There had been something final and conclusive about the thump of Melinna's telephone as it fell. It would be without avail to try to re-establish communication. It must have been dire emergency that had moved Melinna to call to me for help, and it was incumbent upon me to respond with all expedition. Nevertheless, frantic as I was, my brain functioned with its accustomed efficiency. If something was gravely amiss, if the thing that had happened to Melinna had to do with the threat made to me by the Chinese, then it would require more than my unaided efforts to amend it. I lifted the telephone.
"Central," I aid urgently, "this is an emergency call." I gave her the number of the field office of the FBI. "I want speed."
She gave me swift service. Almost instantly I was connected. I wasted no words. "This is Doctor Gimp," I said. "Send men at once to the apartment of Melinna Brown." I gave the address. "Something dire has happened."
Then I ran into my bedroom. I pulled on clothes over my pajamas, donned socks and shoes, and not even pausing to take my hat, I ran down the stairs and continued to run along the street, hoping to find a cruising taxicab. I did not find one. My headlong gait must have astonished what pedestrians I passed, but I did not abate my pace until I arrived breathless at Melinna Brown's address. Two cars stood at the entrance. The FBI was ahead of me.
I took the stairs two steps at a time. The door of her apartment stood open. Two neat young men turned as I entered.
"Doctor Gimp?" one of them asked.
"It is," I said. "Where is Miss Brown?"
"Not here. What's this about?"
"Miss Brown called me for help. I called your office at once."
"When we got here, Miss Brown was gone. Her door stood open. There are no signs of a struggle. Nothing has been disturbed."
"What do we do?" I demanded.
"We will take care of things here. You will go at once to our office. The special agent in charge is waiting for you. Nothing you can do here, doctor. Our man in the car outside will drive you."
They were right. There was nothing I could do here to assist. These young men were experts, trained as I was not trained, and competent. I descended the stairs again, entered the car in which a driver sat, and was driven to the field office. The special agent in charge was awaiting me. Ile wasted no time in preliminaries.
"Talk," he said.
I described the brief telephone conversation, consisting as it had of a terrified call for help.
"Yes. Yes," he said. "But before that. I only have things at secondhand. Describe the visit of those gunmen. Their threat with respect to Miss Brown."
I did so, succinctly.
"There is no evidence," he said, "that they suspect you have been working with Major Van Tuyl?"
"They indicated none."
"Excellent," he said. "Their next step will be to get in touch with you. To make demands upon you, using Miss Brown as persuasion."
"One would think so," I answered.
"Then," he said, "you will give them the opportunity to do so. You will go back to your apartment and wait."
"But—" I started to protest.
"You can do nothing to aid Miss Brown. Please do as I request."
"If they contact me? Shall I report to you?"
"No," he said. "Definitely not. We must not risk arousing their suspicions. Everything now depends upon that—upon your being a bewildered and frightened scientist, nothing more. They will demand that you perform certain actions. They will make threats against Miss Brown's safety to compel you to agree. You will do so."
"I will agree to do what they demand?" I asked.
He nodded in the affirmative. "They will have made a plan. You know what it is they want. What their plan is we do not know, but somehow you are to be used to steal the electronic brain and transport it out of White Sands. In the morning you will go to White Sands as usual. Major Van Tuyl will give you further instructions." He glanced at me keenly. "Major Van Tuyl informs me that you are aware of the risks involved and that you are willing to assume them."
"At the moment," said I, "I seem to be aware of nothing except that Miss Brown is in danger."
"She may," said the special agent in charge, "be suffering discomfort and fright, but she is in no imminent personal danger. She is too valuable alive."
"Yes," I said grimly. "But suppose I do as they demand. Suppose I abstract and deliver to them the electronic brain. How long will Miss Brown live after they have it in their hands?"
"If all goes well," he assured me, "you need have no fear."
"How can you be sure? You cannot be sure."
"Doctor Gimp," he said gravely, "we shall do our best. Much more is at stake than the life of one girl. Perhaps thousands, hundreds of thousands of lives are at stake—the very safety of the United States."
"Another lady who is expendable," I said bitterly.
"In our conception," he answered, "no one is expendable who can be saved. I assure you solemnly, Doctor Gimp, that whatever can be done by human beings to return Miss Brown safely to you shall be done."
"And with that," I said dully, "I must be content."
"We may rely upon you, doctor?"
"I'll go through with it," I answered.
He stood up and extended his hand. "I'm sorry it has come to this," he said. "I'm sorry it had to come to this."
"I warned you to guard her," I said.
"Good night, Doctor Gimp," was all the reply he made to my accusation.
I thought I perceived the implication, and I was enraged. "Sir," I said, rising to my feet, "if I find that you have deliberately permitted this thing to happen to Miss Brown to further your plans—if harm comes to her in consequence—I shall hold you and Major Van Tuyl accountable."
