CHAPTER THREE
IF IT BLEEDS, IT LEADS
The lifeless body hung in the air for a single, endless heartbeat. Then it fell to the floor, right at the Doctor's feet.
There was a pause. A brief interlude of stunned silence. It lasted a whole second, Carl guessed - maybe even two seconds. Then the reporters surged forward in a desperate wave, with all the force and fury of a tsunami.
The next few minutes were a blur of chaotic activity. As the scientists rushed away from the body, toward the exits (or the restrooms or garbage cans, for those who were overcome with nausea), the reporters kept straining closer and closer to it. Flashbulbs popped all around the room. Reporters cursed and shoved against each other, straining for a better view of the corpse. A few of the newsmen tried to interview the Doctor, asking the usual inane questions - "How do you feel?" and "Were you scared?" He gave them a look of such unadulterated revulsion, that they backed away quickly and focused on the dead man instead.
Carl's first impulse was to rush in with the rest of them. But the spectacle of the feeding frenzy before him changed his mind. He stood there a moment, watching the ladies and gentlemen of the press clawing like vultures, salivating over the dead meat. These same men and women had been standing around, bored and idle, just a few minutes before. The scent of death had awakened them, flushed their cheeks blood-red with adrenaline and brought a gleam to even the most jaded of eyes. The reporters weren't shocked by the suicide, Carl observed. They were revitalized by it.
Slowly, deliberately, Carl climbed onto a snack table near the back of the room. He lifted his camera and started snapping pictures. Not of the corpse, but of the carrion surrounding it.
He spotted a pretty young blonde who looked like she had probably been a cheerleader in school (all of two years earlier, he guessed). She was the TV reporter who had been nearest Dr. Lloyd. When he had shot himself, some of the gore had splattered her face and hair.
She had a handkerchief out, and was clearly about to wipe away the mess. Then she stopped. A calculating look came into her eyes. She put the handkerchief away, then gestured to her camera crew to start shooting her.
Carl kept his camera on the woman, snapping a photographic record of her moment of blood-spattered glory. When he lowered the camera at last, he grinned like a hungry shark would grin, moments before devouring its prey.
He checked to make sure his tape recorder was still going, then eased into the crowd. He had the pictures; now he needed some quotes to go along with them.
Carl cynically reflected that the words and phrases he recorded over the next few minutes probably formed the truest portrait of humanity ever put to tape.
"-editor thought it was going to be a bunch of tedious academic bafflegab, had to twist his arm to get him to even send me. Well, this'll show the bastard!"
"-yeah, we got the money shot. Kept the camera right on him, smack on his face when he pulled the trigger. Might have some trouble with the censors, but we'll get it on somehow."
"Do you think he was on drugs?" "Must've been. Did you see the glassy look in his eyes?" "Yeah, and the way he babbled on. LSD, I'd swear to it." "Probably an addict the whole time. I'll bet this whole conference was the result of one big acid trip."
"Let me through! I just need one close shot of his head!" "What's left of it, you mean!" Laughter.
Carl took a few surreptitious shots of the grins and laughter, then eased out of the crowd before the police arrived.
The police quickly restored order, first ushering the journalists away from the body and then moving them to the door. None of the reporters tried to evade; no one wanted to be the last one to file the story, and nothing slowed a story down like a few hours in jail.
Outside the Institute, the officers were already taking down names and witness statements from the scientists, who were organized into several lines in front of waiting police offers. As the reporters emerged, they were directed to join the queue.
"Once you provide us with your name and either the name of your hotel or a telephone number, you may go," a burly sergeant informed them in a loud Cockney accent. "No questions from the press at this time. Let's move this along as quickly as possible, please."
Once they had provided their information, most of the scientists left immediately. The journalists lingered, waiting for the inevitable official statement from the Institute.
"Bloody amazing!" Geoff enthused, bouncing up to Carl like an overweight Scottish Tigger. "Guy blows his brains out on the biggest day of his life! Shame all these other vultures saw it, too. Still, guess we know what'll make the front page of every paper tomorrow, eh mate?"
"And on TV in about 5 minutes," Carl said, pointing.
The blonde woman he had noticed inside, still wearing the dead man's blood as if it were a trophy, was setting up in front of an ITV news van that had arrived a few minutes ago. Carl guessed that they were already splicing tape.
