Journey for Seven

Chapter VI Angry Voices

Husky voices in the summer evening. “Reee all about ut! Iron men. Can’t kill ’em! Reeee all about ut!”

Saccharine voice of the commentator. “Despite the attempts of the Loma plant executives to hush it up, police have discovered that a defective electric ray of some sort was unleashed by accident on the public five days ago shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon.

“This ray had the effect of giving the six passengers and the bus driver in the vehicle it touched enormous strength and virtual indestructibility. This became evident when, late yesterday afternoon, Benjamin Farr, one of the passengers on the bus, attempted to board a fast freight three miles outside of Stockton.

“He fell under the wheels. The Medical Examiner has stated that at least five sets of wheels passed over the boy. He died of a crushed throat. Though his body, except for the throat, was virtually unmarked, the wreck of the freight train tied up east-west traffic on four sets of tracks for nearly five hours.

“Of the six passengers and the bus driver, the following are now in custody — Stanley H. Weaver, the bus driver. He is being held at Loma for experimental work with the permission of the authorities. Miss Jennilou Caswell, Civil Service stenographer, under guard at her apartment. Mrs. Harry Thompson, widow, now at the General Hospital.

“Still at large are Addison McGoran, hired killer, and a young man and young woman whose names, up to the moment of this broadcast, are not yet known. Following are the descriptions of McGoran and the other two. If you should see anyone meeting this description, please phone the police immediately. Warning. These three people may be dangerous. McGoran certainly is.”

Bill Dorvan gingerly turned the dial, shutting off the radio. He gave Shirley a weak smile. “Now we’re news, baby.”

“What will we do, Bill?”

“I say, let’s go to Loma. Maybe they know what they’re doing. I’m sure the cops won’t.”

Tom Bellbight slouched into Dickinson’s office. This time he got immediate attention. “Well?” said Dickinson.

“Hardness tests show no fluctuation. He can stand heat that would blister you or me. Much less susceptible to fatigue. I’ve rigged up a few special tests. Whatever it is, it isn’t fading a bit. We checked the samples and my guess is right. Acceleration of electron orbits. I don’t know what to do next.”

“If they can only round up those three, the heat will be off us, Tom. The old lady is suing. So’s the bus company. That’s the only two so far.”

The communication box buzzed. Dickinson pushed the switch down, said, “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed. What! Send them right in.”

He grinned at Bellbight. “Two of the missing three. A Mr. Dorvan and a Miss Sanger.”

“We’ll clamp onto them,” Bellbight said, “and run them through the same tests I’ve been giving Weaver.”

“Shall we tell the police?”

“I think so. They won’t want them. They don’t want people who can walk out of their cells like tanks going through a barracks.”

“Why haven’t you been running the tests on the Caswell girl?”

Tom Bellbight, surprisingly, flushed. “She’s a little unraveled at the edges. Tough on her, you know.”

“Don’t tell me that such a confirmed misogynist—”

“Just call me an amateur psychiatrist, Dick. Jennilou was in one of those graves open at both ends, commonly called a rut. The walking dead. This is shocking her out of it. She might turn out to be a person.”

Dickinson assumed an official glare. “Which is more important, Tom? Getting Loma into the clear on this thing or your personal social experiment.”

Bellbight yawned. “A long time ago, Dick, I decided that I was a rebel. The only way I could acquire immunity from people who like to give orders was to acquire specialized knowledge. Ever since then I’ve done exactly as I please. Take it or leave it. Is that too blunt?”

The girl opened the door and Shirley Sanger and Bill Dorvan came into the office. They walked with care. Dorvan rubbed his stubbed chin apologetically. “Need anything lifted or bent?”

“We can’t tell you how much we appreciate your coming here like this and we can’t tell you how sorry we are that this happened,” Dickinson said.

“In some funny way, maybe it’s a good thing,” Shirley said, glancing at Bill Dorvan.

“At least,” said Bellbight, “life hasn’t been dull for you. My name is Bellbight. You two deserve facts. As of the moment, after working with the driver, Mr. Weaver, I can say that there is no diminution of this new aspect. I am at a loss as to what can be done through laboratory means to alter it.”

Dorvan swallowed hard. “That seems straight enough. It gives a guy a pretty — lonesome feeling.”