"Good night, Doctor Gimp," he repeated, and I withdrew from his office.
It was with mingled rage and fear for Melinna's safety that I walked back to my apartment. Yet, looking at the matter from his point of view, from the point of view of one entrusted with the task of averting a calamity from our country, I was compelled to admit that he was right. One life, a dozen lives were as nothing compared to the calamity that might fall upon us if an enemy came into possession of this secret thing. These men, Van Tuyl, the FBI, were not cruel men or ruthless men. Nor is a general who orders his men into battle a cruel or ruthless man. But that reflection made it no less harrowing to me that fate had selected Melinna Brown to be a sacrifice for the common good.
One thing was certain to me, and I judged also to the FBI: I would be approached by the persons who had spirited Melinna out of her apartment. Doubtless contact would be made immediately. It was for that reason that I had been directed to go back to my rooms. It was equally evident to me that all protection would be withdrawn from me to afford unimpeded opportunity.
I proceeded in the direction of my home with a deliberation that did not match my state of mind. At last I reached the vicinity of my apartment house. A driveway stretched back along its northerly side—a tunnel of blackness. As I came abreast of it, a voice, speaking a little above a whisper, addressed me.
"Doctor Gimp," it said insistently.
"Yes?" I replied.
"Step this way," the voice commanded.
"If you want to speak to me," said I, "come out of the darkness.”
“We like the darkness," the voice said with a humorous twist.
"It is you again!" I exclaimed, recognizing the voice of Mr. Ken.
"Yes, doctor. But this time we'll know better how to handle you. As Ling Po says, 'Walk wisely in the jungle with open eyes, for a trailing vine may be a venomous asp.' We did not walk wisely before. Please approach."
I obeyed, for I knew they would not be imperative without means to enforce their orders.
"Keep coming," Mr. Ken said, "but stop when I direct."
I was aware of two figures, scarcely discernible in the velvety blackness, also of a metallic object being pressed roughly against my spine.
"Stop," said Mr. Ken. "Do not be alarmed. We have come to give you instructions."
"You have Miss Brown?" I asked, feeling my anger stir.
"We have Miss Brown. An added pressure was needed. We do not like you, Doctor Gimp. You humiliated Bubble Mouth and myself. We have lost face. But we must postpone personal satisfactions. That, we assure you, will come later."
"What," I asked, "do you demand?"
"To start, we will point out the alternatives to refusal. First, you will be convicted of the murder of Miss du Guesclin. Your so-called patriotism might cause you to make that sacrifice for your country. The second alternative is Miss Brown. Unpleasant things will happen to her. We Orientals have a knowledge of methods of inflicting pain."
"I do not doubt it," I said grimly.
"Then, doctor, there is a third alternative: if you are stiff-necked, your usefulness to us is ended. We have, in that case, the permission of our employer to regain our self-respect. Our reputation has been grievously damaged. Personally, we hope you will be stubborn."
An immediate surrender, a too quick and easy surrender, might not be accepted as genuine.
"How," I asked, "can I be guaranteed of Miss Brown's safety—that she will be released unharmed if I accede to your demands?"
"My word of honor as a Chinese gentleman," said Mr. Ken.
"That is insufficient," I said stoutly.
"Miss Brown will be released intact. Miss du Guesclin never will arise to haunt you." I could sense a shrug in the darkness. "How," he asked, "can we possibly supply a guarantee? You will be compelled, doctor, to take a chance."
The metallic object in the hand of Bubble Mouth pressed more painfully against my back. I stood still a moment, as if hesitating.
"Your decision, doctor?" said Mr. Ken.
"It is Miss Brown," I said in a voice which I hoped expressed misery. "If it weren't for Miss Brown! I—I cannot endure the thought of pain or death for her."
"Now that is very, very reasonable," said Mr. Ken.
"Tell me what you want, Mr. Ken."
"That you can guess, Doctor Gimp. Our objective is the electronic brain."
"But how can I procure it for you?" I asked. "How can I extract it from White Sands? How can I transport it through the gates, past the security guards? It is impossible."
"Not to you, Doctor Gimp. Not to you. You are above suspicion. It will be a matter of simplicity for you. Do you suppose, doctor that we would go so far without a definite, shall we say foolproof, plan?"
"No plan will work," I said firmly.
"We have," said he, "a correct idea of the size of the thing we want, and of its shape. We believe it can be contained in a large suitcase. Right?"
"You are right," I answered slowly.