Or done splicing. A tech gave the woman and her cameraman the thumbs-up. There was a brief countdown, the tech signaled, and the pretty, blood-spattered blonde sprang to life:
"This is Jane Greer, live from the Highwater Medical & Scientific Research Centre, where a scientific conference has ended in shocking tragedy. Less than an hour ago, Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd, the man responsible for this conference, shot himself through the head in front of a large crowd of witnesses - myself included. Unnamed sources speculate that Dr. Lloyd had been battling a drug problem for some time. We have some video of the incident, which we recorded earlier. I must warn you, this footage is extremely graphic and unsuitable for young children."
There was a pause, then one of the techs nodded at Jane that the video was going. She relaxed, and started joking with the techs. "Like my hair?" she asked, pointing to a smear of blood that had worked its way thoroughly into the blonde.
Carl felt nauseous.
"Unnamed sources," he said, fuming. "Codeword for 'We made it up.' "
"Ronald fuckin' McDonald's," Geoff agreed, sounding as disgusted as Carl felt. "You can't stop the future, mate."
"No," Carl said. "Can't stop it."
He raised his camera and snapped three shots of Jane: first putting on an earnest look; then giggling; and finally, sticking her tongue out at the microphone.
I can't stop it, he thought, but maybe I can fry a little of the fat off it.
FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK
The police took the body away fairly quickly. I suppose there wasn't a lot to investigate about a suicide witnessed by well over 200 people. A detective stayed to take a detailed statement from Dr. Smith inside the Science Centre, while a couple of uniformed officers guarded the entrance. But it was the consensus among the gathered press that these steps were mere formalities. All that remained to this case was the autopsy.
Quickly realizing that the crowd of reporters wasn't going to just go away, the Science Centre sent out a junior spokesman to provide a statement. It wasn't much of a statement - condolences to Dr. Lloyd's friends and family, half-hearted promises that his research results would be released at a later time. No questions were taken, and those that were yelled out (mostly asking about drugs) were ignored.
The reporters started to disperse soon after. I stayed, hoping for a few words with Dr. Smith. It was a decision that would change everything about the rest of my London visit...
"They're taking a long time with him," Carl mused.
A good twenty minutes had passed since the Science Centre's official statement, and Dr. Smith had still not emerged. The two uniformed officers still stood at the doorway, an implacable barrier.
"What does it matter?" Geoff asked. "We got the story. What else is he gonna add? 'Sorry I didn't save the whacked-out bastard's life, but there ya go?' Let's get our stories in and grab a pint down at the pub!"
Carl shook his head. There was a familiar, nagging feeling tugging at the edge of his subconscious. "Something's not right here," he said. "I can smell it."
"Might just be my after-shave," Geoff grunted - but his grunt was half-hearted, and Carl noticed that he didn't make any move to leave.
Carl's patience was rewarded about 5 minutes later. The cavalry arrived.
Not that anyone could have realistically described the two military vehicles that pulled into the Science Centre as a cavalry. But the sight of the battered troop transport and the carefully maintained army jeepput Carl in mind of old 1930's movies. The straight-backed officer sitting in the jeep's passenger seat even looked a little like Errol Flynn. Well, he had an Errol Flynn mustache, at any rate.
Carl lifted his camera and snapped two photos of the vehicles. He focused in tight on the logo on the side of each door: "UNIT."
A logo Geoff obviously recognized, from the sharp intake of breath in Carl's ear.
"Bloody UNIT," he hissed. "What the fuck are they doin' here?"
As the vehicles parked, a good half-dozen uniformed soldiers jumped out of the back of the troop carrier. They immediately fell into formation.
The driver of the jeep stepped out. A lanky man whose sergeant's uniform managed to be crisp and vaguely rumpled at the same time. He walked around the front of the jeep to hold the door open for his superior.
"Thank you, Benton." A gruff voice, that carried with crystal clarity across the parking lot.
Even had he not been in uniform, this man would have been unmistakable as the commanding officer. He wasn't the tallest man there, nor was he the toughest in appearance. But his every move, step, and gesture spoke of a lifetime in military service.
The soldiers drew to attention even before the sergeant - Benton - barked the order. Another order, and the entire group marched in perfect step to the entrance.
Carl snapped another photo as the officer spoke with the policemen. The detective emerged and shook the soldier's hand. Then the police dissipated, returning to their vehicles.
Dr. Smith still had not emerged.
"Hold this," Carl said, unslinging his camera and passing it to Geoff.
"I wouldn't--" Geoff started to say.
But Carl was already gone, trotting across the parking lot to the entrance.
"Excuse me, General!" he called out, before the military man had a chance to go inside.