“Like we were from Mars or something,” Shirley said.

“You are willing to cooperate?” asked Dickinson.

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Shirley said sharply.

“Fine. You’ll report to Tom Bellbight here. You’ll be given rooms in the lab workers’ annex.”

“How about this McGoran guy?” Bill asked.

“No clue as to where he might be so far. But he’ll give himself away. You can be sure of that,” Dickinson answered.

“Do you remember the dark girl on the bus?” Bellbight asked.

Shirley nodded. “Shy kid. Pretty prim. Scared. Say this must be pretty rugged for her.”

“It is. I’d like to have you sort of become a mother hen. She’ll be better off around another woman similarly affected. I’ll talk her into coming over here.”

Ad McGoran sat in the room he had rented in Bell City and grinned as he read the newspapers, heard the speculation over the radio. They were stupid, all of them. That talk about the beard being a giveaway. He stroked his smooth chin. His face was pink and slightly sore. It had meant three hours of work with a hand mirror but he had plucked out every last hair.

And all that stuff about giving himself away. Nonsense! All he had to do was keep his head. No sudden movements. Touch everything gently. Don’t let anyone brush against his rock-hard body in a crowd.

He left the room to eat and buy newspapers. And his mind was busy. There were so many possibilities. Single-handed he could take over an armored bank car or break through the wall of any building. But that made money too easy. There should be something bigger and better.

Power was the answer. There was a purpose behind all this. If he went after the dough they’d get to work on him. Big guns and gas and possibly electric shock. No, the thing was evident. Take over from the inside. Fix it so that his superiority would be recognized.

But that couldn’t be done alone. He thought back over the people in the bus. The driver was good material. And that guy with the hangover. He looked sore at the world. The big blonde would join him too. Not the timid little black-haired one who had sat in front of him. Four of them could do it. Take over — declare that a new type of human was going to be boss from now on — threaten political assassinations — carry out a few to put the fear of God in the others.

The kid was dead and the old lady was too bossy. It had to be the driver and the one with the hangover and the blonde. The paper said that all three were at Loma. And so the idea was to get to them during the night. A little conference — it wouldn’t take long to make them understand.

The four of them — that was the picture. Ad McGoran would be the boss — the big boss. And the blonde was nice. Sanger — that was her name. He could take over and the other two would follow orders and the blonde would be beside him. No petty thefts. No bank jobs. Start right at the top.

Mrs. Thompson caught the lip of the beer can between the fingernails of her thumb and first finger and stripped it off delicately. She drained the can and frowned. Didn’t seem to be any body to the beer any more. More like a gas than a liquid. Hardly able to feel it on her tongue.

When the beer was finished she crumpled the can like a paper cup and threw it in the general direction of the white enamel wastebasket in her hospital room.

The nurse came in, only half able to conceal her distaste. She said distantly, “You have visitors, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Young woman,” Mrs. Thompson said with metallic distinctness, “You have been told that I have no interest in answering the questions of rattle-headed newspaper people and that I have no time for cranks who—”

“These men have police permission, Mrs. Thompson. I think you should see them.”

Mrs. Thompson sighed. “Don’t let ’em stay long, honey.”

Three men filed in. They were prosperous looking, a bit flashily dressed. They wore confident smiles.

The tallest one bowed. “Mrs. Thompson? I am Arthur Ledbetter. This is my partner, John Hungerford. Ledbetter and Hungerford, theatrical agents. And this other gentleman is Wilton Hisk, our attorney.”

“Pleased, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Thompson, visibly impressed.

Mr. Hisk wore glasses. He cleared his throat in passable imitation of a toy trumpet. “Mrs. Thompson, many, many obstacles were strewn in our path by those who would seek to isolate you from the world, calling your condition unfortunate.

“However, on your behalf I have forced the authorities to admit that there are no charges against you, that you are a free agent and that your liberty would not constitute a menace to this or any other community.”

“I’m sprung?” asked Mrs. Thompson.

“Ah — precisely. You may leave at any time.”

“But I’m a sick woman. Horrible accident. Damages, you know.”

“And how much do you expect to get?” Mr. Hisk asked softly.

Mrs. Thompson bit her lip. “Maybe as much as five thousand.”