"So nice of you to be co-operative," said Mr. Ken. "Now here is the expedient. It is simple—beautifully simple. Not tomorrow night, but the night after, you will find some cogent reason for staying at White Sands. Naturally, you will bring with you clothing and toilet articles. You will bring them in a large suitcase—perhaps larger than necessary. But that will arouse no suspicion. You will sleep wherever it is that accommodations are provided. In the morning you will, quite naturally, bring your suitcase to the laboratory where you work and where the electronic brain is kept secure. Am I clear so far?"
"You are clear," I said.
"The rest," said Mr. Ken, "will be as easy as sliding down a pole covered with grease. You will find it necessary to work late—so that you will miss the bus to El Paso. You will borrow a motorcar from the pool. In the meantime you will have been adroit enough to fit the electronic brain into your suitcase. You will put the suitcase in the car and drive yourself to El Paso."
"Possibly," I said, "it can be done."
"You will simply walk out, doctor, suitcase in hand, get into your car and drive, until willing hands deprive you of your burden. Then you will proceed to El Paso, and shortly thereafter Miss Brown will be restored to your eager arms. Can you discover a flaw?"
"None," said I.
"We are forehanded," said Mr. Ken. "Just in case you own no suitable piece of luggage, we have brought one for your use. Do you wish me to repeat these instructions?"
"It will be unnecessary," I said.
"The night after tomorrow. You will be met at a suitable place.”
“And allowed to proceed to El Paso?"
"Of course. You will have served your purpose." He chuckled. "And we must not delay your reunion with Miss Brown."
He pressed the handle of a suitcase into my hand. "Good night, doctor, and may good fortune attend you."
With the suitcase in my hand, I proceeded onward to the entrance to my apartment I climbed the stairs, opened my door and turned on the light. The night that lay before me would be sleepless, and I looked forward to it with dread.
To cope with the threat of a personal catastrophe is one thing; to be made responsible for the fate of another is quite different. I am reasonably certain that if it had been only my own life or freedom that was threatened, I would have been able to act with fortitude and integrity. I shall always wonder if I could have acted with equal courage had the choice been given me between betraying my country and saving the life of Melinna Brown.
If my position had actually been as Balthasar Toledo and his accessories had believed it; if I had not been argued into permitting myself to be used as a cat's-paw by Major Van Tuyl; if I had been simply a scientist working in the laboratory of White Sands, how would I have coped with the pressures that had been brought to bear upon me? I confess that I do not know.
But I did not have to make that choice. Events had assumed a form in which I could do nothing but proceed as directed. Nothing was left to my decision, and I could only hope that Major Van Tuyl and the FBI, with which he was associated, knew what they were about and would be successful in carrying out their counterplot. I hoped that in their plan there would be no unexpected geometric angle of yaw, no departure in action from its initial direction in space.
Immediately upon my arrival in 'White Sands on the next morning I informed Major Van Tuyl of the events of the night before and of the directions given me by Mr. Ken.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you are to arrive equipped with a suitcase. You are to substitute the electronic brain—which we have prepared—for your clothing and drive with it along the road to El Paso."
"That is correct."
"Somewhere along the way you will be stopped and relieved of your baggage, and allowed to proceed on your way."
"So they told me."
"Did you believe it?"
"No," I said. "I am not so fatuous as to believe that. They will not turn me loose until they have made certain that I have brought them the brain."
He nodded. "Our plans," he said, "are based on that theory. We are certain they will take you and the brain to that hideout in the Organ Mountains. For what other purpose would they have set up that advance post? You and the brain will disappear. What safer place to hide you than up at that prospect hole? Give them a safe spot—and time—to examine the contraption to see if it is the real thing. Then, at their leisure, they can transport it across the border."
"A point of personal interest to me," I said uncomfortably, "is what becomes of me when they're satisfied I've performed my mission. They're not," said I, using a favorite word of my mother's, "persnickety about taking human life. They've killed the Mexican, Iturbe, on the train; they have murdered the two prospectors; they have eliminated Renee du Guesclin. I will have served my purpose. I will be only an encumbrance."
"You," Van Tuyl assured me, "are included in the precautions we have taken."
"I hope they will be effective," I said, and he grinned wryly. "I think," I said after a pause, "that I should like to write a couple of letters—in case. One to mother and one to Miss Melinna Brown."
"Naturally," he said. "I'll see they are delivered. In case."
I fear I was of very little use to Doctor Newcomb or the laboratory that day. To concentrate on matters scientific was beyond my powers, and the minutes dragged. That night my sleep was fitful. In the morning I carried the empty suitcase to the laboratory. Van Tuyl came over and together we fitted the counterfeit brain into it. Its dimensions were somewhat smaller than the interior of the bag, so we packed it carefully with newspapers. It was, of course, heavier than my clothing, but not so heavy that I could not carry it comfortably.
