The House that Stood Still Page 12

  He felt no criticism. She believed in her purpose. This problem was entirely within his own being. There would be thousands of people in the factories that she wanted to bomb. They would be there despite any warning, and he simply could not help endanger them. He explained his feelings haltingly, for he felt like a fool, almost as if he lacked manhood.

  But there was no doubt in .his own mind. One woman and one man could not wage war against a nation. When he had finished his explanation, Mistra nodded thoughtfully, and said, “I’ll take you back to Almirante as soon as it gets dark.”

  XIV

  The night was dark and, except for the steady ocean breeze, the cemetery was silent. When Tannahill was an hour overdue, Mistra stirred in the seat beside him, and said softly:

  “Perhaps the police waylaid him.”

  Stephens said nothing, but he realized it was not impossible. In ordering Tannahill’s arrest within an hour of returning to his office, Howland had taken a step from which there was no turning back. It could easily include road blocks.

  Half an hour later—just before midnight—Mistra spoke again: “Perhaps if I remained here, and you went somewhere and phoned the police to see if they had him—”

  “Not yet. A lot of things could have delayed him.”

  For a while there was silence again. He had suggested that the cemetery be the meeting place because it was a rendezvous with which both he and Tannahill were familiar.

  Stephens went on finally, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about your group. Have there been many quarrels among you in the past?”

  “Not since we brought the mindreader in two hundred years ago.”

  “I intended to ask you why there was only one. I thought mind reading might be a product of long life.”

  “No.” Her reply was prompt. “One of the members ran into a family in Europe who had a remarkable ability in that direction. So for two generations we tried an inbreeding experiment. We finally selected a grandchild.”

  “You did this—” he hesitated— “unanimously?”

  He was aware of her turning and looking at him. “What are you getting at?” She asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  That was true. He was trying to fit together things that had so far not been explained. Why had he been shown the underground cave, and who was the man who had shown it to him? . . . Mistra’s motive in seeking his aid seemed clear enough. And she had evidently disarmed the mind-reader by the simple process of openly opposing the plan that the group had for leaving Earth.

  Offhand, it was improbable that anyone could withhold a secret from a mind-reader for any length of time. It would mean keeping back certain thoughts only, and letting others come through; a problem in self-discipline that almost defied possibility. It seemed to suggest that the murders had been done by an outsider.

  And yet, he himself had proved that a vital thought could be kept from the woman telepath. In failing to notice that he had secured important information from the Mexican Import Company, she had revealed a weakness that someone in the group could have discovered previously. Stephens visualized the individual remaining away from the mind reader as much as possible. And it was well to remember that the murder plan might have been conceived within the last year. The rebellion of Mistra had occupied but a moment in the history of the group.

  Stephens said slowly, “Did anyone oppose bringing in the mind-reader when the subject was first broached?”

  “Yes—” Her tone was slightly ironic—“everyone except the person who had discovered the telepath.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Tannahill.”

  “In view of his control of the house, I suppose he inevitably had his way.”

  Mistra said seriously, “He had the most important reason, of course. He suspected that there was dissatisfaction with his leadership, and he wanted incipient plotters to realize there was no hope.”

  Stephens nodded. “Who held out the longest?”

  “It didn’t work quite like that. You must understand that most of us are conservatives. We’d like to have the house set up as a sort of foundation with all of us acting as a board of directors. But, failing that, we would under normal circumstances prefer to let it remain in the control of Tannahill. Much as we dislike him, we know what our position is with him. Another owner would be an unknown quantity. So you see it wasn’t very hard for us to be persuaded that a mind-reader might have a stabilizing effect. We simply asked recalcitrants what they were concealing, and when the matter finally came to a vote there was surprising unanimity. Well, not too surprising.” She laughed a little grimly.

  Stephens said, “Were there any previous attempts to take control of the house away from Tannahill? Before your attempt, I mean.”

  “The owner before him—I suppose that could be called an attempt.”

  “You’re referring to the mysterious chief who occupied the house when Tanequila first arrived. Did he succeed? Did he get back in, I mean?”

  “Yes, he did, and a good many of us went back with him.”

  “You were among them?” It was the second surprise. “You—preceded Tannahill?”

  She was patient. “Allison, you don’t seem to be able to grasp how much time has gone by. I was in a ship where the passengers had to defend themselves against an uprising of the crew and the slave oarsmen. The passengers won, but we ran into a storm, and no one knew how to navigate. We touched land several times, once I think, equatorial Africa, then—I’m guessing—South America; and finally, completely lost though still intent on getting to our destination, we were swept around Cape Horn.”

  “But why were you aboard that ship? Where were you going?” Stephens waited with fascinated interest.

  She hesitated momentarily, then: “I was at that time the daughter of a Roman official in Britain.”

  Stephens swallowed, and then asked, “What year was that?”

  “About 300 A.D.”

  “The house is that old?”