Mr. Hisk bowed low to Mr. Ledbetter and said, “I think you should tell her.”

Mr. Ledbetter unstrapped his briefcase with the air of the court jeweler bringing emeralds to the queen. He took out stiff and official-looking contracts and laid them reverently by Mrs. Thompson’s elbow.

“What are these?”

“This top one is a contract with the Hawley Chain of Theaters. All you have to perform are a few small feats of strength. Sixteen weeks. When the curtain goes up you are sitting in a rocking chair. Same pose as Whistler’s Mother. You smile at the audience, pick up a horseshoe—”

“How much?”

“Ah — two thousand a week for sixteen weeks.”

Mrs. Thompson swallowed hard. “I... I...”

“And this contract is with Trans-East Video. Six months. One halfhour show a week. Total value of this one is twenty-six thousand, less of course our usual fifteen percent. This contract is for two weeks in the Garden with the Lombard Kirby International Circus. Five thousand a week.”

Mrs. Thompson said weakly, “A woman of my position and standing in the community. It isn’t dignified. I...” Her voice faltered and she licked her lips.

Mr. Hungerford spoke for the first time. “I assure you that each act will be staged with enormous dignity, Mrs. Thompson. And, as a small advance in consideration of your signature...” He took out a fat wallet, counted out four crisp five hundred dollar bills. He bowed as he handed her the pen.

Mrs. Thompson put her tongue in the corner of her mouth and signed. She giggled nervously. She looked at the pen and said, “This is one of those pens that writes under brandy, isn’t it? How absurd of me! I meant to say under water.”

The three dignified gentlemen joined in her nervous laughter.

The fenced enclosure of the Loma plant was lit by floodlights. But one corner was darker than the others. McGoran, crouching low, ran from one clump of shadow to the next. He paused and watched the fence, the area beyond.

At last he reached the fence itself. He thrust a hooked finger through the wire, ripped down. The thin steel parted with a faint singing sound.

In seconds he was across the open space and crouched at the base of the wall of the laboratory wing, his breathing unlabored, his face calm and confident.

The footsteps of the guard came close. As the guard rounded the corner McGoran jumped, bearing him to the ground. A steel-hard hand clamped across the man’s mouth before he could cry out.

McGoran leaned close, his lips almost touching the man’s ear, “I’m McGoran. Don’t struggle. Where are the others? The ones like me. The bus driver and Dorvan and the blonde.”

He cautiously released the pressure. “Go to—!” the guard grunted.

McGoran smiled without mirth and found the man’s hand. He slowly clamped down on it, stifling the scream of pain, feeling the bones give with the faint sound of a wooden matchbox slowly crumpled.

“Do you tell me or do I fix the other hand?”

“Next — building to the — left. Far end of it. Second floor.”

McGoran almost tenderly shifted the heel of his hand until it was under the guard’s chin. He pushed up. The guard lay with his dead eyes open, staring at the slow shift of the countless stars, the night breeze brushing his distorted face. McGoran took the man’s flashlight and hat.

Ten minutes later he crouched by Dorvan’s bed and shook Dorvan awake. Bill sat up, saying, “What goes on?”

“Shut up and listen.”

“Who’re you?”

“McGoran. You make a sound before I finish and I’ll kill you. Don’t think I can’t. I’ve got a proposition for you, Dorvan.”

“You’re crazy to come here, McGoran.”

“I can use you, Dorvan, and you can use me.”

Two hundred yards away Tom Bell-bight stood on the flat roof of the central transmission station. He leaned against the guard mesh of one of the huge cup-shaped transmitters. The starlight was bright, only slightly dimmed by the floodlights four stories below.

He tamped the tobacco down into his pipe with his thumb as he glanced at Jennilou Caswell who sat on the low concrete wall that bordered the roof. As he lit the pipe the puffing flames gleaming on the flat planes of his face, he kept watching her. The silhouette of brow and nose against the far panel of stars was very lovely indeed.

She said, “I forgot to thank you for the comb.”

“Friend of mine in a machine shop. Made it out of moly steel. Works, eh?”

She turned toward him and smiled. “Hadn’t you noticed?”

“Thought you were looking kempt. Is that a word?”

“We’ll call it a word. Tom, I don’t know what has happened to me.”

“I tried to tell you.”

