CONQUERORS’ ISLE

Nelson Bond

“You’ve got to believe this,” said Brady. He spoke with tense, white-knuckled ferocity, his eyes intent on those of the older man. “It sounds utterly impossible, I know. It sounds —it sounds crazy. That’s why I’m here. But it’s the truth, and you’ve got to believe it! Got to—sir,” he finished, belatedly acknowledging his listener’s seniority.

Lieutenant Commander Gorham said quietly: “At ease, Lieutenant. I’m here to consult with you as a physician, not order your cure as a superior officer. Suppose we ignore the braid while you tell me about it?”

Joe Brady smiled. It was his first smile in weeks, and his face could not quite accomplish it. His lips twisted jerkily, but his eyes remained blank windows into torment.

He said: “Thank you, Doctor. Where would you like me to begin?”

Gorham shuffled the pages of the lieutenant’s case history. Random excerpts telescoped three years of spotless if not spectacular service: Brady, Joseph Travers… . Age: 24… . Graduated, U.S.N.A., 1941. … Pre-Flight Training, Sarasota, 1941-2… . Assigned: U.S.S. Stinger… . Lieutenant (j.g.) 1942. … Group Citation… . Recommended for ……

“It’s your story,” said the doctor carefully. “You know what it is you want me to believe. The trouble began, I understand, on your last bombing mission?”

“That’s right. Or rather, that’s when my troubles began. The thing’s been going on for longer than that—much longer. Years, certainly; perhaps decades.” Brady’s fingers were like talons on the desk top. “Someone’s got to do something, Doctor! Time is racing by, and with every passing day they grow stronger. I’ve got to make people understand—”

“At the beginning?” suggested Gorham. “Suppose you start with that unfortunate last flight.”

His calm matter-of-fact tone had a soothing effect on the younger man. Brady’s voice lost its high note of hysteria.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Very good, sir. Well, then, it was this way. We accomplished our mission and started for him—”

We accomplished our mission (said Lieutenant Brady) and started home. “Home” was, of course, the Stinger. I can tell you, now that the war’s over, where we were and what we were doing. We were cruising the South China Sea, roughly off Palawan, between the Philippines and Indo-China. Our job was to harass enemy shipping in that area, breaking the life line between the Straits and the Nipponese home islands. Our task force was in position to support any one of a dozen land invasions from Labuan to Hainan, and our air arm periodically feinted at concentration points to confuse the Japs.

Our latest target had been Songeau, and it was from this port we were returning when it happened.

We sighted a tramp beating her way up the coast, and I called the squadron leader for permission to unload a heavy I was carrying home undropped. He O.K.‘d, and we peeled off. The freighter opened up on us with all she had as we came in, but she might as well have been throwing spit balls. We laid our egg down her aft stack, and she flew into pieces like one of those toys kids play with. You know—the kind you push a button, and blooie!

So that was that, and we were all talking it up and feeling pretty hot stuff when all of a sudden we discovered we were losing elevation like crazy. It seems the freighter had died like a rat, clawing in her death agony. A hunk of her exploding hide had slashed one of our wing tanks, and we were spraying gas all over the South China Sea.

Even then we weren’t worried. The Navy watches out for its own, and we knew that an hour after we were forced to our life rafts, a rescue party would be out to pick us up. So we reported the bad news to the squadron leader and accepted his condolences philosophically; and with no great dismay watched the flight dwindle to black dots as we lurch along, coaxing every last possible mile out of our ruptured duck.

It would be annoying, we thought, and a nuisance. But it wouldn’t be dangerous. That’s what we thought.

That’s what we thought, being logical guys. But in the South Pacific area you can toss logic and reason out the window.

About ten minutes after the flight had disappeared, and about one cupful of gas before we’d have to ditch, out of a bald, blue, breezeless nowhere came thundering mountains of cumulus, torrential cloudbursts of rain, and a shrieking hundred-mile gale that picked us up, and whirled us like the button on a hen-coop door.

How long we rode that thing, I haven’t the faintest idea. I had no time for clock-watching; I had all I could do holding the Ardent Alice—that was our ship’s name—holding the Ardent Alice’s nose steady in the face of that blast. It grabbed us, and shook us, and lifted and dropped us, and spun us as if we weighed ounces instead of tons. We had no way of climbing above the storm, of course; we just had to sit there and take it. At least a dozen times I was sure we were going to be slammed into the sea, but each time the unpredictable wind jerked us upstairs again to play with us some more.

