Matlock's System

6

An hour later Matlock was fastening his shirt and the very young-looking Doctor was packing his portable adjuster.

“A lot of people would give a lot of money for one of those, Doc.,” laughed the Inspector who had watched the brief operation with keen interest.

“They would,” agreed the Doctor. “But there’s not much chance. They’d need me with it, and I have a wife and family. Or they’d need to cut this chain,” he indicated the fine silver thread which ran from the box to his wrist, “and then the whole thing blows up. Or even if they surmounted these obstacles, the thing can be blown up from the Heart Centre by radio. Shall I do you while I’m here, Inspector?”

The policeman drew back.

“I haven’t got my card with me.”

The Doctor tutted with disapproval.

“That’s an offence, you realize. Still you’ve got another day. I’ll be off now.”

As Matlock finished dressing he thought of the similar scenes going on all over the country, but mostly in the big Heart Centres. Everyone had to report within forty-eight hours to the nearest Heart Centre for readjustment, taking with them the simple metal card which had magnetically imprinted on it full age details of its owner. This was fed into a computer as the Master Adjuster Clock rapidly deducted the requisite number of years from the individual heart clock. The new information was printed on to the card, and the computer meanwhile checked the card against the previous information it held on the owner. If this tallied, the name was marked in its information banks. At the end of forty-eight hours, unmarked names were spewed out and the police went to work looking for those who did not report.

There were surprisingly few. The penalty for not reporting was a five-year cut in E.O.L. for each day’s lateness. After a week, the penalty was transferred to the next of kin.

But after a cutting Budget there was always unrest even if it was only atmospheric. There were more policemen than ever around the streets, temporary curfews were suddenly imposed, the Curfew Wagons tolled their way in sinister profusion through the scarcely dark streets.

After a cut like this, thought Matlock, they’ll need a general Curfew for a while. I should have foreseen it. Browning’s been a step ahead of everyone as usual.

He had viewed the news briefly. The main item had naturally been the emergency Budget. But there had also been a lot about the arrests in the North. No details were given, just references to a pool of insurrection. The implication was clear, however; only rapid action by the police had prevented extremists from full-scale outbreaks of violence. Things were under control at the moment, but close surveillance of the situation would be necessary for several days. Citizens were asked to go about their normal business, but to avoid going out more than was strictly necessary. God save the King.

It was good, decided Matlock. It was very good. Just how many important arrests had been made, he didn’t know, but probably enough to throw a sizeable spanner in the works. But the masterstroke was to use this threat of violence from extremists as a way of getting the man-in-the-street to accept the Budget without too much outcry. Anything was better than bloodshed. The Brownings of the world had thrived on this credo ever since the capitalist system had burped up the middle classes.

Matlock was hardly at all disturbed to discover he had left it lying around somewhere in the debris of the past few days. What had happened this morning merely confirmed what was already certain in his mind — he had reached the point where he had to stop and say, “No further — no matter what”, or be swept into oblivion.

He left the bedroom and walked into the living-room. The Inspector ironically waved him ahead through the door. Matlock did not respond to the humour.

The number of policemen in the room had been reduced to three, with a further two stationed outside. The inside three were sitting at a table playing cards, but he was not deceived by their casualness. The drawn guns resting on their knees were not there to settle gambling quarrels in the old Western tradition. They were for him.

He indicated them with a gesture slight in itself, but enough to send three hands sliding under the table.

“Am I expected to feed them as well?”

“Don’t you think the State can afford to feed its loyal servants?”

“I doubt if this State can afford any kind of loyalty.”

The Inspector sank luxuriantly into Matlock’s favourite chair.

“I adore epigrammatic conversations. I’m going to enjoy these five weeks.”

“Five weeks?”

“Oh yes. I’ve been instructed to afford you every protection. No one is going to harm you, Mr. Matlock, be sure of that. But after five weeks you’re not going to need me any more. Unless there’s a boom. That’s the thing. You must put your hopes in greater productivity.”

Matlock moved across the room. The card-players stiffened again. The Inspector sighed.

“It would be more comfortable for us all and cut down the chances of an unfortunate accident if you would announce your proposed movements in advance.”