I continued to follow directions, delaying my departure until the bus was gone. A car was brought over from the pool and parked in front of headquarters. Van Tuyl was there to see me off. Rather to my surprise, he laid aside his gruff mannerisms. He seemed almost solicitous. After we had placed the suitcase in the rear seat of the automobile, he went so far as to extend his hand.
"Well, so long, doc," he said. "I hope it falls butter side up."
I handed him the two letters I had written, and he nodded. "I'll return them to you tomorrow," he said.
"Right," I answered.
He shook hands again and scowled. "I've met worse guys than you, doc," he said. "Be on your way."
I drove out of the circle and headed southward for El Paso. Though I did not turn to look, I knew that he was standing there peering after me. I drove out on the road that passed the swimming pool and the launching sites and the building that housed miracles of electronics. I glanced sidewise at the radar saucers upon its roof and wished that they or some of the marvelous devices on the floor below could be able to keep track of my progress as they did of the progress and behavior of missiles launched from the sites at my left. But no instrument had been devised that could give that service. I was on my own.
My badge carried me past all security guards and barriers. Over at my right loomed the fastnesses of the Organ Mountains. I did not drive to U.S. Route 54, but took the desert road, which cut off several miles of distance. Presently I would cross the southern line of New Mexico into Texas. I passed no cars. The desert stretching about me was deserted and dusk commenced to descend upon the loneliness. I drove slowly, expecting now to be accosted and stopped.
As I skirted a low sand hill a man stepped into the road and held up his hand. It was the Chinese, Mr. Ken. He was courteous and said "Good evening" as if it were a chance encounter. I made no response.
"Have you the gadget?" he inquired.
"On the back seat," I said.
"Any difficulties?"
"None," I replied.
He turned, waved his hand, and Bubble Mouth appeared, driving a car from its place of concealment over the hard floor of the desert. He stood, mute and dour. I saw no firearms, but imagined them to be present in places of accessible concealment. The two men lifted the suitcase from my car, transferring it to their own.
"I've performed my part," I said.
"Well—nearly, doctor."
"I was to be allowed to proceed to El Paso," I said.
"You didn't get it in writing," said Mr. Ken. "We can't bear to part with you so soon."
I protested as a matter of form, but they compelled me to alight and take a seat beside Mr. Ken, who was driving their car. Bubble Mouth guided my car off the road and behind the dune, where it could not be seen. They were very matter of fact about it all. Bubble Mouth returned and climbed into the rear seat.
It was my expectation that they would take one of the desert roads which were little more than tracks toward the Organs. That was what Van Tuyl and I had been certain they would do. But, to my surprise and consternation, they proceeded onward for a time and then, instead of turning to the right, they veered onto a track that led toward Alamogordo. I knew instantly that something had gone wrong with Van Tuyl's planning—dreadfully wrong. We were not driving toward the Organ Mountains and the mine of the two prospectors, but in exactly an opposite direction. All counterplans had been predicted upon the Organ Mountains. We had been tragically in error.
Boldly they crossed the pavement of Route 54.
"If," said Mr. Ken, "anybody meddles with us, be ready with your badge and conversation."
But no one meddled with us. We crossed the railroad and, as darkness fell, were close to the eastern wall of mountains.
"You'll be interested," Mr. Ken said, "to know that we are entering the great state of Texas."
I was not interested; I was thoroughly alarmed.
"Where," I asked, "are we going?"
"Nice place. With a view of the river. Not much of a river, we admit, but it's the best we have. You'll be able to look over into Mexico. Ever hear of a wetback, doctor?"
"I believe it is argot denoting Mexicans who enter this country illegally."
"Go to the head of the class," said Mr. Ken. "It's one of the spots where wetbacks get their backs wet, when there's water enough."
There was rough going and discomfort, but the car proceeded without mishap. Although it was growing dark, the driver turned on no headlights. He seemed to drive by instinct. At last, after what seemed hours of jolting and slewing, we approached a mass blacker than the darkness of the night. We passed through a gate in a wire fence and the mass of blackness disclosed itself to be an adobe house of some dimensions.
"No place like home," said Mr. Ken. "Down with you, doctor, and prepare to be received in due form."
At the sounds of our arrival, a door opened and closed again and a man walked toward us. We had arrived—not at a mine in the Organ Mountains about which Major Van Tuyl would have thrown a cordon of men, but at a house many miles away from that spot about which no cordon could have been thrown, because Major Van Tuyl was unaware of its existence. Intelligence and security, of which Van Tuyl was the chief, and the FBI, with whom he co-operated, had been outwitted. In that moment I gave up hope.
The man who emerged from the house approached the car.
"Well?" he demanded. I recognized the voice of Balthasar Toledo.
"A most successful enterprise," said Mr. Ken. "Our amiable friend, Doctor Gimp, consented to accompany us."