All three of us were nerve-tattered, bone-bruised, and dog-sick from the storm’s beating, and not one but would have cheerfully given up a year’s shore leave to be clear of this mess. And then, suddenly—as suddenly as it had sprung from nowhere—the typhoon passed. One minute we were standing on our ears in a maelstrom of wind and rain; the next, the skies were crystal clear and a benevolent sun beamed down on a blue tranquil sea, while under the shadow of our wing tips lay the pink-and-green sanctuary of a tropical island!

Gorham coughed politely, interrupting his patient. “Pardon me, Lieutenant. I’d like to make a note of that. It may be important. An island? What island?”

Brady shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t know, sir. We had been twisted, battered, bounced around so badly, and for so long, that none of us had any idea where we were. We might have been one mile or fifty—or five hundred!—from where the typhoon struck us.”

His voice strengthened with purpose. “But wherever it is, we’ve got to find that island again. Got to! Because it’s Their island. Unless we find it, and destroy Them—”

“Suppose,” suggested the doctor quietly, “you go on with your story? You reached this uncharted island. And you landed safely, I take it?”

“That’s right, sir. We landed safely on a sandy strip of beach—”

We landed safely (continued ‘Lieutenant Brady) on a sandy strip of beach. We were jubilant at having made a safe harbor but uncertain as to just how safe the harbor was. We didn’t know, you see, whether we’d been carried into friendly or enemy territory. In that God-forsaken corner of the world there was also the possibility that the island’s inhabitants, if any, might be technically neutral but still dangerous. In other words, head-hunting aborigines.

Imagine our pleasure and surprise, then, when a few minutes after we’d landed we heard a cheerful hail and looked up to find white men approaching us from the wall of tropical foliage that spanned the beach.

They were smiling and unarmed, and they welcomed us in English with courteous enthusiasm. They had seen us land, said the head of their party—a youngish chap who introduced himself as Dr. Grove—and had hurried out to meet us in case anyone needed medical assistance.

I assured him we were all right, and that we needed only food, rest, and a means of communicating our whereabouts to our comrades, who by this time were undoubtedly fanned out over half the South Pacific searching for us.

He nodded. “Food and rest you shall have,” he said heartily. “As for the other—those things take time in this primitive country. But we shall see; we shall see.”

“We have a radio in the plane—” I began, but Jack Kavanaugh, our radioman, shook his head at me.

“Did have, Skipper! It went out just as we sighted the island. Must have got whanged around a bit in the storm.”

“But you can fix it?”

“I suppose so. If it’s nothing serious. I’ll tell you better after I’ve had a chance to look it over.”

“Of course,” nodded Grove. “But in the meantime, I hope you’ll accent our humble hospitality? We don’t have the pleasure of entertaining new guests here very often. It will be good to chat with you all. If you’ll follow me—”

There was nothing else to do. Like sheep being led to the slaughter—blindly trusting and without a struggle—we followed him off the beach into a winding jungle path.

It was Tom Goeller, my gunner, who first intimated there might be something wrong about this setup. Even he did not really suspect anything; he was just puzzled. He wondered aloud as we pushed forward: “Where from? I don’t get it!”

“Don’t get what?” I asked him. “What do you mean—where from? What’s biting you, Tom?”

“That Grove character,” grumbled Tom. “He said they saw us land. Only—where from? Where the hell do they live? In the trees? I had a good look at this island just before we landed. A good, long look—from topside. And I didn’t see a sign of anything that looked like a house.”

I said: “By God, you’re right! I didn’t, either. I wonder if—

But my question was answered before I voiced it. We stopped, inexplicably, before a sort of concrete shelter under a sprawling banyan tree; a lean-to sort of business in mottled green and brown—so perfectly camouflaged to conform with its surroundings that you could hardly see it from ten yards away, much less from air.

Dr. Grove smiled and said: “Here we are, gentlemen.” He touched a button, and the shelter door swung open. “If you will be good enough to enter—”

Kavanaugh spoke up roughly. “Enter what? That?”

Grove laughed pleasantly. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s merely an elevator. The entrance is from around level.”

“An elevator!” I exclaimed. “In this jungle? What kind of monkey business is this, anyhow? Do you mean to tell me you live underground?”