  “Immensely older than that. When we came ashore all the men in our party were killed by the owners. But they had been there for centuries.”

  “But who built it?” Blankly.

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” she said grimly. “We even thought it might be you. Remember?”

  Stephens paused, and then took the plunge. “Mistra, was Peeley the great chief before Tanequila came on the scene?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has he been in the group?”

  Silence.

  “Mistra!”

  “I’m thinking,” she said softly. “Wait.”

  “How good is your memory?”

  “Perfect. But—ssshh.” More silence. At last, sighing, she spoke: “Peeley was active in the experiments that led to our selection of a mind-reader. He was one of the first to join Tannahill in urging the presence of such a person. I think you’re off the track, my dear.”

  “Unless,” Stephens pointed out, “he had discovered a method of concealing his thoughts.”

  Mistra hesitated again, then: “He’s not in a position to do anything.”

  “He’s the attorney for the estate.”

  Her voice was firmer. “That’s important but not decisive. We were so careful. I can’t go into the details, but a separate office in Almirante under an outsider was one of the safeguards. Howland, you, others before both of you.”

  “Why was Howland separated from the position?”

  “He happened to notice that the signature on a document a hundred years ago was the same as on a recent one.”

  Stephens laughed ironically. “So he was replaced by a man who has now been told everything.”

  “By me,” said Mistra. “Nobody ever said that the group approved of it.” She broke off, “Allison, it’s one o’clock. And if you don’t go and phone, I will. I really don’t fancy sitting in a graveyard all night.”

  Reluctantly, Stephens climbed out of the car. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. He
looked at her shadowed figure behind the steering wheel. “I’ll go first to a drug store about two blocks from here. If they’re closed, I’ll go farther, if necessary all the way downtown.”

  It seemed to him that Mistra nodded, but she said nothing. He leaned over and kissed her. At first her lips were only passive, then abruptly she put her arms up around his head. Stephens drew back presently, and said in a shaky tone, “It might be advisable for you to get out of the car and wait in the shadows. That way you can watch anybody who approaches.”

  Mistra answered that “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ve got a gun.” Metal glinted in her hand. She spoke softly. “Remember that saving the Earth is more important than anything—including us.”

  Stephens walked swiftly along the road toward the gate. At the gate itself, he paused for a survey of the street opposite the cemetery. But his eyes saw no movement or sign of life.

  He hurried across the road into the shadows of the trees that lined the street. The first drug store, as he had suspected, was closed. So was the second one. It was ten minutes to two when he entered an all-night cafe in the downtown business section and made his call to the police. The reply was terse but to the point. “Arthur Tannahill has not yet been arrested.”

  With a feeling of urgency he walked the two blocks to the nearest taxi stand. And then it was another two blocks to the cemetery gate from where he paid off the cabman. He jogged most of the way. The stamp of his shoes on the hard road merely transformed his impatience into sound. He slowed finally, puzzled.

  He said softly to himself, “The car was on this side of the Tannahill plot.”

  He walked a little farther, and then stopped. Dark as it was, he could see the grill-like fence of the Tannahill section. It was several feet behind him to the right. He stood very still. The road ahead of him and behind him was deserted. Mistra might have driven the Cadillac under the trees somewhere, but it seemed doubtful.

  “Mistra!” he called. “Oh, Mistra!”

  No answer. And no sound but the heavy pounding of his heart. With a grim but hopeless patience, he set about searching the entire area. In fifteen minutes he was convinced.

  Mistra and her car were no longer in the graveyard, nor was there any sign of Tannahill.

  Stephens headed pessimistically for her apartment in a taxicab, and made certain she was not there. Nor was she at his own home. From there he called the Grand House, but there was no answer. Dismissing the cab, he got his car from the garage and drove back downtown. It was a few minutes of half-past three in the morning as he approached the Palms Building.

  A single light burned inside the lobby in front of the elevator shaft, but the doors were locked. That did not mean anything. Peeley had keys—and was, in fact, the only other man except for himself and the janitor who did have them legally.

  Stephens slipped the key into the lock, then drew back, indecisive. Exactly what did he plan to do? He had his gun, which would take care of an emergency. But did he actually want Peeley to know that he had been identified?

  The answer to that was no. But if Mistra were being held a prisoner—

  Very softly, Stephens let himself into the building. He headed for the rear, and climbed the back stairs of the third floor. The office of the Mexican Import Company was dark. He listened at the door for several minutes, then moved slowly down the stairway to the sub-basement.

  It took several minutes of tugging at the false wall to force it open and enter the cavern beyond. Stephens found the lamp where he had left it, shut the secret door behind him, and stared hesitantly into the dimness ahead. There was no alternative. The cave was the only place left to look before he started on the drawn-out process of checking, one by one, the homes of the people he had identified as members of the group.