Matlock shrugged his shoulders.

“If you wish. I am going into the bathroom. I would prefer to be alone.”

The Inspector raised an eyebrow at the oldest looking of the three card-players who nodded. Matlock took this to mean the bathroom had been searched and declared safe. No hidden weapons. No escape route. He could have told them that himself. But he felt the need to be alone, to think.

“Of course,” said the Inspector.

Matlock was not surprised to find the lock had been removed. Nor did he mind much. He was too old to be modest. If the Inspector wanted to make a lightning check, let him. For the sake of authenticity he undid his trousers and sat.

The seat was warm.

There was only the bath and the shower cubicle. He arose, pulled up his pants and moved silently across to the cubicle.

The sliding panel was open a fraction. He put his eye to the crack and peered in.

Squatting uncomfortably up against the soap rack was a policeman.

Matlock’s first impulse was to roar with rage, then go screaming to the Inspector. This lasted only a moment. His second was to roar with laughter at the ludicrous excess of zeal in this superficially so suave and world-weary Inspector. But he checked the noise in his throat.

The policeman was staring straight up at what to him must have been a mere sliver of eye, and was pressing his forefinger to his pursed lips.

Matlock moved the panel further open. It squeaked slightly. The policeman shook his head and produced a piece of soap from behind his back. Then he bent forward and rubbed it gently along the panel’s running track. Finally he was satisfied and when he nodded permission to Matlock, the panel slid fully open in complete silence.

Next the man reached into his tunic pocket and produced a notebook. From it he took a loose sheet and handed it over. He was smiling broadly and familiarly. Matlock felt he ought to know him.

He read the piece of paper.

‘About time. I will give you a handgun. When you go back, pretend you are going into the kitchen. As you pass the card table, start shooting.’

Matlock found himself mouthing questions like a goldfish, but quickly restrained himself. The man’s familiarity still scratched at some small window in his mind. He took the proffered gun, nodded twice, turned and made his way towards the door. He was only a yard from it when a sudden noise burst out behind him.

Startled, he turned violently.

The policeman had pulled the plug.

He stood there shaking his head gently as if reprimanding a small boy’s misdemeanour. Then he held up his right hand and gently waved the gun he was holding.

Matlock stood puzzled for a second before realizing he was clutching his own gun with no effort at concealment. Sheepishly he slipped it into his pocket. The man nodded with approval, then motioned to the door.

As he did so, Matlock recognized him. The nose was unmistakable, but something was missing.

The beard!

It was a clean-shaven Brother Francis.

But there was no time to display his knowledge further than a raising of the eyebrows, as Francis was waving him more urgently to the door. He realized why as he moved back into the living-room. The Inspector was out of his chair and moving towards the bathroom door. Brother Francis obviously had keen ears.

“You weren’t going to peep, were you, Inspector?” he asked lightly, keeping his hand out of his pocket only by an effort of will.

“Perhaps. But only in the way of duty, Mr. Matlock.”

“The things men do for duty. Now, gentlemen, I am moving across to the kitchen where I shall make myself some coffee.”

The Inspector made a negative gesture.

“Oh, no, Mr. Matlock. That would not be right. You must take some advantage of us. Sit down and we’ll take coffee together. Andrews!”

One of the card-players half rose from his seat. There was no time to work out the possible advantages of this new arrangement of personae, and in any case Matlock had keyed himself up to deal with the old.

“No. I prefer to make my own.”

He spoke more brusquely than he had intended, but in the event this had the desired effect. The Inspector shrugged and waved him by with a repeat of his former ironic little bow. Andrews sat down and picked up his cards.

Matlock started to move across the room.

The three policemen watched him steadily as he moved. Andrews, he noticed, still had both his hands occupied with his cards. The other two had their right hands under the table. The eldest had put his cards down, but the other still held them in his left hand.

The Inspector also, he sensed, was standing behind him watching every step. This was good, he tried to reassure himself. They could not watch him and the bathroom door at the same time. But those eight eyes coldly drilling into him left him very little room for reassurance.

He was nearly at the kitchen door. He thought of going in and postponing attack till the return trip, and though he recognized this for the procrastination it was, he had almost made up his mind.