“My dear Lieutenant,” said the self-styled “Doctor” languidly, “I’ll be glad to explain everything—later. It’s all very simple. But first I must insist that you—”

“Oh!” I interrupted. “So now you are insisting, eh? And suppose we prefer not to step into your mysterious little parlor? Then what?”

“Then,” sighed Dr. Grove, “I should be compelled—most regretfully—to enforce my request.”

“That right?” I grunted. “Guess again, pal. There are more of you than us—but we happen to be armed.” I took out automatic and held it on him level. “That’s one detail you seem to have overlooked. Now—”

“I overlook no details, Lieutenant,” answered Grove quietly. “Would you be kind enough to fire your gun? If you have qualms against killing a man in cold blood”—his lips curled mockingly—“you might fire into the air.”

I stared at him, baffled. He wasn’t stalling. You can feel things like that. He was amused, superior, contemptuous. Goeller said: “Watch yourself, Skipper; it’s a trick! He wants you to shoot. The sound will bring help.”

Grove smiled. “Wrong, my friend. I need no help.” He slipped a hand into his breast pocket. “Very well. Since you won’t accept my invitation—”

Shooting was risky, but I had no choice. “O.K.,” I snapped. “You asked for it!” And I squeezed the trigger. I froze on it, waiting for the blast, and the sight of his body crumpling before me.

But nothing happened!

Gorham, listening to this recital, blinked. “You mean,” he suggested, “the gun missed fire—that it jammed?”

“I mean,” said Brady helplessly, “it just didn’t go off; that’s all. It didn’t miss fire. It didn’t jam. There wasn’t a thing wrong with it, mechanically. Later I took it down piece by piece and examined it. It was perfect. But it just wouldn’t fire on that island.”

Gorham said slowly: “It wouldn’t fire—on that island?” His eyes on the younger man were cautious, and he was doodling thoughtfully on the pad before him. “But that’s incredible! Why not?”

“I soon found out,” said Brady grimly, “about that. About that and a lot of other things—”

I stood there (said Brady) speechless. I couldn’t understand. At first I thought—like you—that my gun had jammed. Then suddenly I discovered that the other men had drawn their guns too—and that they too were staring incredulously at utterly futile weapons.

“You see?” shrugged Grove. “Now, perhaps, you will be kind enough to step into the shaft?”

“Not on your life!” I blazed back. “I don’t understand what’s going on here. But whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it. Come on, gang! Let’s get out of here!”

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor. “You force me to use harsh measures. Believe me, I do so reluctantly.”

From his breast pocket he drew a slender tube about the size and shape of a fountain pen. He pointed it at me—at us, I should say, because from it suddenly flowed a silver cone of radiance.

I started to rush him, shouting something or other. But both shout and movement stopped abruptly as that curious, silvery radiance engulfed me. It wasn’t a gas. It was odorless and tasteless; it did not bum or sting or cause pain in any way. But it was as though I had charged into an ocean of lambent cobwebs, to become enmeshed in a shroud of moonbeams. I could neither move nor speak; only my senses functioned.

As in a dream, I heard Dr. Grove bid his followers: “Place them in the shaft. Gently, please!” Then the feel of hands lifting, carrying me; they felt—how can I explain it?—they felt far away upon my body, as though layers of sponge rubber lay between their flesh and mine.

I could see, too, but only straight ahead of me, in the direction in which my pupils were fixed. I couldn’t move my eyes. So I saw only that the interior of the elevator was of smooth, polished metal, anomalous in these surroundings. I heard the whine of an electric motor and sensed, rather than felt, the motion of our swift descent.

Dr. Grove leaned over me, thrusting himself into my line of vision.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he said. “I sincerely regret having had to inconvenience you. But, you see, firearms won’t work on this island. No explosions of any kind are permitted—unless by special arrangement. We have means of hampering your primitive mechanical devices. That is why your guns did not fire, and why your radio will not operate.”

I was filled with a thousand questions, but I could not ask them, not even with my eyes. “What are these means?” I wanted to ask him. “And who, or what, are you that you should speak of a radio as a primitive mechanical device? Where are we going, and what are you planning to do with us? All these questions hammered at my brain, but my tongue was silent.

Then the sensation of movement stopped, I heard the elevator door slide open, and our captors lifted us again. I saw the metal ceilings of long, well-lighted corridors, and heard voices proclaiming the presence of many more persons in these subterranean vaults, and once was silent witness to a conversation between Grove and someone apparently his superior.

