The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно без .TXT) 📗

Seconds later there came a hiss, a smack, and the splatter of flying mud on his face as the ball impacted a yard from his head. More muttering, going away, and then silence. The ooze was up to his ears and in his hair. It felt cold and wet all along his back and legs. They were right to be confident. He felt himself sinking by gradual inches.

Panic screamed at the back of his mind, to be met and hurled back by cold determination, savage common sense, and a frantic survey of the enormous fund of out-of-the-way information he had gathered in the course of an arduous life. He separated fact from fantasy with urgent efficiency. Bog, marsh, quagmire, quicksand—none of these can actually “suck” anything down, despite all legends, for the simple scientific reason that it is impossible to exert a downward suction on the free surface of any fluid. The entrapment action is simply that of a solid body resting on a fluidized bed exerting all its weight on a small area and thus displacing the less-solid support.

Had he landed feet-first, or had he tried to stand and struggle—as almost everyone does—he would have gone under in seconds. As he was now, with his weight dispersed over a large area, he was sinking very slowly. But still sinking. The train of thought raced through his mind as he swiveled his eyes to study the situation without moving himself any more than he could help. The outlook was bleak. His ski-jump drop had deposited him virtually into the center of the morass. In all directions but one he was some twelve to fourteen feet away from the first straggle of bushes that marked firmer footing. It is just possible to swim in mud, but progress is painfully slow and eats up enormous amounts of energy. He surveyed the one spot that was closer, the edge over which he had slid. Horizontally, it was no more than six feet away, but the surface was sheer smooth rock, standing straight up some eight or nine feet before it offered a ledge to grab at. The ooze crept to the corners of his mouth as he studied that rock-face. In his outflung right hand he still held his staff; the other hand gripped the straps of his pack. He had no more time to waste in calculation.

Taking a good deep breath, he nerved himself, rolled over to his right towards the rock, swinging the pack over, slapping it into the mud, squirming his chest onto it, using its temporary buoyancy to gain him a thrust forward and his face clear of the stinking slime. Now he could almost have reached to touch the rock-face with his fingers, but he had sacrificed his reserve of buoyancy; he was wet all over and sinking fast. There was no time to waste. Up went his head and shoulders and down went the rest of him deep into the mire. With only seconds to spare he worked frantically at his staff, which was no ordinary shaft of wood, but a strong telescopic pole, highly useful as an extensible aerial, or a weapon, or, as now, to be stretched out and hooked onto a wall, a fence—or a rocky ledge.

He freed and locked the hook with savage speed, slid out the extensions, hearing them click into place, and the slime was at his chin now. Bearing down with his left arm, he strained up with the right, straight up, snagged the hook and pulled hard. Small stones and soil came away and rained down onto his face as the hook broke free. With the stinking slime at his lip and numbing cold soaking his body he made one more frantic lunge and catch, the glittering hook passing over the ledge.

And it held! He dragged on it steady but hard, tensely, getting all his weight onto it by cautious degrees. Then he took hold with his other hand, got a savage grip—and heaved! The sweat sprang out on his face as the bog clung, reluctant to release its prey. He heaved again, shoulder-muscles tearing under the strain. And again, and the slime fell back to his shoulders. With shivering care he walked his grip up the rod and heaved again, and again, until his waist and then his hips came free of the ooze.

His hands, arms and shoulders burned like fire. He missed a grip and hung for an agonized moment by one slipping hand until he could get it back again. The chill flame of determination drove him to fight one hand over the other and go on, and up, until there was stone under his fingers. Then an elbow. And then a space to get his knee on. And then he fell flat and breathless on his face in the heather and lay still.

In a while he was able to sit up. A while longer and he could stand, and begin wearily to make his way down and around the death-trap green, through the wild country beyond, and eventually back to his lodgings. Most of the green sludge had dried and flaked away but he was still in a dreadful state, enough to make his landlady throw up her hands in dismay at the sight of him.

“Fell into a bit of bog, did you?” she cried, as he told her a revised version of the truth. “You’re very fortunate to be alive to tell it. You’ll be wanting a bath to get off the mud, and let me have those things of yours till I see whether I can get them cleaned up a bit for ye.” Which suited him very well, for there are few places more private than a bathroom, and he had urgent need to discuss certain things with someone. Luxuriating in hot water and vapor, he put a call through to his Limerick contact.

“I’m going to need one or two things,” he said. “It seems they want to play this the hard way.” Arid he winced as muscles protested in the small of his back. That golf ball had hurt!

The Limerick office promised cooperation and also had a little news for him: “U.N.C.L.E. One has some first-run results on one of the O’Rourke molecules. Similar to serotonin, same type of thing, very probably a hallucinogen, but they’re not sure about the full effects yet.”

“That’s not surprising. That kind of test could take weeks. I might get results faster by taking a private look at the laboratory in the castle. I will want a rundown on the modifications Dr. O’Rourke has had installed, and an interior plan. Also—”

He specified his needs closely. He had had plenty of time to figure them out while trudging back from Kevin’s Hole.

An ill-assorted foursome climbed out of Trilli’s hired Daimler as Foden drew it to a halt within the forecourt of Cooraclare Castle. The three from Thrush had little interest in its architecture or authenticity. They were more concerned with its potential as a fortress, noting that the walls were massive, the windows small and strong, and that there was a man up there by the crenelations watching their every move.

“’Tis only a small castle,” said Bridget airily, watching their eyes and accurately gauging their thoughts.

“Uncle Mike had it renovated and modernized, but it’s just as strong as ever it was. I think we’ll find him in the receiving room.” She led them through a great arched doorway and into a vast stone-floored hall with a grand double staircase at the far end. A large man in dark livery stood at the top of those stairs, a shotgun casually under his arm. The receiving room lay off the hall to the right and was noteworthy for being hung with many oil-paintings, every one of which bore a striking family resemblance to the sharp-eyed old man who sat now at the far end of a long table that filled most of the center of the floor. He rose to his feet as they entered.

Michael O’Rourke had been a big and powerful man in his prime. He was gaunt now but still an imposing six foot three, with a gleam in his eye and his white hair and beard giving him something of the air of an Old Testament prophet.

“And who might it be who seeks the honor of approaching King Michael in the heart of his own little kingdom?” he demanded, with a smile that was no more than a showing of his white teeth.

“This is the one you’ve been waiting for, Uncle Mike” Bridget gestured to Trilli, who moved a hesitant step and stopped. “He didn’t want to admit it at all, but he’s Thrush all right. Dr. Vittorio Trilli, of Genoa. And that’s Angelo Schichi—Karl Foden. Just friends.”