"Where is it?" Toledo asked impatiently.
"Resting innocently on the back seat," Mr. Ken responded. "The excellent Bubble Mouth will lift it out."
The dumb man got down, opened the door of the car and lifted out the suitcase containing the bogus electronic brain. Toledo seized it avidly. He spoke to me.
"For your sake, Doctor Gimp," he said, "I hope this is what we want. I trust you have not been so unwise as to offer a substitute. Come in the house."
It would have been useless to protest or to resist. No sooner was I standing on the ground than Toledo struck me viciously with his fist, knocking me against the side of the car. "Just the first payment on a debt!" he snarled.
"And when," asked Mr. Ken, "is the privilege to be granted to me to restore my own honor?"
"Business first," Toledo said, and pushed me toward the black bulk of the house.
I entered a large square room, its ceiling supported by unhewn logs. The illumination was kerosene lamps. A fire burned cheerfully in a huge fireplace, but it did not cheer me. As we stepped into the room a man arose from a chair by the fire, and I recognized the guttural person whom Melinna and I had seen in the box canyon in the Organs with Toledo. "That iss id?" he asked eagerly. "Let me see. Let me examine." He shook his round head uneasily. "I cannot believe yet. In the end, after all the so hard work and planning, it was so easy!"
He bent over the suitcase avidly. A suppressed excitement settled upon the room. He lifted out the aluminum container and raised its lid. Inside was disclosed a mass of complicated wires, dials, electronic devices, over which the Slav bent with narrowed eyes.
"Id iss delicate. Id iss complex. Yess, yess. Complex. I belief this iss id. I believe we have id in our hands. But iss too delicate, too much science for me." He raised his head and stared at me venomously. "I cannot be sure. I must wait for him to come. He will know—he, our greatest man in this thing of electronics. Only he can make the guarantee id iss genuine." He stood erect and peered from man to man. "If this iss id," he said, and his stature seemed to increase, "we deserve well of our country."
"I trust," Toledo said grimly, "we do more than deserve. I trust there will be prompt payment."
"Of that you shall have no doubt," said the guttural man.
"In America," said Mr. Ken, "there is a saying. It is a cogent saying. Not florid but to the point. Cash on delivery. Now I, Worthington Ken, am a convinced and practicing and loyal Communist. But I do as other Communists do, even the highest. I spare a thought for my own advantage. So I repeat, cash on delivery. Also, no cash in hand, no delivery."
The guttural man threw back his shoulders and his eyes glittered with the fire of fanaticism. "The bargain was made," he said sternly. "It will be out-carried. Do you dare to question?"
"I am not a timid man," Toledo said crisply. "You are still on American soil, Otto. These are my men. Don't throw your Soviet weight around. The deal was to be C.O.D."
"Understood," Otto said, still arrogant. "Payment awaits the coming of him. He will examine. He will pay." He looked about him scornfully. "I do not accomplish this thing for money. Now we conquer the world. Now we smash the democracies of blood-sucking plutocrats. Now comes the war—the people's war. We conquer the world."
Mr. Ken watched placidly, his Chinese features expressionless. Bubble Mouth stood stolid, a menacing figure.
"What says Ling Po?" asked Mr. Ken. " 'The hungry man is a sword without a blade.' We have not eaten."
"Manuel!" shouted Toledo, and a Mexican came into the room from what was doubtless the kitchen.
Toledo spoke imperatively in Spanish, which I did not understand. The Mexican vanished, to return presently with eating utensils, which he placed upon the long, wooden table. He disappeared, to return again with a great pot of beans and a bowl of chili and a pot of coffee.
Mr. Ken turned to me with geniality. "Our house is yours, and all within it. I have longed to see the sight of a condemned man eating a hearty meal."
"The implication," said I steadily, "does not improve my appetite."
" 'The brave man,' says Ling Po, 'faces death as if it were but a pleasant journey,' " Mr. Ken said.
Toledo was abrupt. "When," he demanded, "does your scientific nabob arrive? I want to get this thing out of my hands, across the border, tonight. I want to be a long way from here before morning—a long way into the interior of Mexico."
"He should be here now," said Otto.
We sat at the table. "I hope the chili will not be too hot for you, doctor," Toledo said ironically.
Bubble Mouth ate voraciously; Mr. Ken ate daintily. There was a light in the latter's black eyes which in an Occidental would have been the light of mischief. He seemed to take a sort of elfin satisfaction in suggesting an unpleasant possibility.
"Now that the cup is near the lip, honored employer," he said to Toledo, "I would ask if the name of William George Thomas has given you uneasiness."
"Damn William George Thomas," Toledo said with sudden rage.