“Well, Frater?”

“I’m sorry, Frater Dorden. It was necessary. They would not come willingly.”

“I see.” A sigh. “Few of them do. Ah, well—put them in sleeping chambers until they recover… . And be gentle. They are frightened, poor devils.”

And then our journey continued through a maze of clean-gleaming metal corridors, until finally I was carried through a doorway and placed tenderly on a cot. A light covering was thrown over me; its pleasant warmth made me realize how weary I was. I could not close my eyes, but the lights were dimmed slowly, and at last in utter darkness I forgot my troubles in sleep… .

I do not know whether the return of lights awakened me, or whether some unseen control automatically brought back the illumination when I awoke. At any rate, I roused from my slumber to find the room bright again.

Even more important was the fact that I could move. I leaped from my cot and sprang to the door at the other side of the room but, as I had expected, it was locked. So I gave up, for the time being, any idea of attempting to escape and set myself to a study of my surroundings.

For one thing, I was alone. Apparently our captors had assigned each of us to a separate chamber, or cell. This one was Spartan in its simplicity. Four walls of a dull gray metallic substance I could not immediately identify—a floor of some resilient rubber or plastic composition—a low ceiling of the same material as the walls. A cot, a chair, and a desk were the only furnishings. There were no decorations on the walls; no carpet covered the floor; and of course—since we were underground—there were no windows.

What amazed me most was that there were no lighting fixtures. I looked in vain for any source from which originated the pleasant, unflickering illumination that flooded the room. I found nothing. It was no jiggery-pokery of indirect lighting, either. The flow of light was constant and, oddly enough, there were no shadows!

I think that’s when I started to get frightened. I don’t mean flabby-lipped, knock-kneed scared, but cold. Cold and awed and numbed, like—well, the way a trapped rabbit must feel when it sees the hunter approaching.

These persons, these men who spoke with indifferent contempt of mankind’s finest accomplishments, who regretfully and casually employed weapons and tools unknown to science —who were they? And why had we been separated? Where were my comrades—Kavanaugh and Goeller? Suddenly, desperately, I needed the reassurance of their presence.

I raised my voice and shouted. There was no reply. The impassive walls should have echoed the panic in my voice, being metal. But, like everything else in this strange place, it behaved unnaturally. It absorbed the sound, sopping it up as a sponge absorbs water.

I shouted again and again. Fruitlessly, I thought. But not fruitlessly. For suddenly I heard the faintest sound behind me and whirled. Dr. Grove was stepping through the wall.

Lieutenant Brady stopped abruptly, as if in anticipation of his listener’s reaction. It came. Gorham, despite his training as a psychiatrist, stopped doodling and tossed a swift, anxious frown at the younger man.

With an obvious effort he erased the sudden pursing of his lips. He said quietly: “Through the wall, Lieutenant? Of course you mean through the door?”

“Through the wall,” said Brady dully. “Through the wall, sir. The door was in front of me. But Dr. Grove stepped into my cell through the solid metal wall.”

“You realize,” said Gorham, “that what you are saying is impossible?”

“To us”—Brady’s eyes were haggard—“it is. To Them, nothing is impossible. Nothing! Or very little. That is why we must act, and act now! Before it is too late. You must believe me, sir! This is man’s last chance—”

“I’ll do my best,” promised Gorham. “Perhaps you’d better continue? This Dr. Grove stepped through the wall—”

I’ll cut it short (said Brady wanly). I’ll tell it as quickly as I can. I’m just wasting your time and mine. I can tell by your eyes that you don’t believe me. But someone must. Somewhere, somehow, sometime—someone must… . Well, as I was saying, Dr. Grove stepped through the wall. And strange as it may sound, in that moment my panic ended. I still feared; yes. But I feared as a man fears a god, or a demon, or a raw and elemental force beyond his comprehension. I did not look on him with dread, as one watches a human foe charge upon him with flaming gun or bloodstained sword; I looked on him with awe, knowing him to be as far above and beyond me in the life scale as I am superior to a dog or a beast of burden.

So it was we talked—not as man to man, but as man to a lesser creature. And I was the lesser creature. He was the master, I the serf. And he told me many things… .