Then he sneezed.

It was a real, natural, unrehearsed sneeze.

And just as naturally his hand moved into his pocket in search of his handkerchief.

It came out with the gun.

He shot the oldest first. The other man fired from under the table, but Matlock had not stopped moving, and accurate aim from such an angle was impossible.

Matlock shot him in the chest. It was easier than the head. He fell forward over the table and his cards slipped out of his hand.

He had two pairs, Aces, nines, with a Jack.

Andrews hadn’t moved. Matlock blew a hole through his head then realized this made two.

Turning round he looked across the broken body of the Inspector to where Brother Francis stood in the open bathroom door. He found himself grinning foolishly like a schoolboy expecting congratulation, but Francis had no time for that. In two leaps he was across the room and flat against the wall behind the main door which burst open to let in the two outside guards. Matlock loosed one vague shot at them and fell sideways through the kitchen door as they ran across the room towards him, firing as they came. He scrabbled over the tiled floor, trying to squeeze himself behind the fridge but even as he regained his feet and turned, the door flew open behind him and a uniformed figure, gun smoking in his hand, stood looking down at him.

He brought his own gun up, but the other just shook his head and said, “Come along, Mr. Matlock.”

“Francis.”

He stood up straight.

“I feel like a cup of coffee now.”

“No time for bravado. Let’s be on our way.”

His living-room was not the shambles he expected; only the bodies were untidy. And even they didn’t stop the comfortable familiarity of the room pulling him more strongly than the sinister rectangle of space revealed by the open door.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be coming back here.”

It wasn’t a question, but Francis paused momentarily as he hustled him to the door.

“If there’s something you want, get it quick.”

Matlock looked around. He had had this flat for over twenty years. He had lived in it longer than any other place except his parents’ house. Perhaps longer than that. He’d have to work it out. Everything he owned was here, somewhere.

“Nothing,” he said. “I want nothing.”

If he thought this gesture of finality would impress Francis, he was quickly disenchanted.

“Right. Out you go.”

He was thrust into the corridor before he had time for a sentimental last glance.

Francis pulled the door shut behind them.

“I don’t know what kind of reporting system they’ve got, but you can be certain it’ll be pretty regular.”

“Every half hour,” answered Matlock. He wasn’t sure where he’d picked up the information, or whether by eavesdropping or observation, but it was there.

Francis glanced at him approvingly, and said, “For Godsake put that bloody thing away.”

Surprised, Matlock realized he was waving his handgun around like the hero of an old gangster film. He slipped it into his pocket.

“What about yours?”

“Once we’re out of here, you’re an age-offender I’ve just picked up. I’m taking you in. You’re not happy.”

“I’m not happy.”

They emerged into the sunlit street without meeting anyone. Matlock was full of questions, but he knew his slender chance of escape lay in Francis’ hands and he had no intention of disturbing the monk’s concentration.

Once out in the open, Francis abandoned the care and caution with which he had moved in the building and strode along with all the ebullient confidence of his assumed kind. Matlock found himself being pushed and prodded almost into a trot to keep just ahead. Once he stumbled and nearly fell and turned instinctively to expostulate. But before he could speak, Francis’ pistol-barrel rapped him lightly but painfully along his jawbone.

“Move,” he said.

Matlock moved, though he felt for a moment that Francis was overdoing it.

Only for a moment.

Out of the mouth of a shop doorway right in front of them stepped two more policemen.

Francis jerked Matlock to a halt. The two policemen studied them carefully, unemotionally.

“Trouble?” said one of them finally.

Francis laughed.

“Not much. Grandpa here doesn’t want his clock rewound. That’s all.”

“I see. He’s got another day, you know.”

Matlock looked at the man in surprise. But a glance into the expressionless face and hard black eyes assured him that this was no unexpected humanitarian, but merely a believer in the rule-book.

“In another day, this one would be over the hills and far away. Only he’s got relations who don’t fancy a sudden drop in their E.O.L. if the old devil made it.”

Francis laughed again. Again there was no response from the other two, but the one doing the talking seemed to relax slightly and his next words were more reassuring.