"It's Brigadier, actually. Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart." The mustached officer turned to look at Carl. His gaze carried a crisp confidence that was completely natural, and all the more unnerving as a result. "A very different rank than General, though your American military seems confused on that point. What can I do for you, Mister...?"
"Kolchak. Carl Kolchak, INS. Independent News Service."
"Ah, yes. A reporter." The look in the soldier's eyes was similar to the look one might give to a particularly small gnat at a picnic.
"Yes," Carl acknowledged, flashing what he hoped was a disarming grin. "I, uh... It's rather embarrassing, actually. But I left my camera inside the conference hall, and was hoping--"
"You were hoping I would let you inside for a moment to retrieve it?"
"Well... if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
The Brigadier gave a friendly smile. "Mr. Kolchak, there is nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to refuse you."
Around the smile and the friendly tone, it took a moment for the word "refuse" to register. Then Carl began to splutter. "But, wait a minute. That camera is--"
"Mr. Kolchak, under no circumstances will you enter this building. Not for a camera. Not for an army of cameras. If a dozen tanks were to appear and point their cannons at me, threatening to fire unless I allowed you entrance... even then, I and my men would fight to the death to keep you outside this building. Do I make myself clear?"
"But my camera--"
"Do I make myself clear?" A dangerous edge entered the Brigadier's voice, and Carl suddenly became aware of just how tall and broad-shouldered the soldiers surrounding him were. Carl swallowed thickly, nodded.
"Excellent," the Brigadier said. "Now your camera, if it exists, will be returned to you in due course. Leave the make, model, and serial number with Sergeant Benton here, and I'll see to it that it's delivered to your room by the end of the day. Benton, take down Mr. Kolchak's particulars please."
Carl started edging away, only to find himself backing into a pair of very large men who had taken up position behind him.
"Actually," he said quickly. "Now that I think about it, that really won't be necessary. I'm pretty sure I saw a friend grab my camera on his way out."
"How convenient." The Brigadier smirked. "Still, something so valuable as a camera, we mustn't take chances. Sergeant Benton will take down your information before you leave."
"But--"
"What is it you Americans say, Mr. Kolchak? Oh, yes. Have a nice day."
The Brigadier turned and vanished into the building, leaving Carl in the center of six soldiers, all glaring down at him with decidedly unfriendly looks on their faces. He doffed his hat in what he hoped was a friendly manner, giving the soldiershis best and mostsheepish "don't-hurt-me" grin.
"Wretched man," the Brigadier commented as the doors closed. "The American press must be even worse than our own, if he's representative."
"Watergate," a man standing near the elevator explained. "Their press led a President to resign just last year. Now they all fancy themselves Kingmakers."
The man stepped forward, offering his hand. "Colin Rennard, deputy director of the Highwater Centre."
The Brigadier shook his hand and made polite noises as the Doctor emerged from the conference hall.
"Brigadier," he said. "About time you got here."
"Following your advice, Doctor. Waiting for the press to leave. Well, most of the press. Now what's so urgent that it demands UNIT's full attention?"
"I'll show you," the Doctor said. "Dr. Rennard?"
"Of course."
Rennard led Lethbridge-Stewart and the Doctor into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. As the elevator doors closed, Rennard and the Brigadier both lapsed into that silence unique to elevator compartments, watching the indicator lights in a brief, half-hypnotized stupor. The Doctor looked from one to the other, then gave a weary and impatient sigh as the compartment settled and the doors slid open again.
As they stepped out of the compartment, the Brigadier became instantly alert again. "Do we know how he got the gun?" he asked.
"One of our security people," Rennard replied. "Arthur - that is, Dr. Lloyd - was complaining of dizziness, and went to have a lie-down in the small conference room on this floor. A guard went to fetch him a few minutes before 9. As soon as the man entered the room, Arthur... well, it appears Arthur jumped him. Like a wild animal, the guard said."
"And Dr. Lloyd got the guard's gun away from him," the Brigadier finished, his voice and face as cold as flint.
"Yes," Rennard confirmed.
"Is that guard licensed to carry firearms?"
"Yes, of course."
"Not after today, he isn't. A man who's careless with his sidearm shouldn't be carrying one."
Rennard started to reply, probably to defend his man. The Doctor interjected.
"Isn't this the way to Dr. Lloyd's laboratory?" he asked, pointing down a long hallway.
Rennard looked down the hallway, nodded.
"Sorry, I got distracted." He led them to the lab door, unlocking it with his key and opening it up for them.
"Through here, gentlemen," he said, ushering them inside.