Has it ever occurred to you, Doctor, that we humans are an egotistic race? Our Darwins and our Huxleys have told us we are the product of a steady, progressive evolution—an evolution that started in primeval slime and has gradually developed to our present proud and self-proclaimed status ashomo sapiens.

Homo sapiens—intelligent man! … But perhaps we are not so intelligent, at that. For in our blind folly we have assumed ourselves to be the final and glorious end product of Nature’s eternal striving toward perfection!

Could we not guess that the same force which led the first lungfish from primordial ooze to solid earth—the force which evolved the Neanderthal man from his bestial, hairy ancestor, and developed from this rock-hurling cave man a race that works its destruction with atomic fission—could we not have guessed that this force would inevitably progress a step farther?

That is what has happened. There dwells upon earth today a race representing the next step in man’s progress. A people to whom our thoughts are as immature and elementary as to us is the prattling of infants.

They begin where we leave off. Our vaunted physics and mathematics are their nursery ABC’s; the hard-won learning of our best brains is theirs intuitively. They sense what we must study; and what they must study, we cannot even begin, to grasp. They are the new lords of creation—homo superior!

How they came to be, that is one thing even they do not know. There is a force called “mutation” which you, as a doctor, must understand better than I. By mutation a white rose appears among red, and the white breed true from that time on. The new men are mutants. They—or the first of them—were born of normal parents. But from the cradle they sensed that they were different. Having a telepathic instinct, they were able to discern their brothers in a crowd—or even over long distances—and they banded together.

Long ago—how long Dr. Grove did not tell me—the new men decided they must isolate themselves from us. It was a logical decision. They had no more in common with us than we have with our pets. Few men, by choice, dine with dogs or sleep in stables.

So they sought this secluded island in the Pacific, far from lesser man’s civilization. They went underground to escape detection. There they live, and study, and learn, and wait with infinite patience for the day when they must emerge and take over the world which is theirs by inheritance—even as homo sapiens took it from his beetle-browed forebear, the ape man.

“We are few in number,” Grove told me, “but we increase with each passing year. Some are born here; others come from the four corners of the earth, drawn to us by mental rapport. Soon we will be many enough, and strong enough, to accept the responsibility of government of all the earth.”

“You mean,” I said, “destroy man? And claim the entire world for yourselves?”

Grove said almost sadly: “How little you understand us, you humans. Do you destroy the animals of the field just because they are not your intellectual peers? Our obligation is to keep and protect you; to act as your friendly guardians in a world that will be strange to you, and frightening.

“Yes, frightening,” he went on as I began some protest. “I saw the dread and horror in your eyes when I walked into the room. You did not understand how I passed through a wall that to you seems solid. Not understanding, you feared.

“Yet there is nothing supernatural or fearful about what I did; about what any of us can do at will. There is no such thing as a solid in a universe wherein all things—size and dimension and substance—are but relative. We know there is room and to spare for the molecules comprising our persons to pass unhindered through the molecules comprising these walls. We simply make a necessary mental adjustment and walk where we will. It is an ability as basic, as fundamental, to us as breathing is to a person like you.”

“Then what,” I asked him, “is your plan for man?”

“Your question should be,” he replied gently, “what is Nature’s plan for man? And I believe the question answers itself. The answer lies in history. What became of Nature’s earlier experiments: the giant reptiles, the anthropoids, the men who dwelt in caves and trees?”

“They died out,” I said. “Civilization passed them by. They fell before the onrush of higher life forms.”

“Even so,” Grove said regretfully. “Even so. But you have our pledge that we will be kind. We will be kind.”

You see, that was the essence of the matter. These new men are intelligent, a thousandfold more intelligent than we. And being that great step farther along the path to perfection, they are born with the instinct to gentleness. That is why their weapons anesthetize, but do not harm. They will not, they cannot, kill.

I could go on for hours relating what I heard and saw during the three weeks I was prisoner in the subterranean refuge of the new men. I’ll tell only a few things, because I can see you—like all the others—think I am mad. But there are some things you should know.

Those metal cells hold more than two hundred humans like you and me, men and women who have stumbled by accident upon the hideaway island and have been restrained there lest they go back and tell the world of the conquest to come.

They are comfortable, of course. They are well fed and housed, entertained and made as happy as possible—under the circumstances. Men do not ruthlessly destroy their pets. And on that island, men are the wards of supermen.