  Shrugging, he began to move forward. The tunnel widened gradually on a downward slope, then leveled off. Since it was about a third of a mile to the bottom of the mountain atop which the Grand House stood, Stephens walked rapidly. After twenty minutes by his watch he reached the second tunnel where it branched off from the one he was in. Stephens turned along it without hesitation. As he came to the long wall of metal, he saw that a great section of it had lifted out of sight, and that beyond was a metal corridor.

  He drew back hastily and clicked off his light. In the darkness, he waited with pounding heart. The minutes slipped by, and there was no sound.

  He edged forward until he was at the door. He pressed flat against the door jamb, and peered inside. He could see a faint radiance, as if he were looking at a dull reflection of a very dim light.

  He couldn’t wait. Mistra might be in danger. Stephens turned on his light and, Nambu in hand, went in.

  He found himself in a broad, gleaming corridor that seemed to be lined with translucent glass. He paused several times to examine the material, but there were no openings that he could find. The “glass” appeared to be unbroken.

  He came to a large, domed chamber; and now he saw where the reflected light had come from. In one corner, almost hidden by rank on rank of shimmering glass, was a globe that glowed with a faint greenish radiance.

  Stephens looked around him wonderingly. He had a sense of sounds just beyond the threshold of his reception. There was a vague, all-pervading vibration as if hidden machinery were pulsing and reacting perhaps to his presence. The whole effect was eerie and unnatural.

  He could see that other corridors led off from the central room, but he did not immediately explore them. Instead, very carefully he approached the globe. It flickered with tiny light changes. The glow did not remain the same for more than a moment or so. Stephens was within five feet of the first glass barrier when, suddenly, a two foot square area of the globe facing him changed to a cream color, then turned white.

  As he waited tensely, a picture took form. It showed a round, bright ball against a black background, with many dots of light visible in the darkness.

  The bright ball grew rapidly larger, and presently Stephens saw that it had markings on it. He traced the familiar lines of North and South America, and the out-jut of the Spanish peninsula.

  Earth! He was being shown a scene from a spaceship approaching from outer space.

  The planet quickly filled the picture area, and still it grew. Stephens saw the extended arm of lower California, then that became too vast for the screen’s capacity.

  For the first time he realized that the machine was coming down at least partly out of control. He had a glimpse of ocean, a brief view of a mountainous land; and then—crash!

  It was all the more startling because it was so silent. One minute, the ship was plunging toward the side of a mountain; the next there was darkness.

  Stephens thought almost blankly: “Why, of course. This ship must have crashed here thousands of yearn ago. But who was in it?”

  He saw that another picture was forming on the surface of the pulsating globe—

  For two hours, Stephens watched. Entire series of the pictures were repeated several times, apparently for emphasis. Each time, new scenes were interpolated for clarification of otherwise obscure sequences. Gradually, a coherent, intelligible story emerged.

  At an indeterminate time in the past, a robot-controlled spaceship, thrown far off course by a damaging accident, had crashed into the side of a cliff. The impact had precipitated a landslide, and the ship was buried under more than a hundred feet of soil and rock.

  The robot survived the crash; and, since it was able to read minds as well as broadcast its own thoughts, it presently established contact with a small group of savages. It found that their minds were dominated by superstition, and implanted in them the irrational notion that they should dig a hole and open the way to the entrance of the ship.

  But they were unable to repair the vessel, or to comprehend what was wanted. The robot projected into their minds the command that they construct a temple, each stone of which must first be brought into the ship for special treatment.

  To im
press the savages, the treatment was made a process of sparks and lightning flashes. The real treatment consisted of bombardment of the material by sub-atomic particles available in quantity only from very heavy and very rare artificial elements. And the reason was to prolong the lives of those who might help the robot by repairing the ship.

  Of that first group of primitives who lived long, all but one were eventually killed by violent means. Among the novitiates who replaced the dead, Stephens was startled to see a tall, light-skinned man who resembled, and therefore undoubtedly was, Walter Peeley.

  It was Peeley and the smaller man—the only survivor of the first group—whose minds awakened to the possibility that the ship was not a god. The robot-brain welcomed them, and secretly began to give them a scientific education. They learned, among other things, which part of the robot was the thought receiver and which the thought sender.

  It was the robot that discovered that newer priests of the temple were receiving some of the thoughts it was transmitting. As a protection from the resulting suspicion, it showed its two adherents how to adjust the thought sender, so that its range would be limited to the ship.

  They shut it off completely.

  It was a sudden impulse. The hostility behind it came out of some depth of hate and fear in the mind of the smaller man.

  Both men were instantly in a state of terror. Using the weapons they had found in its storeroom, they destroyed the sensitive sender.

  In an automatic defense, the robot released a gas into the interior. Coughing, their bodies contorted by pain, the two fled. The door shut behind them.

  They were never admitted again. With the passage of time, they analyzed what had happened, and, with the scientific knowledge they had, guessed a great deal more. They murdered all the rest of the second group, filled in the open pit, and had the caves dug. They planned to get aboard the vessel again, and seize its cargo.