Hellstrom's Hive

“He’s not transmitting,” Janvert said, moving the control dials on his instruments. He sat in the curtained shadows of their van’s interior, the receiver mounted in front of him on a shelf originally intended as part of the camper’s kitchen. Nick Myerlie’s bluff and sweaty body was leaning over him, one red-knuckled hand on the counter beside the radio. The big man’s heavy features carried a frown of deep concern.

“What do you think’s happened to him?” Myerlie asked.

“I think he turned his transmitter off deliberately.”

“For God’s sake! Why?”

“The last thing I received,” he tapped the tape recorder over the radio, “was Hellstrom saying something about not bringing any radio equipment into their studio.”

“That’s risky damned business, turning off his transmitter,” said Myerlie.

“I’d have done the same,” Janvert said. “He has to get inside that studio.”

“But still—”

“Oh, shut up! Is Clovis still outside with her telescope?”

“Yes.” Myerlie sounded hurt. He knew Janvert was second-in-command on this case, but it was irritating to take such short-tempered treatment from a runt.

“See if she’s seen anything.”

“That thing’s only twenty-power and it’s still pretty misty out there.”

“Go find out anyway. Tell her what’s happened.”

“Right.”

The camper creaked and moved as Myerlie took his big body out the door.

Janvert, who had lifted one earphone away from his right ear to talk to Myerlie, replaced it now and stared at the receiver. What had Peruge meant by that last odd conversation? Metallurgy? New inventions?