I could quote names that would amaze you. A famous author and traveler whose ship disappeared some years ago in the Pacific—a big-game hunter supposedly killed—an aviatrix for whom a dozen fleets sought in vain. They are there.

I could tell you something else that would make the small hairs creep on the back of your neck—if you dared let yourself believe it. They are here among us already, the new men. As their hour of ascendancy approaches, they are paving the way for their bloodless conquest. Some of them have left the island and taken their places in our world. You can see the master plan. A handful of them settled in key spots—here a politician, there are industrial magnate, there an author whose every word is gospel to his readers—what chance has a race of underlings to combat them when they strike?

And they will strike, and soon. When they do, that will be our end as the rulers of earth. For they cannot fail in anything they try. We, as a people, are strong. But They are omnipotent!

“That is why,” concluded Brady, “you’ve got to make yourself believe me, no matter how crazy this sounds. You’ve got to, Doctor. From the broader point of view; perhaps it’s better they should inherit the earth. But I am a human. And as a member of my race, I do not want to fall before a higher culture, no matter how superior.

“I want to live! And if we want to live, They must die. Their island must be destroyed, utterly and completely. An atomic bomb—”

“You have said,” interrupted Dr. Gorham, “that they are omnipotent. You have called them wise with the wisdom of demigods. Yet you escaped from their island without outside help. Is that proof of their superhuman intelligence?”

Brady shook his head.

“It is proof of their great kindness, and my animal cunning.

“There is a chink in their armor. I took advantage of it. They cannot willfully cause any creature pain. Knowing this, I begged Grove to take me to the surface so I could get some things from the Ardent Alice one day. Some personal belongings, I told him. Pictures of my loved ones that I had hidden in a secret compartment of the plane.

“He agreed. We had been on friendly terms for some weeks, and he suspected no treachery. That is a human trait. They cannot conceive of guile or deceit.

“He was careless, and I was desperate. He turned to look when I cried out and pointed to something behind him; he never knew what hit him. I don’t know whether my rock killed him or not. I hope not.

“The plane, of course, was useless. But there were self-inflating life rafts, and the water was only yards away. I paddled from that devil’s shore with the strength of a madman. You know the rest: How my food and water ran out. How they found me raving deliriously days or maybe weeks lat bearded and sun-blistered and more than half dead.”

Dr. Gorham nodded and quietly closed the memo book in which he had scratched only doodles.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes. It must have been a terrible experience.”

He rose.

“Well, Lieutenant—” he said awkwardly.

Lieutenant Brady stared at him with hopeless eyes.

“You don’t believe me, either,” he said. “Do you?”

“It’s been a pleasure listening to your story,” the medico said. “I’ll make a report to my superiors. Please be patient and try not to worry. Good day, Lieutenant.”

“Go to hell!” said Lieutenant Brady dully. “Oh, go hell—” he added mechanically, “sir.”

The doctor stiffened, then gazed compassionately at the younger man for an instant, shrugged, and left the narrow chamber.

Outside, another medical officer greeted him.

“Ah, there, Gorham! You’ve talked with him? What’s the verdict?”

Gorham touched his forehead. “A clear case of persecution mania—an amazing form. I’ve never heard a tale so complete and logical, but—” He shrugged. “Do what you can for him. I’m afraid he’s going to be here for a long time —perhaps for as long as he lives. Turned loose, he might be dangerous.”

The other medical officer shook his head.

“Tough! A nice boy, too. But it does nasty things to a man, floating for weeks in a life raft. He was the only one of his crew to survive. Well, Doctor—will you lunch with me?”

“No, thanks,” said Gorham. “I’ve got to run along. Have to turn in a report and a recommendation on this case.”

“Of course. See you later, then.”

The other medico disappeared down the spotless corridor of the mental ward. Gorham pondered briefly, orienting himself. He was in the west wing of the hospital, facing the street. His car stood at the curb just outside. He was very busy. There was so much work to be done; so much. And if he walked through the anteroom, some fool was sure to delay him, drag him into a longwinded discussion. He didn’t feel a bit like talking. He wanted to get out of this place and forward his report—his report that the Brady case was closed. That there would be no more trouble from that source.

He glanced swiftly up and down the corridor. There was no one in sight. His senses told him the street was also deserted. There was no danger of his being seen. So—

So Dr. Gorham turned and walked quietly through the wall.

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