The Brigadier was immediately struck by the contrast between this laboratory and the Doctor's lab back at UNIT. Where the Doctor's lab was one giant disorganized clutter, this room was spotlessly clean. Everything had a place, and everything was secured in its place. Slides, chemicals, and test tubes were secured in their appropriate holders, and each slide and tube was labeled with painstaking precision. A row of filing cabinets neatly adorned one wall, with the contents of each drawer similarly labeled.
"A meticulous man, Dr. Lloyd," the Brigadier observed. "Perhaps you might pick up a few tips about organization, Doctor."
The Doctor scowled. "If you're done admiring the domestics, perhaps you should direct your attention to the table in the center of the room."
The Doctor pointed to a table, on which stood an empty display case. The lid to the case sat next to it, on the table's surface.
"Dr. Lloyd's crystal," Rennard explained. "It was found in Antarctica by an Australian team, discovered approximately 8.5 meters beneath the ice."
"It's gone," the Brigadier said.
"Your grasp of the obvious is as astonishing as ever, Lethbridge-Stewart," the Doctor said dryly.
"Its disappearance was discovered shortly after Dr. Lloyd's suicide," Rennard told him. "Though we have reason to believe the actual theft occurred some time earlier."
"Who had access to this room?" the Brigadier asked.
"Several personnel. But most of them were downstairs the entire morning. There's only one man left unaccounted for by the police."
"Alwyn Regan," the Doctor supplied. "Dr. Lloyd's personal assistant, who was observed leaving this building just before Dr. Lloyd's sudden dizzy spell. An interesting coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
The Brigadier sniffed. "I don't believe in coincidences, Doctor."
"Neither do I, Lethbridge-Stewart. Neither do I. In any case, the police have already put out an alert for him."
"Good," the Brigadier said, nodding. "So, that only leaves one question. Why are we here?"
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Becoming existential in your middle age?"
"You know what I mean, Doctor. A theft and a probably homicide, which it sounds like the police already have well in-hand. It hardly falls within UNIT's purview."
The Doctor bristled. "Let me remind you that this conference was attended by leading press and scientists from around the world," he said sharply. "As such, this incident might easily be considered internationally sensitive."
"Oh, I will run it by Geneva," the Brigadier said. "But I see no reason to interfere in the police investigation in the meantime."
"Then let me give you a reason. Dr. Rennard, would you give the Brigadier the file you showed me earlier?"
"Certainly, Doctor." Rennard opened one of the file cabinets and pulled out a manila folder.
As the Brigadier perused the file, the Doctor moved to his shoulder to translate. "This sheet is a breakdown of the chemical composition of Dr. Lloyd's crystal. Most of it's not particularly unusual. 4.25 sodium, 7.85 calcium, 42.9 oxygen, 31.2 silicon... very near to the chemical composition of your typical plagioclase crystal."
"In English, Doctor?"
The Doctor sighed. "Most of it's like your run-of-the-mill crystal," he said impatiently. "But look here." He pointed at the bottom of the list. "Three separate compounds, one making up 3.2, one making up 1.75, and one making up a full 7 of the crystal. And all three of these - "
"Unidentified," Rennard finished. "They are not recognizable as Earthbound elements."
"I won't even get into the atomic structure," the Doctor said.
"Thank you," the Brigadier replied quickly.
"Suffice it to say, I very much doubt that this crystal originated on this planet."
The Doctor fixed the Brigadier with a look, and waited for this to sink in. The Brigadier clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room slowly.
"So the crystal is from outer space," he said slowly.
"Almost certainly."
"How did it get to Antarctica?"
Rennard cleared his throat. "While the vast majority of meteors burn up in the Earth's atmosphere, it is a well-known fact that some meteors have remained intact to strike the Earth. There are craters that have actually been turned into tourist spots. Our studies of the crystal suggested it was a part of a larger structure. Likely the crystal was inside a meteor of solid rock, enabling it to survive our atmosphere."
"And it landed in Antarctica?"
"Probably quite some time ago," the Doctor said. "And it remained there, buried in the ice, until the Australian team dug it up a few years ago."
"All very interesting," the Brigadier acknowledged. "But I still fail to see a reason for UNIT to get involved."
"The reason is the entire point of this conference, Brigadier. Dr. Lloyd's research showed clear evidence that the crystal has properties that can affect the conscious mind."
"Mind control?"
Rennard gave a short laugh. "Nothing so melodramatic," he insisted. "But Arthur did demonstrate that the crystal lets out an intermittent sub-harmonic wave--"
"Sounds too low for the human ear to hear," the Doctor translated.
