Chapter II

Glines’ taste ran to richly aromatic tobaccos. Even now, long after midnight, his office hung heavy with the stink of the stuff.

Stone wrinkled his nose in distaste, again shifted his weight in the hard chair, trying to ease his aching muscles. The welts where the monster’s discs had clutched him stung like new burns. Bruises and scratches plagued him every time he moved, a continuing, continuous irritation.

And still Glines did not come.

Now, in the silence, the ticking of the leather-embellished desk clock seemed to grow louder, till the sound of it echoed in Stone’s ears like an infuriating off-key drumbeat. He found himself resenting the desk itself, with its precise, too-neat arrangement of office trivia. The air the lazy ceiling fan pushed against his face pressed thick as warm, wet cheesecloth.

Yet his mouth stayed dry. When a rill of icy sweat trickled from his armpit, it sent a tremor through his whole body.

He gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes tight shut, trying to shut out the awful memory of the monster and the woman.

But shutting his eyes only made the picture come back clearer, sharper. Better to leave them open....

Once more, he shifted cursing under his breath as new pain pulsed through him.

Besides, the chair creaked.

Stone frowned. It was idiotic, the way he found himself giving way to every tiny irritation ... almost as if the whole base--this office especially--somehow had come to radiate tension.

And tension was one thing he couldn’t afford just now.

Grimly, he sucked in air--a deep breath that filled his lungs held it for the count of ten ... expelled it in a rush, letting himself go limp and jelly-like.

The third time he did it, he knew that some of the raw-nerved stiffness was leaving him. Closing his eyes no longer conjured up macabre visions.

Now, however, he found his mind turning to Bjornberg.

The sergeant’s open hostility baffled him. In the past, they’d always been on a pleasant enough footing--friends, almost. Back in his service days, he’d even soldiered in some of the same places as had the sergeant. It gave them a common ground of past and interest, something to talk about over a beer.

Yet tonight, Bjornberg had called him a “lousy civilian phony”.

Stone shook his head slowly. It just didn’t make sense.

He became aware that the clock’s tick was growing louder again ... fraying at his nerves--

Then, abruptly, footsteps echoed in the hall outside. The door opened. Glines waddled in.

It was typical that he should be freshly shaven and fully dressed, even to tie and clean white shirt. Emergencies might come and go; but if they wanted Glines’ attention, they’d have to wait till the last button was properly secured and the pink chops smooth and anointed with perfumed shaving lotion.

With an effort, Stone kept his voice pleasant. “Hi, Herb. Sorry to drag you out with this nonsense.”

“Nonsense--?” Glines’ fat face stayed stiff, his manner unbending. “I’m not sure I like your choice of words there, Stone.”

Stone stared. “Herb! What is this? Just because you take over my job for two weeks while they call me in to Washington--”

“Don’t evade the issue, Stone!” Glines posed, too erect, beside the desk. His lips pursed. “As I see it, neither your job nor your trip to Washington has anything to do with the things Sergeant Bjornberg’s told me.”

“I see.” Stone clipped his words. “In that case, Glines, maybe we’d better get a few things straight. It happens I’m your superior here. And if I’m not ‘Carl’ to you, then I’m damn’ well ‘_Mister Stone_.’ Is that clear?”

“No.”

“What--?”

“No, I said. It isn’t clear--not clear at all.” Glines stood openly defiant, insulting. Insolently, he thrust out his puffy lower lip. “You talk a lot about being my superior here, don’t you? Well, as of this moment, I’m not at all sure that you are.”

Stone drew a deep, incredulous breath. Then, slowly--very slowly--he came up from his chair. When he spoke, his words were measured: “Glines, you’re either drunk or crazy. In either case, I’m sick of it. The MP’s have my statement of the facts of what happened tonight. I’m worn out, and I want to get a shower and have the medics disinfect these cuts and then go to bed. This cross-examination business can wait till morning.”

He turned on his heel, strode towards the door.

Behind him, a drawer rattled. Glines’ voice rang, shrill and angry:

“Oh, no, you don’t!”

Stone ignored him.

“Stone! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Stone came up short; half-turned, staring.

