to your temple.” The Asian’s hand did that, forefinger for a barrel.
Horrified that his own hand was obeying, Nelson did as ordered, lifting the revolver to his head.
The Asian closed his eyes serenely and growled: “Now, sacrifice yourself to Shiwan Khan.”
“Yes, my Khan,” Nelson said with little hesitation, his trigger-finger free at last to execute his intent.
Newboldt and Berger were returning from one of the offices in the cataloguing section when they heard the report of the shot and quickened their pace to the receiving area. Newboldt had tried to contact his immediate superior but hadn’t gotten through. Just as well, he had been telling himself. Naturally, the coffin would have to be authenticated. Then, too, there was the mystery of its late-night arrival—
“That’s Nelson’s gun!” Berger said.
Newboldt was second through the doors but the first to halt. Revolver in hand, Nelson was lying facedown in the middle of the cold floor, a pool of blood spreading around his head. Berger ran to him, winced, and shook his head at Newboldt. Newboldt turned away from the grisly scene and saw that the coffin was open.
And empty.
It was then that a disquieting feeling began to ladder through him. On first entering the room, he thought he had glimpsed an unrecognized figure standing amid the cluster of life-size statues of medieval warriors. His hackles up, Newboldt performed a cautious turn in the direction of the statues, but there were only the six of them he knew by heart.
7
Strange Bedfellows
W ith evil afoot, it was not a night for sleeping.
In room 2512 of the Federal Building, one in a copse of tall structures that comprised the heart of downtown, Dr. Reinhardt Lane was up late, tinkering with the device that had been his grail for the past decade. That the U.S. government had a strong say in what went on inside top-floor 2512 was evidenced by the two Marines who stood guard at the door to the laboratory, guns on their hips and hands clasped behind their backs. The door’s glass panel read: WAR DEPARTMENT, RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT. REINHARDT LANE AND AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Evil or no, it was Lane’s habit to work early into the morning, amid tabletops cluttered with chemical glassware and technical instruments, wheeled chalkboards filled with esoteric scrawl, seemingly haphazard stacks of open textbooks and hastily scribbled jottings. Lane was in his mid-sixties, rangy, mustachioed, large-featured, and somewhat rumpled-looking in a brown wool tweed jacket with suede elbow patches and, that night, a finely striped, deep-red, cotton-flannel shirt. He wore oval wire-rim glasses and sometimes spoke with a slight brogue. The sort of hands-on scientist whose pockets were likely to hold an assortment of small tools.
Lane’s wife had died years earlier, and his only child had moved into her own brownstone apartment. So why not work late, he frequently asked himself.
Lane was seated at his desk, bent over a soccerball-size orb of royal-blue alloy, into whose surface were secured some thirty or more relays that resembled spark plugs—the entire device held in place by a rig Lane had cobbled together using two plumber’s helpers. Off to one side of the desk sat Lane’s largely untouched dinner: a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of Pepsi Cola. His mind was shut off from all distractions, including his chief distraction of the moment, Farley Claymore, colleague and reliable nuisance, who was hovering about, determined to make conversation.
“Didn’t you hear me, Lane?” Claymore was saying. “I’ve completed work on the beryllium sphere. All that’s left to do is run some submersion tests to verify the pressure calculations. I’m telling you, the army is going to eat this thing up.”
Lane had a soft cloth in hand and was cleaning each plug before screwing it into the orb. He exhaled in irritation and swung to Farley. “Farley, our grant stipulates we’re to engage in energy
Horrified that his own hand was obeying, Nelson did as ordered, lifting the revolver to his head.
The Asian closed his eyes serenely and growled: “Now, sacrifice yourself to Shiwan Khan.”
“Yes, my Khan,” Nelson said with little hesitation, his trigger-finger free at last to execute his intent.
Newboldt and Berger were returning from one of the offices in the cataloguing section when they heard the report of the shot and quickened their pace to the receiving area. Newboldt had tried to contact his immediate superior but hadn’t gotten through. Just as well, he had been telling himself. Naturally, the coffin would have to be authenticated. Then, too, there was the mystery of its late-night arrival—
“That’s Nelson’s gun!” Berger said.
Newboldt was second through the doors but the first to halt. Revolver in hand, Nelson was lying facedown in the middle of the cold floor, a pool of blood spreading around his head. Berger ran to him, winced, and shook his head at Newboldt. Newboldt turned away from the grisly scene and saw that the coffin was open.
And empty.
It was then that a disquieting feeling began to ladder through him. On first entering the room, he thought he had glimpsed an unrecognized figure standing amid the cluster of life-size statues of medieval warriors. His hackles up, Newboldt performed a cautious turn in the direction of the statues, but there were only the six of them he knew by heart.
7
Strange Bedfellows
W ith evil afoot, it was not a night for sleeping.
In room 2512 of the Federal Building, one in a copse of tall structures that comprised the heart of downtown, Dr. Reinhardt Lane was up late, tinkering with the device that had been his grail for the past decade. That the U.S. government had a strong say in what went on inside top-floor 2512 was evidenced by the two Marines who stood guard at the door to the laboratory, guns on their hips and hands clasped behind their backs. The door’s glass panel read: WAR DEPARTMENT, RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT. REINHARDT LANE AND AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Evil or no, it was Lane’s habit to work early into the morning, amid tabletops cluttered with chemical glassware and technical instruments, wheeled chalkboards filled with esoteric scrawl, seemingly haphazard stacks of open textbooks and hastily scribbled jottings. Lane was in his mid-sixties, rangy, mustachioed, large-featured, and somewhat rumpled-looking in a brown wool tweed jacket with suede elbow patches and, that night, a finely striped, deep-red, cotton-flannel shirt. He wore oval wire-rim glasses and sometimes spoke with a slight brogue. The sort of hands-on scientist whose pockets were likely to hold an assortment of small tools.
Lane’s wife had died years earlier, and his only child had moved into her own brownstone apartment. So why not work late, he frequently asked himself.
Lane was seated at his desk, bent over a soccerball-size orb of royal-blue alloy, into whose surface were secured some thirty or more relays that resembled spark plugs—the entire device held in place by a rig Lane had cobbled together using two plumber’s helpers. Off to one side of the desk sat Lane’s largely untouched dinner: a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of Pepsi Cola. His mind was shut off from all distractions, including his chief distraction of the moment, Farley Claymore, colleague and reliable nuisance, who was hovering about, determined to make conversation.
“Didn’t you hear me, Lane?” Claymore was saying. “I’ve completed work on the beryllium sphere. All that’s left to do is run some submersion tests to verify the pressure calculations. I’m telling you, the army is going to eat this thing up.”
Lane had a soft cloth in hand and was cleaning each plug before screwing it into the orb. He exhaled in irritation and swung to Farley. “Farley, our grant stipulates we’re to engage in energy
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