“The old trouble. But it helps us. Be careful how you go. There’s a smell of trouble in the air. And this is an especially controlled area for some reason.”

“Right, thanks. We’ll be on our way.”

As they talked, Matlock from under lowering brows had been watching the other, the silent one. He had taken a step to the side, as if to let Francis past. But his eyes had been moving systematically over every square inch of Francis’ uniform since the start of the encounter.

The monk prodded Matlock forward again. Matlock stumbled and collapsed to one knee. As he rose, he turned with his gun in his hand and shot the silent man whose own weapon was half out of its holster. Then he kept on turning, the gun-barrel moved past Francis’ bulk, and he sent his second shot an inch past the monk’s belly into the black-eyed policeman who had had time for nothing other than to register amazement.

“What the devil did you do that for?” cried Francis kicking aside the body which had collapsed over his feet.

“You should be more careful where you get your uniforms made,” said Matlock. “Your shoulder number is the same as his.”

He pointed at the silent one, silent now forever. Francis nodded appreciatively.

“Thanks. Now we must really move.”

There was no one else in sight, but there must have been witnesses. Matlock peered into the shop outside which they stood and was sure he saw a movement in its dark depths.

Then they were running, down the street. Shoulder to shoulder, partly because Matlock didn’t know where they were going and partly because he had no desire to run ahead and be shot down as a fugitive by some disinterested passer-by. Partly also, of course, because after a couple of hundred yards his legs felt as strong as pipe-cleaners and only Francis’ steadying hand between his shoulders kept him going.

He thought with mocking irony of his own prideful posturing in front of the mirror with Lizzie the morning before. He was as good as you could expect at nearly seventy, but that didn’t qualify him for the Olympic Games, even if they hadn’t stopped the Olympic Games fifteen years earlier.

“For Godsake, Francis,” he gasped, “slow down!”

“Not far now,” grunted the other, increasing his pressure on Matlock’s back.

But Matlock was too experienced to put much faith in such vague encouragement.

He stopped dead and held Francis back by main force while he sucked in two great breaths. Slightly recovered, he leaned against the wall of the anonymous sky-scraper block they were passing and said, “Look, Francis, do you know where we’re going?”

There was only a second’s hesitation, but it was enough for Matlock.

“So we don’t know?”

“Well, yes and no. I know where I want to be, but as things have turned out, I don’t think we’ll have time to get there.”

“You mean because the alarm will have been raised by now?”

“Yes.”

Matlock thought a moment.

“Is there a deadline?”

“Midday.”

It was just after eleven.

“Distance.”

“About a mile and a half. Fifteen minutes walking.”

“Listen,” said Matlock.

In the distance they heard a bell slowly ring out. Then another, closer. Then another. Till the sonorous peel rang from nearly every building.

“Curfew. Fifteen minutes walking will get us at the bottom of a Curfew Wagon. We’ve got to get inside.”

There was no way of telling whether the Curfew bell was being tolled because of his escape or because of the shooting which had just taken place. But it didn’t matter. Once that bell sounded, everyone got off the streets. Anyone who didn’t was fair game for the Curfew Police.

The next step was a building-to-building search. Every building had its own Supervisor who would do his own preliminary Curfew check, but the real trouble started when the Search squad proper arrived.

It was a good efficient system.

“Come on then,” said Francis, trying to move Matlock into the nearest door.

“Wait a minute, Brother. I may not be able to beat you on the long-distance running, but there’s an old head on these old shoulders. Let’s see what we have here.”

The building was an office block, about fifty storeys high. Matlock moved his eyes rapidly up the outside list of firms who used the building, but he had only covered about two thirds of them when Francis seized his arm again.

“Look.”

Round a corner about two hundred yards away came the huge square bulk of a Curfew Wagon. Its bullet-proof steel casing gleamed dully in the sunlight. The four periscopes on top turned and turned in an angular square-dance. There were no armaments to be seen. The terror lay inside. And archaically, but most sinister of all, from the arch of metal above the great flat top of the vehicle hung the slowly tolling bell whose clang warned of its approach.

One leap took them through the doorway into the building.

