In what degree did they differ from those which had called down a divine wrath on the Tower of Babel?
To what new catastrophe would this so-called Science lead the world? Morris Craig’s enthusiasm for research she understood. It was this same eager curiosity which had driven her through the tedium of a science training. But did he appreciate that the world might be poisoned by the fruits of his creative genius?
Often it had come to her, in lonely, reflective moments, that the wonderful, weird thing which Morris had created might be a cause of laughter in Hell . . .
What was that?
Camille thought she had heard the sound of a harsh, barking cough.
Before her cool brain had entirely assumed command, before the subconscious, troubled self could be conquered, she was out of her room and staring all around an empty office.
Of course, it was empty.
Regan, she knew, stood watch in the laboratory. The plant ran day and night, and a record was kept of the alternations (so far inexplicable) of that cosmic force which had been tapped by the genius of Morris Craig. But no sound could penetrate from the laboratory.
She opened the office door and called:
“Sam!”
There was no reply. She remembered, now, hearing Morris instructing the handyman to go somewhere with him.
A great urge for human sympathy, for any kind of contact, overcame her. She glanced at the switchboard. She would call Regan. He was a cynical English northcountryman who had admired her predecessor, Miss Lewis, and who resented the newcomer. But he was better than nobody.
Then she thought of her phone call, which had been interrupted earlier in the evening. A swift recognition of what it had meant, of what it would mean to make the same call again, swept her into sudden desolation.
What was she going to do? Her plan, her design for life, had not worked out. Something had gone awry.
She must face facts. Morris Craig had crossed her path. She could not serve two masters. Which was it to be? Once again—where did her duty lie?
Listening tensely, her brain a battlefield of warring emotions, Camille turned and went back to her room. Seated at her desk, she dialled a number, and went on listening, not to a distant ring but to the silence beyond her open door. She waited anxiously, for she had come to a decision. But for a long time there was no reply.
The silent office outside was empty. So that there was no one to see a figure, a dark silhouette against the sky, against those unwatching eyes which still remained alive in one distant tower dominating the Huston Building. It was a hulking, clumsy figure, not unlike that of a great ape. It passed along the parapet outside the office windows . . .
“Yes?” Camille had got through. “Nine-nine here.”
She had swung around in her chair, so that she no longer faced the open door.
“If you please.”
She waited again.
Silently the door had been fully opened. The huge figure stood there. It was that of a man of formidably powerful physique. His monstrous shoulders, long arms, and large hands had something unnatural in their contours, as had his every movement, his behavior. He wore blue overalls. His swarthy features might have reminded a surgeon of a near successful grafting operation.
“Yes,” Camille said urgently. “Can I see you, tonight—at once?” The intruder took one silent step forward. Camille saw him. She dropped the receiver, sprang up, and retreated, her hands outstretched to fend off horror. She gasped. To scream was impossible.
“My God!” (Unknown to herself, she whispered the words in French.) “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I—want”—it was a mechanical, toneless, grating voice—”you.”
Chapter VI
When Morris Craig returned to his office, it remained as he had left it, illuminated only by two desk lights. He glanced automatically at the large electric clock on the wall above and saw that the hour was nine-fifty-five. He took off his topcoat and hung it up with his hat and jacket.
He was back on time.
What had Nayland Smith said?—”You’re a pure fanatic. Some lunatic like you will blow the world to bits one of these days. You’re science drunk. Even now, you’re dancing to get away . . .”
Craig stared out of the window. Many rooms in that towering building which overtopped the Huston were dark now, so that he thought of a London coster dressed in “pearlies” from which most of the buttons had been torn off. Yes, he had felt eager to get back.
Was it the call of science—of that absorbing problem which engaged his mind? Or was it, in part at least, Camille?
If the latter, then it simply wouldn’t do. In the life of a scientist steeped in an investigation which might well revolutionize human society there was no place for that sort of thing. When his work was finished—well, perhaps he might indulge in the luxury of thinking about an attractive woman.
Thus, silently. Dr. Morris Craig communed with himself— quite failing to appreciate the fact that he was thinking about an attractive woman all the time.
Nayland Smith suspected this interest. Hard to deceive Smith. And, somehow (Craig couldn’t pin down the impression), he felt that Smith didn’t approve. Of course, recognition had come to Craig, suddenly staggeringly, of the existence of danger he had never suspected.
He moved among shadowy menaces. Not all of them were intangible. He had seen the hand of Dr. Fu Manchu stretch out, fail in its grasp, and then bestow life upon one given up to death.
Dr. Fu Manchu . . . No, this was not the time to involve a girl in the affairs of a man marked down by Dr. Fu Manchu.
Craig glanced towards the door of Camille’s room, then sat down resolutely and touched a control.
“Laboratory,” came. “Regan here.”
“Thought I’d let you know I’m back, Regan. How are the readings?”
“Particularly irregular. Doctor. You might like to see them?”
“I will, Regan, presently. Nothing else to report?”
“Nothing.”
Craig stood up again, and crossed to the office door, which he opened
“Sam!”
“Hello,boss?”
Sam emerged from some cubbyhole which served as his headquarters. He had discarded the leather jacket and the cap with a long peak, and was resuming overalls and eye shade.”
“Is there any need for you to hang around?”
“Sure—plenty. Mr. Regan he told me to report back. There’s some job in the lab needs fixing up.”
“I see.” Craig smiled. “You’re not just sort of killing time until I go home, so that you can dog my weary footsteps?”
Sam tried an expression of injured innocence. But it didn’t suit him.
“Listen, Doctor—”
“Sir Denis tipped you to keep an eye on me until I was tucked up safely in my downy cot. Did he or didn’t he?”
“Well, maybe he figures there’s perils in this great city—”
“You mean, he did?”
“I guess that’s right.”
“I thought so. Just wanted to know.” Craig took out his keys and turned. “I’m going into the lab now. Come on.”
Followed by Sam, he crossed and went up the three steps to the metal door. As he unlocked it, eerie greenish-grey light shone out and a faint humming sound, as of a giant hornets’ nest, crept around the office. A moment later, the door closed as they went in.
The office remained silent and empty whilst the minute hand of the clock swept the dial three times. There was an attachment which sounded the hours, and its single bell note had just rung out on the stroke of ten, when Camille came in.
She stood quite still for a moment one hand resting on the edge of the door, her slim fingers looking curiously listless. Then she came right inside and opened her handbag. Taking out the black-rimmed glasses, she stared at them as though they were unfamiliar in some way. Her glance wandered to the clock.