"Remember," said Mr. Ken softly, "what he did to you in Budapest. When, also, the cup was near the lips. Remember Harbin. Let your mind recall Cairo. Me, I never forget that William George Thomas is in El Paso."
Otto's guttural voice spoke gratingly. "I gave the order that this fat man be kill," he said, glaring at Toledo. "Him I fear more than all the FBI. That man so fat he almost cannot move, but with the subtle brain."
"This fat man," said Mr. Ken admiringly, "he can move when movement is necessary. I think he could run a hurdle race if circumstances required."
Uneasy silence fell upon the room. The Mexican came in to clear away the dishes. He passed close to Toledo, who kicked at him viciously, as if he must have some outlet for the vile temper he was in. Manuel avoided the kick in a lazy, placid way, as if such unpleasant gestures were an expected part of his day's work. He gathered up the plates and knives and forks, and slouched back into the kitchen.
"You two," said Toledo, surrendering again to poisonous temper, "haven't covered yourselves with glory. You, Ken, and Bubble Mouth have left the fat man alive to worry us." He tapped himself on the chest. "When I have a job to do, I do it. Where would we have been if I hadn't taken care of that Mexican secret-service man on the train?" The serving man had reached the kitchen door. He paused an instant and then disappeared.
"Is it time to boast?" asked Mr. Ken. "What you did was neat. But were not Bubble Mouth and myself competent in the affair of Renee du Guesclin?"
"Anyone can kill a woman!" snarled Toledo.
"Not with such embellishments," protested Mr. Ken. "Not with adroitness that put Doctor Gimp so securely in our hands. Nor were we incompetent when we gave Miss Brown a pressing invitation to be my guest."
I was appalled. Here we sat in one room, five of us; I a prisoner, but with ears to hear. In my presence they spoke openly of their crimes, as if it were of no consequence that I should be a witness. The implication was plain. It was not their intention that I ever should be able to testify.
"It was your promise to me," I said, "that if I abstracted the electronic brain, Miss Brown would be set at liberty, unharmed. Where is Miss Brown? Do you mean to live up to that part of your agreement?"
"I fear," said Mr. Ken, "you failed also to have that clause reduced to writing." He shrugged and glanced sidewise at Balthasar Toledo. "Our friend is annoyed with Miss Brown. She rejected his blandishments. I fear he will insist upon completing unfinished business with the Lady."
"I suppose it would be futile," said I, "to point out that she cannot harm you. That she has no knowledge that can harm you."
"Quite futile to point out," said Mr. Ken. "But I fancy Miss Brown has wherewith to extricate herself. Mr. Toledo will be in funds. He will be opulent and need not economize. Let us say that if Miss Brown were complaisant—if she should consent to become Toledo's traveling companion—to save herself from death by accepting, as the sentimental novelists express it, a fate worse than death?"
I knew his intention was to torture me with a device more harrowing than the Chinese Death of a Thousand Deaths. I felt blind rage surge up within me again, the lust to kill. But I was helpless. I ground my teeth.
"Perhaps," said Mr. Ken in his modulated voice, "you would like to see Miss Brown."
He walked to a door at the right of the kitchen door and pulled it open. "Come out, Miss Brown. It is visiting hours. A friend has come to see you."
Melinna stepped into the room, followed closely by a large woman of Indian extraction with beady eyes, dusky skin and high cheek bones. Melinna stood staring at me, wide-eyed, pale but resolute. When she spoke, I was aghast, for it seemed to me that her words, if not her manner, indicated that the treatment she had received, the terror she must have endured, had caused her mind to become instable.
"Alt, Doctor Gimp!" she said. "In servomechanisms," she said, as if delivering a lecture, "there is a signal applied to the control circuit that indicates any misalignment between the controlled and controlling members. This is known as an error signal. Can you tell me, doctor, if such a signal can, in science, be designated as female?"
She paused an instant, and then went on gravely, "An oscillograph would be so very, very useful, doctor. You haven't one in your baggage, by any chance?"
"Melinna!" I exclaimed. "Melinna!"
Before I could say more, before she could utter more electronic jargon, the Indian woman seized her by the shoulders and thrust her back into the room in which she had been confined.
"What," demanded Toledo, "was all that about?"
"The lady," said Mr. Ken, "would appear to have burst her mental buttons."
That was my first unhappy impression. But her eyes had been steady and clear and sane. Was it possible, I asked myself, that by using verbiage incomprehensible to our captors, she had sought to convey some message to me? If so, what could it be? An error signal. Could an error signal be female? A signal indicating misalignment between controlling and controlled members. Was there some misalignment between the human members of this group? Was she herself, being female, an error signal? And an oscillograph! An oscillograph is an instrument for making a record of rapidly varying electric quantity. She had said that I would find one useful. There would be, if my assumption was right and she was conveying a message, some rapid change in circumstances which I should note and of which I might take advantage.