“I hope to God they didn’t see us,” panted Francis.

“Why? They’d hardly have time to recognize us.”

“But you don’t usually see policemen hiding from the Curfew Wagon.”

“Is there anything I can do, officer?”

The new voice startled them and made them suddenly aware of their surroundings. They were in the vestibule area of the building. There was an elevator in the wall facing them, and beside it a staircase.

With a real shock Matlock discovered he was contemplating whether he should shoot this man or not.

“How easily the habit grows,” he said aloud.

“I beg your pardon?” said the porter, obviously still trying to work out what degree of deference Matlock deserved.

Brother Francis took over.

“We’re going upstairs. This gentleman has made a complaint against one of your firms. Come along, sir. Let’s look into this.”

They strode purposefully across into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, Matlock reached forward and punched the twelfth-floor button. The lift accelerated up rapidly, forcing their feet hard against the floor.

“Why the twelfth?” asked Francis.

“Because it is two past the tenth.”

The lift stopped.

Cautiously he peered out. The corridor was empty, but there were sounds of activity from the offices which lined it.

Francis looked around uncertainly. He obviously felt that in some way the initiative had been wrested from his grasp and he was not sure what to do about it.

“Why here?”

“Not here. The tenth.”

Matlock led the way swiftly to the staircase and started to descend.

“The porter will have watched which floor we got off at. I only hope he doesn’t check by ’phone.”

He checked that the eleventh floor corridor was empty before they swung rapidly over the landing and down the next flight of stairs.

At the bottom Matlock paused and held up his hand for silence. He had been cautious before, but now every move was as stealthy and silent as he could make it.

Again the corridor was empty, nor was there any sound of life coming through any of the closed doors.

The plaque on the wall credited all this inactivity to the Technical Education Recruitment Board. Brother Francis looked at this then turned to Matlock, his battered boxer’s face (which suited his present uniform much more than his monk’s robes) twisted into puzzled enquiry. Matlock pressed close to him and made a funnel of his hands at his ear. Down this he whispered, “The slightest move from anyone in there, start shooting. Anyone. Understand?”

Francis shrugged, then nodded. Matlock turned and led the way along the corridor to the door marked ‘Enquiries’. Here he pressed himself up against the wall and motioned Francis to knock.

Nothing happened for a full thirty seconds after the knock, but Francis had lived on his intuition long enough to know that he was being scrutinized. Finally a woman’s voice said, “Come in please”.

He opened the door and walked in. Seated at a table opposite the door was a middle-aged woman with a bright smile on her face.

“Good-day, officer. Can I help you?”

Then her face changed and he realized Matlock had appeared beside him. Ignoring the woman, Matlock moved rapidly across the room towards the further door. The woman leaned to one side. Francis remembered Matlock’s injunction but hesitated till her left hand came up with a gun in it. Then he fired. He had to shoot her twice.

Matlock meanwhile had crashed the inner door open and gone through, doubled low. Francis saw the doorway light up with the rapid brilliances of force-gun shots for a couple of seconds. Then all went dark.

A second later Matlock appeared at the door rubbing his left shoulder.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just bruised. I’m not accustomed to the acrobatics of evasion. What about you?”

Matlock looked quickly round the outer office and noted the two shot-marks on the woman. “Chivalry makes you inaccurate,” he observed.

But Francis didn’t hear. He was busy looking round the inner room. There had been three men in there. There still were, but all dead. All three had their guns out. Matlock must have moved fast and shot accurately.

“It would have been easier if you’d stopped the girl from ringing the alarm buzzer. But it’s my fault. I should have realized it might be a girl in there and that would slow you up.”

“Matlock,” asked Francis in bewilderment, “what is this place?”

“You mean you want to know who you’ve killed? A delicate piece of machinery is the human conscience. Well, let it rest, Brother Francis. Many years ago when I had some slight authority in this country, I made it my business to get to know as much about our various Security Services as I could. Even if I’d stayed long enough, I doubt if I’d have got to know the lot. But a myriad of little front organizations were known to me and I’ve kept a fatherly eye on them since. Many have disappeared in that time, of course, and I presume others have sprung up in their place. But this name I recognized outside. Either it was now legitimate and the inmates would be only too pleased to help a policeman or too scared to resist a gunman. Or it was working as before. They were a bit quick on the draw for technical education, don’t you think? And this though it looks technical, is probably not very educational. Except perhaps to you.”

