Then, to Gregson, “Once more—who are you? Who sent you here? What do you want?”
“I want to help.” And, inspirationally, Gregson added, “I want to do anything I can to get the Security Bureau off our backs before it’s too late.”
Cromley and the other man exchanged uncertain stares.
But, just then, from elsewhere in the shack anxious footsteps bore down on the room where the interrogation was in progress. And a voice pitched high with alarm shouted out:
“He’s from the Security Bureau! He’s a special agent!”
The interrogator turned vehemently on Gregson as the man appeared in the doorway.
Wearing a robe and slippers, he was. unmistakably a Valorian, even to the detail of fingertips that were bluntly rounded in the absence of their false nails.
The man with the laser pistol raised it in Gregson’s face.
But the Valorian shouted, “No—wait! He’s the one the Forsythe girl said was…”
Then his slight, severe features tensed with fear as he exclaimed, “Oh, God! I’ve been zylphing in the wrong direction! They’re coming! They’re here!”
Instantly melting the window pane before it, a heavy laser beam sliced into the room, fatally piercing the chest of the man who was threatening Gregson.
Two other beams, focused at stun intensity, splashed full upon Cromley and the Valorian and they collapsed.
Moments later several International Guardsmen were spilling into the shack, led by the supervisor of Special Agents Operations.
“Sort of a melodramatic rescue, wouldn’t you say?” the latter observed, staring at the unconscious Valorian.
But Gregson was numbly silent. Why had Helen’s name been mentioned by the alien?
And how did the Valorian know who he was? Or that the Guardsmen were just outside the shack?
“I thought this situation might call for the stealthy approach technique,” the supervisor quipped. “You all right?”
Gregson rubbed his bruised cheek. “I’d like to be in on the questioning of these two.”
“Sorry. Orders are to take all prisoners straight to quarantine.”
CHAPTER V
Jangling on its night table, the comviewer brought Gregson upright in bed. But it was a moment before he recognized his Mount Royal Hotel room in London and remembered the special agents briefing scheduled for Monday morning.
He flicked the switch and Wellford’s face materialized on the screen. “Sorry to barge in like this, but I should think you would be up and around by now, even though it is Sunday.”
“What time is it?”
“Fair on to noon. And I’m sitting anxiously on your note inviting me to Simpson’s for Yorkshire pudding. Shall we get cracking?”
“Be right down.”
Wellford drew back skeptically. “I suppose that translates into about half an hour’s worth of objective time. Incidentally, I’ve only just read the fact sheet on your exploits yesterday. I knew one of us was about due to take a Valorian in tow.”
After the Englishman had switched off, Gregson’s thoughts stalled on the incidents at the hunting lodge and he couldn’t suppress the echo of the alien’s blurting out, “He’s the one the Forsythe girl said was…”
Helen a cell member? Persuaded to work with the Valorians, as Cromley had been—the man with Cromley—the would-be assassin Wellford had captured in Manhattan? Or had he only imagined hearing her name mentioned in the shack?
He could only hope Cromley and the alien wouldn’t implicate her under interrogation. If he, himself, got back to Pennsylvania soon enough, he might find some way of questioning her without triggering the vicious conditioned-response mechanism.
* * *
The cab bore Gregson and Wellford swiftly along Oxford Street, its progress abetted by the dearth of vehicles that had become England’s lot with the devastation of its industrial potential in ’95.
Of all the Western population centers, Gregson mused, London had taken the brunt of the Soviet missile counterattack. Three hydrogen devices had
“I want to help.” And, inspirationally, Gregson added, “I want to do anything I can to get the Security Bureau off our backs before it’s too late.”
Cromley and the other man exchanged uncertain stares.
But, just then, from elsewhere in the shack anxious footsteps bore down on the room where the interrogation was in progress. And a voice pitched high with alarm shouted out:
“He’s from the Security Bureau! He’s a special agent!”
The interrogator turned vehemently on Gregson as the man appeared in the doorway.
Wearing a robe and slippers, he was. unmistakably a Valorian, even to the detail of fingertips that were bluntly rounded in the absence of their false nails.
The man with the laser pistol raised it in Gregson’s face.
But the Valorian shouted, “No—wait! He’s the one the Forsythe girl said was…”
Then his slight, severe features tensed with fear as he exclaimed, “Oh, God! I’ve been zylphing in the wrong direction! They’re coming! They’re here!”
Instantly melting the window pane before it, a heavy laser beam sliced into the room, fatally piercing the chest of the man who was threatening Gregson.
Two other beams, focused at stun intensity, splashed full upon Cromley and the Valorian and they collapsed.
Moments later several International Guardsmen were spilling into the shack, led by the supervisor of Special Agents Operations.
“Sort of a melodramatic rescue, wouldn’t you say?” the latter observed, staring at the unconscious Valorian.
But Gregson was numbly silent. Why had Helen’s name been mentioned by the alien?
And how did the Valorian know who he was? Or that the Guardsmen were just outside the shack?
“I thought this situation might call for the stealthy approach technique,” the supervisor quipped. “You all right?”
Gregson rubbed his bruised cheek. “I’d like to be in on the questioning of these two.”
“Sorry. Orders are to take all prisoners straight to quarantine.”
CHAPTER V
Jangling on its night table, the comviewer brought Gregson upright in bed. But it was a moment before he recognized his Mount Royal Hotel room in London and remembered the special agents briefing scheduled for Monday morning.
He flicked the switch and Wellford’s face materialized on the screen. “Sorry to barge in like this, but I should think you would be up and around by now, even though it is Sunday.”
“What time is it?”
“Fair on to noon. And I’m sitting anxiously on your note inviting me to Simpson’s for Yorkshire pudding. Shall we get cracking?”
“Be right down.”
Wellford drew back skeptically. “I suppose that translates into about half an hour’s worth of objective time. Incidentally, I’ve only just read the fact sheet on your exploits yesterday. I knew one of us was about due to take a Valorian in tow.”
After the Englishman had switched off, Gregson’s thoughts stalled on the incidents at the hunting lodge and he couldn’t suppress the echo of the alien’s blurting out, “He’s the one the Forsythe girl said was…”
Helen a cell member? Persuaded to work with the Valorians, as Cromley had been—the man with Cromley—the would-be assassin Wellford had captured in Manhattan? Or had he only imagined hearing her name mentioned in the shack?
He could only hope Cromley and the alien wouldn’t implicate her under interrogation. If he, himself, got back to Pennsylvania soon enough, he might find some way of questioning her without triggering the vicious conditioned-response mechanism.
* * *
The cab bore Gregson and Wellford swiftly along Oxford Street, its progress abetted by the dearth of vehicles that had become England’s lot with the devastation of its industrial potential in ’95.
Of all the Western population centers, Gregson mused, London had taken the brunt of the Soviet missile counterattack. Three hydrogen devices had
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