"--which was consistently shown to have a calming effect on agitated laboratory animals, from guinea pigs to chimpanzees."
"Some of your human colleagues reported feeling a similar influence," the Doctor noted.
"Yes, though that evidence remains purely anecdotal. It was Arthur's belief that these subharmonic waves could be studied, then replicated and applied to the treatment of mental illness."
"Wasn't there one case of the crystal having the reverse effect?" the Doctor asked. "Agitating instead of calming?"
Rennard frowned. "Well, there was one anomalous incident," he said. "Our most placid test subject was a rather fat, domesticated guinea pig the junior staff had dubbed 'Fluffy.' More of a pet than a test animal, to be honest."
"And what happened to Fluffy?"
"Well, we were testing the crystal's effect on agitated animals, but we also needed to see what effect it would have on calm animals. Mostly, animals that were already calm would become sleepy when brought into the crystal's influence. We repeated the experiment several times, and Fluffy would usually immediately lie down and go to sleep until removed.
"About two months ago, in the final battery of tests, something strange happened. Fluffy was brought into the lab and placed in a cage near the crystal. And instead of sleeping, she reacted as if every adrenal gland in her body had gone haywire. She threw herself at the bars of her cage, squealing in a way none of us had ever heard before. One of the lab assistants tried to remove her from the cage, but Fluffy attacked her - biting and scratching at the girl's hands as soon as they entered the cage. Fluffy collapsed and died a few minutes later."
The Brigadier frowned. "The crystal had this effect and you still went ahead with plans to use it on humans?"
"Brigadier, there were never plans to use the crystal on human beings," Rennard said. "The plan was to replicate its sound waves. And there were hundreds of tests run. The incident with Fluffy was the only anomaly. A dissection of the animal showed that she had suffered a brain aneurysm. It is far, far more likely that the aneurysm was the cause of her strange behavior than anything external."
"So it was a... coincidence," the Doctor said, flashing a meaningful look at the Brigadier. "Or was it something else?"
The Doctor stepped forward. "I think your crystal can generate more than one kind of effect. I think Alwyn Regan discovered a way to replicate the effect the crystal had on Fluffy, and magnified that effect to use against humans. A mind weapon, effectively."
"Rubbish!" Rennard snapped. "Really, Doctor, I thought you were a scientist!"
"A scientist considers all the facts," the Doctor said. "He doesn't throw out an incident simply because it doesn't seem to fit. Here's a chain of facts for your consideration. In a single, anomalous incident, a previously calm creature came into contact with the crystal and reacted violently. Alwyn Regan was certainly aware of this incident. Today, just two months later, both Regan and the crystal have disappeared. And just after Regan was seen leaving the building, Dr. Lloyd suddenly complained of dizziness, and was next seen in a violently agitated state - a human reprise of the incident with Fluffy. These are all facts, Dr. Rennard."
There was a long silence, during which both Rennard and the Brigadier absorbed his words.
Rennard spoke first. "Your line of reasoning is very speculative, Doctor."
But the Brigadier had reached his decision. "That's as may be, Dr. Rennard," he said. "But I think there is cause for concern. If the crystal can be used in the way the Doctor believes, then it would be highly valued as a weapon. I shudder to think what might happen if the Soviets or the Chinese were given the ability to control minds. It would be the ultimate terror weapon.
"I'll call Geneva, then have the military set up checkpoints at the docks, train stations, and airports. Regan mustn't be allowed to leave the country."
The Doctor turned to Rennard. "As for me," he said, "I want every scrap of research delivered to my lab."
"There's a lot of research, Doctor," Rennard replied. "Why don't I just give you the summaries?"
"No," the Doctor insisted. "I'll take the summaries with me right now. But I want everything by tomorrow morning. Every journal, every note, every memo. If there's a napkin with a doodle on it, I want it."
"It will take years to read through all that," Rennard protested.
The Doctor smiled. "I'm a fast reader," he said. "Just make sure I have the material."
Rennard looked to the Brigadier. "Have your staff gather up the material the Doctor requested," the Brigadier said severely. "I'll send some men by tomorrow to pick it up. This is a Security matter, now, Dr. Rennard. Your full cooperation is expected and required."
Rennard grimaced, but nodded his assent. "Very well, Brigadier. Doctor. You will have your papers. Every last scrap of them."
Rennard pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the lab, not waiting for his visitors to follow.
"You really think this crystal's that much of a threat?" the Brigadier asked.
"Time will tell, Brigadier. Time will tell."