“No, I mean on the inside. The whole world seems to have opened up just — well, just at the same time so many doors have been slammed in my face.” He chuckled. “Fine metaphors, Jennilou.”

He saw the new rigidity of her shoulders. She turned and held her hands out to him. Her voice was husky. “Tom, if it wasn’t impossible for us I couldn’t say this. I’d be too shy to say it. But now it is like we’re on opposite sides of a glass wall. Look but don’t touch.

“That’s the most important door that’s closed. You wouldn’t have liked me before, Tom I don’t like what I was. But now — now I’m alive and there isn’t anything for us, is there?”

“There’s this,” he said, indicating with a sweep of his hand the night and the stars.

“But it isn’t enough. I love you, Tom.”

“That’s a word with no adequate scientific definition. It has clinical and physiological symptoms. I hate to use loose words. But there isn’t any other. I love you too, Jennilou.”

Her laugh was too shrill. “But you can’t kiss me. To me you’re a creature made of tissue and slender sticks. Oh, Tom!”

He went to her and put his hands on the warm rigid marble of her shoulders.

The two men from New Mexico were silent as Dickinson drove his car toward the Loma plant.

“You sure Bellbight will be there?” the one called Sherman asked.

“He’ll be there.”

Another mile passed in silence. The other man, Lamont, leaned close to the windows and looked up at the stars. He laughed softly. “Think about it long enough and it’ll scare you to death.”

Dickinson said, “I know what you mean. I know just what you mean.”

“What’s your answer?” McGoran asked.

Dorvan gingerly lifted the cigarette to his lips. He shrugged. “Sounds fine to me. You’ve got it all figured out.”

“How about Weaver?”

“He’ll go along too.”

“Then let’s get out of here. You get the blonde indoctrinated while I talk to Weaver. He’s across the hall, you said.”

“Right across the hall.”

“No tricks, now.”

“Look, McGoran. I didn’t ask to be turned into a freak. So I’ll make everything out of it that I can.”

“Good boy!” McGoran said. “Don’t waste time.”

The P.A. system crackled and Tom recognized Dickinson’s voice. “Report to my office, Tom. Immediately. Important.”

“What’s that about?” Jennilou asked.

He shrugged. “You ready to turn in?”

He led her toward the trap door that opened onto the staircase. Out of habit he took her arm to help her so that she wouldn’t fall. But she could fall without damage. It made him slightly ill to think of it.

They parted under the floodlights and he turned toward the main offices. Jennilou walked slowly toward the wing where they all slept. She walked with her head down.

She walked up the stairs to the second floor and stopped as she heard the low voices, angry voices.

“You’re nuts! Get out of here,” Weaver said loudly.

“Keep your voice down or I’ll shut you up for good.” Jennilou frowned. She didn’t recognize the second voice. It had a dangerous sound to it.

She moved softly to where she could see. Dark figures in the dim hall. A stranger — no, not a stranger. The man from the bus. McGoran!

Another shadow behind him — stealthy. She wanted to scream.

Swirl of motion and the thick thud of fist against flesh and bone. McGoran spun and fell heavily.

As she moved closer she saw Weaver and Dorvan solemnly shaking hands. Dorvan said, “Nice going, boy. You saw me moving in and you didn’t blink an eye.”

Weaver said, “We got to keep our little group from getting a bad name.”

Shirley Sanger came out into the hall, holding a robe around her. Her eyes widened as she saw McGoran.

Dorvan looked up and saw the two of them. He said, “Hi, darling. Hello Jennilou. Look what we got.”

Shirley said in an acid tone, “You’ve got him but can you keep him? What will you tie him up with?”

“Simple,” said Stan Weaver expansively. “Every time he wiggles we pop him again. That’s work I could learn to love. He wanted the four of us to take over the government. A bunch of fancy ideas about supermen. He didn’t want you in on it, Jennilou, and he didn’t want the old lady.”

“Oh, fine!” Shirley said.

McGoran moaned. Stan Weaver said, “My turn.” He chopped McGoran on the side of the jaw with a blow that would have bent quarter inch steel plate. McGoran settled closer to the floor.

“I’ll call Tom — Dr. Bellbight,” Jennilou said. “He’s in Mr. Dickinson’s office.”