* * * * *

Glines stood crouched behind the desk, his eyes black, beady slits above fat cheeks. He gripped an automatic, a heavy Army Colt, in one pudgy hand.

“Back!” he cried shrilly. “Come back here, Stone, before I shoot you like you deserve!”

Stone stood very still, trying without avail to fathom the things that seethed in the black eyes.

First Bjornberg; now Glines. Had the whole base gone mad?

“Easy, Herb,” he said soothingly. “Easy does it. I’ll come back.”

Careful of every movement, he made his way to the desk. “You can put the gun down now, Herb. I won’t try to leave again till you say to.”

“I’ll say you won’t!” Glines bared uneven teeth in a taunting smile. And then: “Oh, you were clever, all right, Stone. But not clever enough to fool me.”

“I wasn’t?”

“No. It all came to me in a flash as soon as Bjornberg told me about you and that woman, and the crazy story you tried to put out about fighting some monster.”

Glines’ face grew more flushed as he spoke, his words and breathing jerky and uneven. The hand that held the gun quivered.

New prickles of tension touched Stone’s spine. “Sure, Herb; sure....”

It was as if his fat little aide hadn’t even heard him; as if the man were talking to himself, almost.

“The minute I woke up, it all clicked into place. Just like that.” Glines giggled, high and ragged. “Oh, I’d been suspicious all along, of course. I checked your record while you were gone--the way you sneaked into security work, pretending to be an American agent while you fought with the Communists in Spain; the business of playing professional soldier in China; those years you spent with the OSS during the war. You cut quite a figure, all right. It made you look tough, dangerous, trustworthy, experienced. But it was all aimed at just one thing: This job here, in charge of civilian security on the country’s top top-secret project. You were willing to wait, to bide your time. Because you knew that when you got this spot here you could really do the job right when you betrayed us!”

A numbness crept over Stone. It was incredible, this mad net of distortion Glines was weaving about him.

Something was behind it, surely ... some dark and evil pattern.

Yet what--?

It was a question pregnant with frustration. Because he didn’t dare to argue; not with an obvious madman. He couldn’t even probe too deeply.

He tried to speak calmly: “Did you figure out the rest of it, too, Herb?”

“The rest--?”

“Sure. How it all fits together. How the business about the woman and the monster could help me betray anything?”

Scorn distended Glines’ eyes. He radiated contempt. “Do you think I’m completely stupid? I knew it the instant I woke up, of course, just like the rest. You wanted some kind of cover to hide behind so that no one would suspect you when news about the project got out. So you killed that poor woman, then made up the story about the monster. You knew that as soon as it got to the papers there’d be dozens of reporters swarming over the base; you can’t guard every inch of a government reservation as big as this one. Then you could blame the reporters for the leak on the project.”

“I see.” Stone nodded slowly. “Well, I guess you’ve got it all, then. You might as well call in MacDougal.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call him.” Again Glines giggled. “Only first I’m going to wrap this all up good and tight. You’re too good a friend of his for me to take any chances. Besides,”--his eyes grew suddenly cold and wary--“besides, I’m not too sure where he stands. Even a base director’s suspect, when he’s friends with a traitor!”

* * * * *

Stone made an elaborate business of shrugging. “That’s carrying it a little far, isn’t it, Herb? Mac’s going to have the final report to make on this business, and he might not like it if he thought you were trying to pull a fast one on him.”

“If he knew, he might.” Glines’ eyes glittered. “But then, I plan to handle it more simply than that, without any red tape. Bjornberg understands. He’ll take care of it.”

“He’ll--take care of it?”

“Yes.”

Glines smirked. “_Ley del fuego_, they call it in Spanish. The law of flight. Shot while attempting to escape.”

Stone’s palms were suddenly slick with sweat. The ticking of the desk clock echoed in his ears like the knell of doom. He made it a point to breathe deeply, evenly. “That’s a big responsibility for a man to take, Herb.”

“Let me worry about that, Stone. I think I’ll find it a pleasure.”

As he spoke, Glines came round the desk, waddling as always.

Ordinarily, the way Glines moved made Stone want to smile. Only now, of a sudden, it wasn’t funny.

Especially when the gun the fat man held stayed so very steady.

