Fear is the Key

Mary led the way across this exposed storm-filled working platform, and right behind her came Kennedy, one hand sliding along the wire, his free arm tightly round the girl in front. At another time I might have been disposed to dwell on the subject of luck and how some people seemed to have all of it, but I had other and much more urgent things on my mind. I came close up to him, actually treading on his heels, put my head close to his and shouted above the storm: "Any word come through yet?"

He was smart, all right, this chauffeur. He neither broke step nor turned round, but merely shook his head slightly.

"Damn!" I said, and meant it. This was awkward. "Have you phoned?"

Again the shake of the head. An impatient shake, this time, it looked like, and when I thought about it I couldn't blame him. Much chance he'd had of either hearing or finding out anything with Larry dancing around flourishing his pistol, probably ever since he had come out to the rig.

"I've got to talk to you, Kennedy," I shouted.

He heard me this time too; the nod was almost imperceptible but I caught it.

We reached the other side, passed through a heavy clipped door and at once found ourselves in another world. It wasn't the sudden quiet, the warmth, the absence of wind and rain that caused the transformation, though those helped: compared to the other side of the rig from which we had just come, this side resembled a sumptuous hotel.

Instead of bleak steel bulkheads there was some form of polythene or Formica panelling painted in pleasing pastel shades. The floor was sheathed in deep sound-absorbing rubber and a strip of carpeting covered the length of the passageway stretching in front of us. Instead of harsh unshaded lighting falling from occasional overhead lamps, there was a warm diffused glow from concealed strip lighting. Doors lined the passage and the one or two that were open looked into rooms as finely furnished as the cabins you might find in the senior officers' quarters aboard a battleship. Oil drilling might be a tough life, but the drillers obviously believed in doing themselves well in their off-duty hours. To find this comfort, luxury almost, in the Martian metal structure standing miles out to sea was somehow weird and altogether incongruous.

But what pleased me more than all those evidences of comfort was the fact that there were concealed loud-speakers at intervals along the passage. Those were playing music, soft music, but perhaps loud enough for my purpose. When the last of us had passed through the doorway, Kennedy turned and looked at Royale.

"Where are we going, sir?" The perfect chauffeur to the end; anyone who called Royale "sir "deserved a medal.

"The general's stateroom. Lead the way."

"I usually eat in the drillers' mess, sir," Kennedy said stiffly.

"Not today. Hurry up, now."

Kennedy took him at his word. Soon he had left most of them ten feet behind — all except me. And I knew I had very little time. I kept my voice low, head bent and talked without looking at him.

"Can we put a phone call through to land?"

"No. Not without clearance. One of Vyland's men is with the switchboard operator. Checks everything, in and out."

"See the sheriff?"

"A deputy. He got the message."

"How are they going to let us know if they had any success? "

"A message. To the general. Saying that you — or a man like you — 'had been arrested at Jacksonville, travelling north."

I should have loved to curse out loud but I contented myself with cursing inwardly. Maybe it had been the best they could think up at short notice, but it was weak, with a big chance of failure. The regular switchboard operator might indeed have passed the message on to the general and there would toe a chance that I might be in the vicinity at the time: but Vyland's creature supervising the operator would know the message to be false and wouldn't bother passing it on, except perhaps hours later, by way of a joke: nor was there any certainty that even then the news would reach my ears. Everything, just everything could fail and men might die because I couldn't get the news I wanted. It was galling. The frustration I felt, and the chagrin, were as deep as the urgency was desperate.

The music suddenly stopped, but we were rounding a comer which cut us off momentarily from the others, and I took a long chance.

"The short-wave radio operator. Is he on constant duty?"

Kennedy hesitated. "Don't know. Call-up bell, I think."

I knew what he meant. Where, for various reasons, a radio post can't be continuously manned, there is a device that triggers a distant alarm bell when a call comes through on the post's listening frequency.

"C amp;n you operate a short-wave transmitter?" I murmured.

He shook his head.

"You've got to help me. It's essential that-"

"Talbot!"