quivered with nervous excitement.
“Luckily your likes and dislikes aren’t of much concern to me any more, Mr. Klein,” he shrilled. He pulled a lever and the rings which had held Amity’s wrists and ankles flew open. “But your talents are very important. So go get some rest. You have two days to show us the way into Hermetico.”
4
The morning was crisp and clear. Frug, in dark jacket and shiny-brimmed cap, looked as if he might have been a chauffeur all his life. The big limousine, too, looked as if it never had done duty for anything less than a general or ambassador. Its marred window had been replaced, and it bore no trace of its use in the Saint’s abortive escape during the night. A small Swiss flag fluttered above one fender as Frug’s gloved hands steered the big machine into a drive marked PRIVATE — HERMETICO.
The Saint and Warlock sat in the spacious rear seat of the limousine. They were smartly dressed in dark suits. Warlock had gone so far as to affect pinstriped trousers and a white carnation in his lapel. Twin Homburgs lay on both men’s knees. They wore calfskin gloves.
“You make a perfect gnome of Zurich, Mr. W,” said Simon, “but I feel like a nitwit. Is this really the way you think diplomats dress when they go out on business before lunch?”
Warlock accepted the dig in silence. The private drive led uphill across a stony, treeless field. Ahead were fences and the low concrete dome of Hermetico’s surface structure.
“You do need me,” the Saint continued amiably. “Apparently your small persistent brain has been nourished on nothing but comic books and grade B movies. We’ll be lucky to get out of this escapade with our lives, much less with any information about this fortress.”
“Don’t make any false moves and everything will be all right,” Warlock said. “You know what’ll happen to Miss Little if you try anything smart.”
Simon looked at his companion with a despairing shake of his head.
“Even your dialogue’s hopelessly corny,” he said. “It’s not only out of date — it’s absolutely pre-war. James Cagney would feel completely at home with you.”
“Be quiet,” said Warlock.
Frug had pulled the limousine directly up to the main gate, ignoring instructions to park in a paved lot to the right where several dozen cars stood in rows.
“Oh, well,” Simon said, settling back against the luxurious upholstery, “if we fail, we can always become a music hall comedy team.”
“We won’t fail,” Warlock replied. “Frug, blow the horn.”
Frug blew the horn twice, and then the trio in the car waited. Immediately in front of the limousine’s nose was a triple-layer steel mesh gate reinforced with diagonal rods. On one side of the gate, like a guardhouse defending the smaller pedestrian entrance, which was also sealed with its own gate, was a windowless concrete kiosk about the height of a man. A sign on the larger gate said NO ADMITTANCE TO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS. Several other signs bore smaller print.
“The horn again, Frug.”
Simon was immediately impressed with the apparent absence of all life on the other side of the wire fence, but within half a minute Frug’s honking had brought a blue-uniformed guard out of the central building and along the cement walk to the gate. There was a pistol in a holster at his hip.
“Go speak to him,” Warlock told Frug. “Just as we planned — tell him we’re expected.”
Frug got out of the car and spoke to the guard through the gate. There was a good deal of gesturing and pointing. The guard pointed to the concrete kiosk. Frug pointed at the building. The guard pointed to the kiosk again. Frug pointed at the limousine. The guard gestured over his own shoulder at the building. Frug threw up his hands and strode back to the car. He put his head in the window.
“The guard says we’ve got to have passes to put in a slot in that concrete thing.”
“I know that, you idiot!” Warlock said nervously. “Did you tell him we have an appointment?”
“Right, but he says people with appointments get cards to put in the slot.”
“Tell him we didn’t know about the cards,” Simon suggested. “Tell him we’ve just flown into this country without publicity, and that we understood our intermediary would have made an appointment.”
“Our what?” asked Frug.
“Intermediary,” Simon repeated. “Tell him somebody was supposed to have made the appointment for us earlier this morning. Ask if we can speak to the manager.”
“Whatever you say.”
Frug went back to the gate, and a moment later the guard nodded and took a telephone from a box on the pole at the edge of the cement walk.
“He’s calling,” Frug told the Saint and Warlock.
“So that’s what he’s doing,” said the Saint with bland sarcasm.
A moment later, a tall stoop-shouldered man in a grey business suit came hurriedly out of the central building and headed down the walk. Simon and Warlock stepped from the car, settled their Homburgs on their heads, and went to meet him at the gate.
“My name is Thomas,” the man in the grey suit said to them through the triple-layer wire mesh. “I’m the assistant manager.”
There followed a lengthy interchange full of urgency, apology, and explanation. Assistant manager Thomas did not seem to doubt the identity or truthfulness of his visitors, particularly when he was given to understand that they represented a group of potential customers. They had only half a day, they said, on their way from Zurich to New York, and it would indeed be a tragedy if the stickiness of some minor bureaucratic cog interfered with a deal which — if they found Hermetico suitable to their purposes — might involve the storage of millions of pounds. They showed their credentials with the explanation that their mission must remain, for the moment, entirely confidential. They wished only to see how Hermetico facilities compared with those of its competitors. If security was as foolproof as it was reputed to be, then there could scarcely be any danger in a pair of prospective customers having a look at the premises.