Abruptly, ignoring the weapons, Stone turned to the desk ... picked up the clock ... stared down at its face. “You’d better hurry, then, Herb.”

“What--?”

“Time’s running out. The sergeant goes off duty in a couple of minutes.”

He lifted the clock so Glines could see it.

The black, beady eyes flicked to the dial.

Stone hurled the clock, square at Glines’ head.

His aide jerked away, barely in time to dodge the missile.

But in that split second of distraction, reflex movement, Stone lunged in--knocking Glines’ gun aside with a left-foreman block, driving a hard right into the pit of the fat man’s bulging paunch.

Glines crashed back against the wall, tottered, and slid to the floor his face scarlet as he fought agonizedly for breath.

Stone stomped down on his wrist; kicked the Colt aside. Then, scooping it up, he stood straining his ears, listening for some outside reaction to the scuffle.

None came. Wordless, he strode to the door.

Panting, now, Glines glared up at him eyes sparking hate. “Go--go ahead--Stone! See--how far--you get!”

“Bjornberg?”

“That’s right. I gave him orders to stand guard outside the building--and to shoot on sight!”

Stone smiled thinly. “That’s why I’m not going out.” He threw the door’s heavy bolt in place. “You see, there’s just one catch to all your theories, Glines: They’re not true. So we’re going to get MacDougal down here right now and square things away.”

As he spoke, he strode swiftly to the desk; picked up the phone, dialed the base director’s quarters number.

Four rings. Then MacDougal’s sleep-thickened voice: “Base director speaking.”

“Carl Stone, Mac. Get down to Glines’ office fast; this is urgent. And it might be smart to bring along a couple of guards.”

The sleepiness faded from MacDougal’s voice. “Of course, Carl. If you say so.” A pause. “I didn’t know you were back. When did you get in?”

“Awhile ago. But something’s happened I don’t want to talk about on the phone, and I can’t leave the office, here.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

* * * * *

He made it in four--a big, shaggy man with shoulders like mine beams and John L. Lewis eyebrows. Two armed guards followed him in.

“You’ve got troubles, Carl?”

“You might say so. Glines, here,”--Stone gestured to the fat man, still sitting slumped against the wall--“has suddenly decided I’m a traitor. His solution to the problem was to arrange to have me shot while attempting to escape.”

MacDougal’s shaggy eyebrows lifted. “Well, now! That’s one way of eliminating a problem, isn’t it?--Though I doubt that he’s actually got it in him to pull the trigger when the cards are down.”

Stone shrugged. “He didn’t plan to.”

“No?” The base director cocked his head. “Then who--?”

“Sergeant Bjornberg. Whether he shares Glines’ delusions or not, I can’t say. But Glines tells me he stationed the sergeant outside the building, with orders to shoot me on sight.”

MacDougal frowned. “Things really have been happening to you, haven’t they, Carl?” And then, turning to Glines: “How about this, Herb? Got anything to get off your chest?”

The fat man scrambled to his feet and stood pompously erect in a belated effort to regain his dignity. His eyes sparked. “I certainly do, Mr. MacDougal. There’s not a word of truth in what he says--about the shooting part, that is. What actually happened was, Sergeant Bjornberg caught him down the road a couple of miles, crouched over a woman’s corpse. You can see how cut up he is”--a contemptuous gesture towards Stone--“as if they’d fought before he killed her. He tried to alibi himself with a wild story about them both being attacked by some bug-eyed monster--”

MacDougal interrupted: “You can skip that part, Glines. The driver from the motor pool told me about it on the way over.”

“Yes, sir.” Glines nodded tightly. “Well, anyhow, after he’d given his story to the MP’s, Sergeant Bjornberg still wasn’t satisfied. Under the circumstances, and all, and what with Stone acting so peculiar, he asked me to come over and talk to him. When I got here, Stone was ugly and insulting. He refused to talk to me, and insisted on going to his quarters. I was already worried about the way he was acting, so when he got so hostile I pulled a gun on him. After all”--he flushed--“we were alone here. I hadn’t thought to have a guard stand by.”

“And then--?”

“He attacked me. I didn’t want to shoot him, of course, and he’s stronger than I am. He got hold of the gun, and then called you.”