He indicated the banks of machinery which lined the room.

“But what did they do here?” asked Francis.

“Faked things mainly, I think. Any well-run state needs all kinds of things if its security is to run smoothly. Passports, visas, paper money. And a well-run police state needs even more. Signatures, thumbprints, affidavits, wills, marriage and birth certificates.”

He pulled out a drawer and emptied it, then another and another. Francis looked at the piles of legal documents, the letterheads, the blank passports.

“And the machinery?”

“Oh, that’s an automatic press. That’s probably some kind of ager. Developer. Enlarger. All mod-cons. And that’s a radio telephone.”

“Why the hell did we come here, Matlock?”

“Perhaps you’d rather be outside with the Wagon? Listen, Brother, don’t have a conscience about this lot. I know they don’t go around torturing and terrorizing people. But they know what they’re doing. You’d have to be pretty stupid not to understand that you’re forging the evidence which is going to kill someone. Or cheat someone. Or discredit someone. No one’s that stupid. Anyway, more important to us is that my spotting this place gives us a chance to get out.”

“How?” asked Francis eagerly.

Matlock grinned.

“I see your priorities are surfacing again. Now, during a Curfew only two kinds of vehicle move around the streets, the Wagons and Official Reds. Unfortunately Official Reds are not easy to come by for the common man. But in a place like this, your Official Red is the only form of transport. These chaps wouldn’t be seen dead in anything else. Let’s see if we can find out how to summon one.”

But before Matlock could start looking, a green light above the ’phone began to flash on and off. Matlock studied the battery of dials and switches in front of him carefully. Finally he picked up the ’phone.

The noise which came out of it was near-gibberish. Matlock flicked a switch.

“Harper? Hello Harper.”

Matlock grunted inarticulately.

“Harper, you took your time. Listen. Is that Scottish job ready? The security boys are screaming for it.”

“Just finished.”

“Good oh. I’ll have a Red round for it in a couple of jiffs. Out.”

Matlock sat back with a smile.

“That’s saved us a lot of bother, hasn’t it?”

Francis peered down at the dials and switches.

“How did you know which was the descrambler?”

“I didn’t. I merely flicked the one which looked most used.”

“What do we do now?”

“Sit and wait. Perhaps you’d like to tell me now how you came to be in my shower this morning.”

Francis gingerly edged one of the dead forgers out of a chair and sat down.

“We heard about four this morning what was going on.”

“Heard? How?”

“Well, we rather inferred it. We got word from the Abbey about a sudden flurry of police activity up there — not at the Abbey itself, but in connected organizations.”

“My organizations, I suppose?”

“You could put it like that. Anyway, arrests were being made right, left and centre. Not just the mob, but key people. The Abbot saw at once what it must mean.”

“A clever man.”

“At any rate, he saw that you must be threatened. There was nothing much we could organize at such notice and as things were so vague. We had made all the agreed arrangements to get you and your friends out of London but we couldn’t bring the timing forward at all. To cut a long story short, I climbed out of my beard and into this uniform.”

“Which you just happened to have handy.”

“Which I just happened to have handy. And off I went round to your flat at a rate of knots. There I came across a dozen or so assorted policemen making a very silent entry. I merely tagged on the back and put myself in a dark corner. Later when the bathroom was cleared and the lock had been removed, I transferred in there.”

Matlock sat with furrowed brows for a while, then slowly nodded.

“I see. Tell me, Francis, how important am I?”

“I don’t understand.”

“This sudden activity on Browning’s part. Was this his plan all along, and his approach to me just a bluff? Or was this a snap plan caused by my decision to go to ground. In which case…”

“In which case, how did he know about it, you mean?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I knew about it. And the Abbot knew. I think I can vouch for us. That leaves you. And yours.”

“Yes. You’re a real comfort.”

Somewhere a sharp-edged buzzer cut through the air. They both started to their feet. Then Matlock laughed.