For the first time I felt the faint stirrings of hope. I was certain that Melinna intended to give me hope. But then I remembered the imminent arrival of the awaited Soviet electronic scientist who would be able to examine the bogus electronic brain and pronounce upon its genuineness. Such slender hope as had blossomed withered and died.
My situation was critical. At any moment the Soviet electronic expert might arrive. For a man of his undoubted attainments but a short time would be required for him to detect the bogus character of the electronic brain which I had delivered to these people. Their reaction would be swift and savage.
The plans of Major Van Tuyl had been based upon a false assumption. The frustration of Communist agents and my own safety had been predicated upon the assumption that Balthasar Toledo and the man Otto would take me to their advance post in the Organ Mountains. It had been a reasonable assumption, for why otherwise would they have murdered two prospectors and established themselves there, if not to possess an easily accessible spot for this very purpose?
They had not outthought Major Van Tuyl, because they could not have known of our knowledge of their possession of the mine. It was simply that we had misread their plans—with dire consequences.
I have often wondered what thoughts passed through the mind of condemned man in the interval of waiting to be led to the place of execution. Now I was in a position to state that his thoughts were not pleasant. It is difficult for a man to realize that his hours are numbered. It was difficult for me to accept that fact. I suppose that hope is the one indestructible emotion of man, otherwise he could not continue to exist. We are aware of tragedies on every hand, but we are confident that calamity is a thing that happens to others, never to ourselves. Even now, a prisoner in this room, surrounded by men to whom human life meant nothing, I could not bring myself to accept my fate. I would continue to hope that something would intervene before it was too late for intervention.
I was afraid, but I was gratified to observe that it was not with a groveling terror. I resolved, and believed I would be able to keep my resolution, that I would face the end with dignity.
My thoughts turned to Melinna Brown and I was tortured by the realization that, but for me, she would not be imprisoned in the adjoining room. I was conscious of a desire to see her, to speak with her, to express to her my grief that it was I who was to blame for her situation. And there was something else I wished to say to her, a disclosure I desired to make. It was unendurable to pass out of life without saying certain words to her.
That desire became so strong that I resolved to ask for the granting of this favor. I turned to Toledo.
"Mr. Toledo," I said, "I wish to speak to Miss Brown."
"No," he answered.
"It can do you no harm," I said. "To you it will be a very slight thing."
Mr. Ken smilingly intervened. "Listen to the wisdom of Ling Po," he said. " 'He who grants a boon to an enemy gains merit. The man who sows a handful of rice in the soil of his foe may eat of the harvest in the day of his own starvation.' Even we Chinese, Mr. Toledo, could devise no more subtle torture than to grant a final interview between condemned lovers."
Toledo frowned, then shrugged. He motioned toward the door behind which Melinna was imprisoned.
I accepted this as permission. No one interfered with me as I walked across the room and opened the door. Melinna was sitting before a smaller fireplace, warming herself at its blazing logs. The Indian woman crouched on the floor.
"They have let me see you, Melinna," I said.
She turned her head and was able to smile. "We're in a pretty mess," she said.
"It is my fault," I said. "I'm to blame. I want you to know how bitterly I accuse myself."
"Don't be silly," she said tartly. That certainly was not the lofty language of high tragedy. It was down to earth. She grinned in that impish manner that was hers. "You didn't invent sin," she said.
"Did you," I asked, "convey some message to me?"
She put her finger to her lips. "You understand plain English, don't you?" She made a moue. "So," she said, narrowing her eyes, "does this chaperone of mine." It was a warning.
"I," said I, "had a special reason for asking permission to see you.”
“Most men have," she said.
"It is possible, indeed probable," said I, "that I shall not survive this night. There was a thing I did not wish to leave unsaid."
"In those circumstances," she answered, "I probably should listen.”
“Aren't you afraid?" I asked.
"Of what you're going to say, or of things in general?"
"Of the situation in which we find ourselves," I said gravely.
"I'm scared out of my wits," she answered. "Do you want me to throw a wing-ding?"
"It is not a time for flippancy," I reproved.
"Flippancy," she retorted, "is as apt to the occasion as pedantry. Me, I'd rather pass out with a quip on my lips than demonstrating my higher education. Do you have to talk like a textbook? If, just once, you would use a short, ordinary, commonplace word instead of reciting in multisyllables, you would get favorable mention by the committee." She waggled her head disparagingly. "All right, doctor, proceed with your oration."
