“What about testing the robot?”
“Go ahead and test him. You won’t find anything wrong.”
“Well, take your guards.”
Gunther grinned sardonically and headed for the door.
An hour later the air taxi grounded atop a New York skyscraper. Gunther emerged, flanked by two husky protectors. Ballard was running no risks of having his colleague abducted by a rival. As Gunther paid the air cabman, the detectives glanced at their wrist spotters and punched the red button set into each case. They reported thus, every five minutes, that all was well. One of Ballard’s control centers in New York received the signals and learned that all was well-that there was no need to send out a rush rescue squad. It was complicated, but effective. No one else could use the spotters, for a new code was used each day. This time the key ran: first hour, report every five minutes; second hour, every eight minutes; third hour, every six minutes. And, at the first hint of danger, the detectives could instantly send in an alarm.
But this time it didn’t work out successfully. When the three men got into the elevator, Gunther said, “The Fountain Room,” and licked his lips in anticipation. The door swung shut, and as the elevator started its breakneck race down, anaesthetic gas flooded the little cubicle. One of the detectives managed to press the alarm warning on his spotter, but he was unconscious before the car slowed at the basement. Gunther didn’t even realize he was being gassed before he lost consciousness.
He woke up fettered securely to a metal chair. The room was windowless, and a spotlight was focused on Gunther’s face. He manipulated sticky eyelids, wondering how long he had been out. Scowling, he twisted his arm so that his wrist watch was visible.
Two men loomed, shadowy beyond the lamp. One wore a physician’s white garment. The other was a little man, ginger-haired, with a hard rat trap of a face.
“Hi, Ffoulkes,” Gunther said. “You saved me a hangover.”
The little man chuckled. “Well, we’ve done it at last. Lord knows I’ve been trying long enough to get you away from Ballard’s watchdogs.”
“What day is this?”
“Wednesday. You’ve been unconscious for about twenty hours.”
Gunther frowned. “Well, start talking.”
“I’ll do that, first, if you like. Are Ballard’s diamonds artificial?”
“Don’t you wish you knew?”
“I’ll offer you about anything you want if you’ll cross up Ballard.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Gunther said candidly. “You wouldn’t have to keep your word. It’d be more logical for you to kill me, after I’d talked.”
“Then we’ll have to use scopolamin.”
“It won’t work. I’ve been immunized.”
“Try it, anyway. Lester!”
The white-gowned man came forward and put a hypodermic deftly into Gunther’s arm. After a while he shrugged.
“Complete immunization. Scop is no good, Mr. Ffoulkes.”
Gunther smiled. “Well?”
“Suppose I try torture?”
“I don’t think you’d dare. Torture and murder are capital crimes.”
The little man moved nervously around the room. “Does Ballard himself know how to make the diamonds? Or are you the only one?”
“The Blue Fairy makes ‘em,” Gunther said. “She’s got a magic wand.”
“I see. Well, I won’t try torture yet. I’ll use duress. You’ll have plenty to eat and drink. But you’ll stay here till you talk. It’ll get rather dull after a month or so.”
Gunther didn’t answer, and the two men went out. An hour passed, and another.
The white-gowned physician brought in a tray and deftly fed the prisoner. After he had vanished, Gunther looked at his watch again. A worried frown showed on his forehead.
He grew steadily more nervous.
The watch read 9:15 when another meal was served. This time Gunther waited till the physician had left, and then recovered the fork he had managed to secrete in his sleeve. He hoped its absence wouldn’t be noticed immediately. A few minutes was all he wanted, for Gunther knew the construction of these electromagnetic prison chairs. If he could short circuit the current- It wasn’t too difficult, even though Gunther’s arms were prisoned by metal clamps. He knew where the wires were. After a bit, there was a crackling flash, and Gunther swore at the pain in his seared fingertips. But the clamps slid free from his arms and legs.
He stood up, looking again at his wrist watch. Scowling, he prowled around the room till he found what he wanted-the window buttons. As he pressed these, panels in the blank walls slid aside, revealing the lighted towers of New York.
Gunther glanced at the door warily. He opened a window and peered down. The height was dizzying, but a ledge provided easy egress. Gunther eased himself over the sill and slid along to his right till he reached another window.
It was locked. He looked down, hesitating. There was another ledge below, but he wasn’t sure he could make it. Instead, he went on to the next window.
Locked.
But the one after that was open. Gunther peered into the dimness. He could make out a bulky desk, and the glimmer of a telepanel. Sighing with relief, he crawled into the office, with another glance at his watch.
He went directly to the televisor and fingered a number. When a man’s face appeared on the panel, Gunther merely said, “Reporting. O.K.,” and broke the connection. His consciousness recorded a tiny click.
He called Ballard then, but the castle’s secretary answered. “Where’s Ballard?”
“Not here, sir. Can I-”
Gunther went white, remembering the click he had heard. He broke the connection experimentally, and heard it again. Ballard- “Hell!” Gunther said under his breath. He returned to the window, crawled out, hung by his hands, and let himself drop. He almost missed the ledge one story below. Skin ripped from his fingertips as he fought for a grip.
But he got it at last. He kicked his way through the window before him and dived in, glass showering. No televisor here. But there was a door dimly defined in the wall.
Gunther opened it, finding what he wanted on the other side. He switched on a lamp, riffling through the drawers till he was certain that this office wasn’t another plant. After that, he used the televisor, fingering the same number he had called before.
There was no answer.
“Uh-huh,” Gunther said, and made another call.
He had just broken the connection when a man in a surgeon’s gown came in and shot him through the head.
The man who looked like Ffoulkes scrubbed make-up from his face. He glanced up when the physician entered.
“O.K.?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”