MacDougal frowned; studied the floor briefly. Then, after a moment, he turned to Stone: “Well, Carl?”

Stone could feel heat rising in his face. “What do you mean, ‘Well, Carl’? Glines picked a fight with me from the moment he walked into this room. He accused me of being a traitor, went through a long rigamarole about how I was to leak information on the project--”

“If you’ll check his record, you’ll see that I have ample reason for thinking as I do, Mr. MacDougal!” Glines broke in sharply. “He fought with the Communists in Spain. He trained troops at Yenan. He went into Yugoslavia for the OSS; served more than a year with the Partisans. He’s a Communist and a traitor, I tell you--”

Of a sudden, Stone’s patience ran out. Inside him, something snapped. In one long stride he closed the distance between him and Glines; caught the fat man by the coat-front. Savagely, he slapped the pudgy cheeks--once, twice, three times.

The next instant the guards were upon him--dragging him back, slamming him against the wall.

“Gentlemen!” MacDougal roared. “We’ll have no more of this!” His face was beet-red, his blue eyes flashing.

With an effort, Stone slowed his breathing. “Sorry, Mac,” he apologized. “I guess I just haven’t had enough practice at being called a Communist.”

“Nor in curbing your temper, Mr. Stone!” The base director’s voice rang ice-brittle. He pivoted to the panting, ruffled Glines. “Mr. Glines, I’d diagnose your aliment as jealousy, pure and simple. If I see any more symptoms of it, it may show up on your efficiency report.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. MacDougal.” The fat man made jittery motions, smoothing and straightening his coat. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

* * * * *

Ignoring him, MacDougal swung back to Stone. “As for you, Carl--well, I’m still in doubt.”

“In doubt--?” A cold knot seemed to draw tight in the pit of Stone’s stomach. Of a sudden he seemed to sense a change in his friend’s manner--a strange, rising tide of latent hostility like that he’d felt in Glines and Bjornberg.

“Yes, in doubt.” MacDougal’s brows drew together into a shaggy hedgerow. “The dead woman, and this monster business ... your accusations and violence against Glines, here ... your expressed fear that Sergeant Bjornberg, one of your best friends on the base, plans to assassinate you--I don’t like the sound of such talk.”

Stone stood mute, not trusting himself to answer.

“Take your tale about Bjornberg,” MacDougal went on. “You claim he was on guard outside this building, waiting to kill you. But it so happens that when I called the motor pool for transportation, they sent him to drive me. He’d been there ever since he brought you to this office.”

The walls seemed to close in about Stone. He knew every eye in the room was upon him; knew he had to speak. “So--?” he asked at last.

MacDougal paced the floor, bigknuckled hands clasped behind him.

“I don’t like to do this, Carl,” he said finally, “but considering the delicate nature of our work here, the high degree of secrecy surrounding our mission, I’m afraid I don’t have much choice.”

The cold knot in Stone’s stomach drew tighter.

MacDougal ended his pacing; dropped on one hip on the corner of the desk. His tongue moved slowly back and forth along his lower lip, and his eyes stayed focussed on the floor. When he spoke, his words were careful, casual.

“Did you know we’d acquired a psychiatrist since you left for Washington, Carl?” he asked.

“A psychiatrist--!” Stone burst out in spite of himself. He started forward.

A guard’s restraining hand stopped him. “Yes. She’s here on a research project.” The base director’s eyes still studied the floor. “Supposed to be pretty good, too. Up on all the latest stuff.”

Between clenched teeth Stone grated, “MacDougal, if you think I’m crazy, say so. But so help me, if you turn me over to some headshrinker, count on it that you’ll regret it to your dying day!”

As if the words were a signal, the base director’s massive head came up, jaw jutting. The blue eyes shone hard and expressionless as marbles--shone with the same strange light that Stone had seen in Glines’ and Bjornberg’s.

MacDougal said, “That’s all I needed, Carl: Your threats and hostility turned on me. That’s the convincer that you _do_ need help.” He turned to the guards: “Mr. Stone’s hereby ordered to the hospital for mental tests and observation, on my responsibility.

“Take him away!”