“It’s the internal ’phone.”

They went back into the outer office and Matlock picked up the telephone.

“Yes?” he said.

“Hall-porter here, sir. There’s a car from the Ministry of Education here. Says he’s come to collect something.”

“Thank you. Oh I wonder, could you step up here a moment and give us a hand, do you think?”

“Of course, sir.”

The ’phone went dead.

“Why did you say that?”

“It’s better to deal with him up here than in the vestibule when he realizes we’ve nothing to do with this office. The Ministry of Education! I love that!”

” “What do you think this job was, anyway? What did he call it? The Scottish job.”

“Who knows. We haven’t got time to look for it now,” said Matlock, tucking more securely into his pocket the small packet he had lifted from Harper’s desk within seconds of shooting the man. “That sounds like our man.”

A minute later they were on their way downstairs, leaving behind them, securely bound to a chair, the unfortunate porter.

In the vestibule waiting for them in the scarlet uniform of the Official Messenger Service were two men. They looked with some surprise when Matlock, instead of handing over the file he was carrying, headed for the door.

“We were told to collect. There was nothing said about you coming with us.”

Matlock shook his head as if in the presence of incredible stupidity. He held up the file.

“This is no use without me.”

“And him?” with a nod at Francis.

“There could be an attempt to remove this from me. I’ve had him looking after me for a couple of days now.”

“I might as well see the job through,” said Francis.

“All right. Come on.”

They marched outside to where the bright-red bullet-shaped messenger car was waiting. Matlock and Francis clambered in the back, the messengers in the front.

The driver spoke briefly into his radio link.

“Twenty-three. Returning to the House.”

Then they accelerated smoothly away through the deserted streets. Within a couple of blocks, they passed a Curfew Wagon, but this was the only moving thing they saw.

Neither of the messengers showed any inclination to talk. Matlock sat busy with his own thoughts, while Francis kept a close eye on the route. Suddenly a pressure from his knee told Matlock that this was where they had to get off.

“Stop the car,” he said in a peremptory tone.

The driver looked surprised but the car didn’t slow down at all.

“Official Reds never stop en route,” he explained kindly. “What’s the trouble?”

With a sigh, Matlock reached into the file he was holding on his knee and took out his gun. (He realized he was actually thinking of it as ‘his’ gun.)

“This,” he said.

“The trouble is,” said the driver unperturbed, “that you can’t take over an Official Red. Even if you shoot me, the thing keeps on going till it hits something. Then we all die.”

“A cool customer,” said Matlock. “Excuse me.”

He reversed his gun and struck the other messenger sharply behind the ear.He slumped forward without a sound.

“That’s better,” said Matlock. “Now I can lean forward and get a decent shot. I’m going to count three and then press the trigger. My force-gun is pointing, you will observe, more or less between your legs. The turtle’s nest. Frying tonight, as they used to say. One… two…”

“All right,” said the driver. He pulled the car into the kerb. “If you want to stop that badly, then here I stop. Now what?”

Matlock hit him in the same place. Then he and Francis got out and began dragging the two messengers from the front.

“Think you can drive this thing?” asked Francis.

“I was relying on you.”

“One of us better had. Listen!”

The clang of the Curfew Wagon bell came drifting to them from a nearby street.

They let the limp bodies of the messengers drop on the road and got quickly into the car, Francis in the driving seat.

“Right, let’s go.”

“How?” said Francis searching furiously round. “Tell me how and off I’ll go.”

The control panel was simplicity itself. A speedometer, a fuel gauge. Two switches.

Matlock leaned over and pressed one.

Nothing happened.

“What’s that do?”

“Say again, please, and identify yourself,” crackled a loud but somehow distant voice in Francis’ ear.

He shifted the switch to its former position.

“Try the other.”

Matlock twisted urgently round in his seat. They were parked almost opposite an intersection. Suddenly trundling into view along the road running parallel to theirs and about fifty yards away came a Curfew Wagon. Matlock held his breath and prayed. He prayed that in the twenty yards or so in which they were in sight of each other, the Wagon would not notice them. Or that if it did, it would not consider a stationary Red worth investigating.