"You make it difficult," I told her. And then proceeded. "There was," said I, "a long interruption in our acquaintanceship—from childhood to maturity. As a little girl you exerted a profound influence upon me and caused a definite modification in my life. Unexpectedly, we made contact again, and though you have irritated me and confused me, I find that you still are potent to influence me and to modify me. I may say that I have been disconcerted to discover the place of importance you have usurped in my life, and that, without volition on my part—indeed against my firm resolution—I have become obsessed by affectionate regard for you. To the point, Melinna, where you have become paramount in my thoughts to the extent that a future in which I would be dissociated from you is definitely appalling. It was to tell you this that I begged for permission to speak with you tonight."
She stared at me. Her lips parted. It might almost be said that she gawped at me in astonishment.
"Well," she said breathlessly, "I'll be damned!"
"I have made my meaning clear," I said.
"That," she answered, "is what you think!" Suddenly she was angry. "Listen, you big, pedantic lunk! Any girl with the normal equipment of arms and legs—and mine are very nice legs—looks forward to the time when some man shall tell her she is the apple of his eye. It's a glorious, whopping, heart-busting moment, and it should be done with trimmings."
"Indeed?" said I.
"And what do I get? Do you get all churned up with emotion and blurt? A girl can like that. Do you just forget about words and grab? That's a dandy method. Do you get all fussed and have to have it pried out of you? Which could be fun. No, you mount the platform, lay out your notes on the reading desk and declaim a tiresome valedictory oration. When I sort it out I get the vague and unemotional idea that you are proposing to me. You inundate me with a spate of two-dollar words to the number of a couple of hundred, when an illiterate truck driver with a split lip could say it better in three one-syllable words. You've turned a big moment into a calamity!" She was flushed and furious.
"What three one-syllable words?" I asked helplessly.
"You'll never know!" she snapped.
Would I never know? I regarded her with something like despair. I had endeavored honestly to express to her my sentiments: to declare to her, in fitting terms, how precious she was to me. As one of the final acts of my life I had striven to inform her that in all the world was no other woman but her, and that I cherished her far beyond all other living things. To my consternation, she showed in return nothing but resentment. I had indeed proved inadequate to a crucial situation. I found myself angry—angry at her and at myself. I was shaken by emotion to the point of unstudied action and incoherence.
I strode toward her, seized her by the shoulders and shook her roughly, glaring down into her astonished eyes. Speech seemed to be wrenched from me.
"Damn it to hell, you little snip!" I said furiously, "I love you!"
"By golly!" she exclaimed, and her face flushed and her eyes glowed. "You've got the makings, after all!"
Her lovely hands reached for me. I found myself lifting her in my arms and crushing her lips to mine. It was an exhilarating experience. "Sweetheart!" I mumbled. "Sweetheart!"
She released herself and stood breathing in gasps. She was radiant, beautiful, desirable. She pushed me away.
"You did fine!" she said. "I'll make something of you, darling! My dumb darling! Now scram out of here. Love isn't the next order of business."
I strode out of the room in a mood of exultation. I closed the door after myself and became aware of Toledo, of Mr. Ken's Oriental face, of the brutish face of Bubble Mouth, and of the Eastern European, Otto. The Mexican cook was standing in the kitchen door.
"Lipstick," said Mr. Ken, "was unknown to Ling Po or he would have made a wise saying about it."
Before any other man could speak or move to deride or to threaten, a roughly clad man I never had seen before, burst into the room.
"A car's comin'," he said. "From El Paso way."
"Get back outside," Toledo said imperatively. "Station the men." The man slammed the door after him.
"Could it be he?" Mr. Ken asked.
"Not from El Paso," said Otto. "He comes across the river. Horseback."
"This," said Ken softly, "I do not like."
We listened. There was no shot. A motorcar drove into the yard and stopped before the door. Toledo, pistol in hand, snatched the door open and stood on the tiny porch. Bubble Mouth and Mr. Ken, also displaying arms, stood beside him. I strained to look over their shoulders at the automobile. Its rear door opened and an enormous, elephantine figure emerged with glacierlike slowness. The four men on the porch stood as though frozen.
"Good evening, gentlemen all," said the musical voice of William George Thomas. "The time seemed clement for me to intervene to cast a stone into the pond with attendant ripples. Replace your weapons, gentlemen; there is subject matter for us to debate."
With the ponderous movements of a pachyderm, William George Thomas crossed the intervening space and mounted the step. Placidly he shouldered aside the men who stood there, entered the room in which I stood, calmly selected a chair and lowered his weight into it.
"Good evening, doctor, good evening," he said to me. Then to Toledo, "Surely, my old friend," he said, "you aren't surprised to see me, now that matters approach their climax. Surely you're not surprised."
No one moved. No one spoke. The fat man gazed blandly about him, unmoved as if he sat in the safety of his own apartment.
"Will someone," he asked politely, "offer me a cigarette?"