Francis pressed the other switch.

Rhythmic as hysteria, a great pulsating shriek tore the air apart and sent frightening waves of sound in all directions.

It only lasted a couple of seconds till Francis threw the switch back.

“Siren,” he said unnecessarily.

The Curfew Wagon which had almost moved out of sight now came to a halt, then reversed into the centre of the crossroads. The periscopes twinkled round till all four were peering down the street, towards them. They remained in that position, four blank but all seeing eyes, while the great bulk beneath them shifted round and began to move directly towards the little Red.

“Key,” said Matlock, and plunged out of the car and round to the driver. He was just recovering consciousness and had half risen on his elbow. Matlock pulled his arm away from under him so that he collapsed on the road again. Then he began to prise the man’s clenched fist open. It was locked like a clamp. The dreadful bell sounded nearer and nearer. He lifted the fist to his mouth and dug his teeth into the ball of the thumb.

There was an anguished screech. The fist became a hand. On the palm lay a small cylinder of metal.

The Wagon was nearly upon them. As he leapt back into the car, he saw the hatches at the front begin to slide open. He leaned over to the control panel and looked desperately for somewhere to put the key. There wasn’t an aperture to be seen. He ran his fingers along under the dashboard. Suddenly he felt a slight unevenness. A hollow. He took the cylinder and thrust it in.

Nothing.

He pressed harder. There was a click.

At first he thought there was still nothing. Then he noticed the slight trembling of the fuel pressure gauge.

“We’re running. Let’s go.”

Francis slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The other messenger suddenly rose to his feet and staggered in front of them trying to draw his gun. The Red surged forward with such force that he was flung over the bonnet into the road behind.

“Christ!” spat Francis between pale lips.

Matlock peered through the back window. The driver was up as well now, waving his arms. A black tube like the lash of a bull-whip snaked out of the now fully open aperture of the Curfew Wagon, coiled round him and dragged him screaming into the darkness.

“I think you might have done that fellow a favour,” said Matlock.

“You think so?”

They spun round a corner and the Wagon went out of view.

“Why didn’t they fire at us?”

“Who knows? They like their quarry alive, they say. And a parked Red might just have been a parked Red after all. But never fear. There’ll be plenty of stuff out to intercept us now.”

“Let it,” said Francis.

“What’s the time?”

“Nearly noon.”

“Just in time.”

He swung the wheel hard over and the Red raced crazily up the ramp of a fifteen-storey garage. Round and round the spiral ramp they circled at the same terrifying speed till suddenly they ran out on the level plateau of the top parking lot.

There was only one other vehicle there,a large out-of-date transporter.

The Red halted dead and Matlock used the impetus to take him out of the door.

“That?” he said incredulously to Francis.

“That.”

As they ran up to the transporter, the rear board slowly unfolded. Francis had leapt on before it reached the ground. Turning, he pulled Matlock up behind him.

“Welcome aboard.”

Inside the transporter, looking absurdly small, was a helicopter. At the controls in long flowing robes was a monk.

“Greetings, Brothers. Climb up, do. Will there be any others?”

“No. Get going,” snapped Francis.

Others. Where are the others? wondered Matlock as he crouched in his seat.

“Something’s coming up the ramp! Go!” screamed Francis.

The pilot pressed a button. Above them, the roof of the transporter split open letting in the deep blue of the sky. The helicopter’s vanes began to whirl, her ground jets blasted and slowly, carefully they rose from the chrysallis of the great truck, then climbed more rapidly as a small car pulled off the ramp on to the roof. Out of it jumped a solitary figure who began to run towards the transporter, waving.

“Wait,” shouted Matlock. “It’s Colin! It’s Colin!”

“Too late,” said Francis, pointing.

Two other cars, large and official, had run off the ramp. Half a dozen uniformed figures jumped out of each and ran towards the waving man. They were antlike now, and so indistinguishable when together that to Matlock it looked as if Colin had been swallowed up.

He strained his eyes to see what was happening down there, but soon he couldn’t even make out the building clearly.

Then he sat back and closed his eyes.

And wondered how it was all going to end.