Clarke, Arthur C - SSC 04 (19 page)

Ashton laid down the book, glanced toward
the door and remarked in a noncommittal voice: ‘What can I do for you?’ He did
not get up; such courtesies belonged to a past he had buried long ago. Besides,
it was a woman. In the circles he now frequented, women were accustomed to
receive jewels and clothes and money – but never respect.

Yet there was something about this visitor
that drew him slowly to his feet. It was not merely that she was beautiful, but
she had a poised and effortless authority that moved her into a different world
from the flamboyant doxies he met in the normal course of business. There was a
brain and a purpose behind those calm, appraising eyes – a brain, Ashton
suspected, the equal of his own.

He did not know how grossly he had
underestimated her.

‘Mr Ashton,’ she began, ‘let us not waste
time. I know who you are and I have work for you. Here are my credentials.’

She opened a large, stylish handbag and
extracted a thick bundle of notes.

‘You may regard this,’ she said, ‘as a
sample.’

Ashton caught the bundle as she tossed it
carelessly toward him. It was the largest sum of money he had ever held in his
life – at least a hundred fivers, all new and serially numbered. He felt them
between his fingers. If they were not genuine, they were so good that the
difference was of no practical importance.

He ran his thumb to and fro along the edge
of the wad as if feeling a pack for a marked card, and said thoughtfully, ‘I’d
like to know where you got these. If they aren’t forgeries, they must be hot
and will take some passing.’

‘They are genuine. A very short time ago
they were in the Bank of England. But if they are of no use to you throw them
in the fire. I merely let you have them to show that I mean business.’

‘Go on.’ He gestured to the only seat and
balanced himself on the edge of the table.

She drew a sheaf of papers from the
capacious handbag and handed it across to him.

‘I am prepared to pay you any sum you wish
if you will secure these items and bring them to me, at a time and place to be
arranged. What is more, I will guarantee that you can make the thefts with no
personal danger.’

Ashton looked at the list, and sighed. The
woman was mad. Still, she had better be humoured. There might be more money
where this came from.

‘I notice,’ he said mildly, ‘that all these
items are in the British Museum, and that most of them are, quite literally,
priceless. By that I mean that you could neither buy nor sell them.’

‘I do not wish to sell them. I am a
collector.’

‘So it seems. What are you prepared to pay
for these acquisitions?’

‘Name a figure.’

There was a short silence. Ashton weighed
the possibilities. He took a certain professional pride in his work, but there
were some things that no amount of money could accomplish. Still, it would be
amusing to see how high the bidding would go.

‘I think a round million would be a very
reasonable figure for this lot,’ he said ironically.

‘I fear you are not taking me very
seriously. With your contacts, you should be able to dispose of these.’

There was a flash of light and something
sparkled through the air. Ashton caught the necklace before it hit the ground,
and despite himself was unable to suppress a gasp of amazement. A fortune
glittered through his fingers. The central diamond was the largest he had ever
seen – it must be one of the world’s most famous jewels.

His visitor seemed completely indifferent as
he slipped the necklace into his pocket. Ashton was badly shaken; he knew she
was not acting. To her, that fabulous gem was of no more value than a lump of
sugar. This was madness on an unimaginable scale.

‘Assuming that you can deliver the money,’
he said, ‘how do you imagine that it’s physically possible to do what you ask?
One might steal a single item from this list, but within a few hours the Museum
would be solid with police.’

With a fortune already in his pocket, he
could afford to be frank. Besides, he was curious to learn more about his
fantastic visitor.

She smiled, rather sadly, as if humouring a
backward child.

‘If I show you the way,’ she said softly,
‘will you do it?’

‘Yes – for a million.’

‘Have you noticed anything strange since I
came in? Is it not – very quiet?’

Ashton listened. My God, she was right! This
room was never completely silent, even at night. There had been a wind blowing
over the roof tops; where had it gone now? The distant rumble of traffic had
ceased; five minutes ago he had been cursing the engines shunting in the
marshalling yard at the end of the road. What had happened to them?

‘Go to the window.’

He obeyed the order and drew aside the grimy
lace curtains with fingers that shook slightly despite all attempt at control.
Then he relaxed. The street was quite empty, as it often was at this time in
the midmorning. There was no traffic, and hence no reason for sound. Then he
glanced down the row of dingy houses towards the shunting yard.

His visitor smiled as he stiffened with the
shock.

‘Tell me what you see, Mr Ashton.’

He turned slowly, face pale and throat
muscles working.

‘What are you?’ he gasped. ‘A witch?’

‘Don’t be foolish. There is a simple
explanation. It is not the world that has changed – but you.’

Ashton stared again at that unbelievable
shunting engine, the plume of steam frozen motionless above it as if made from
cotton wool. He realised now that the clouds were equally immobile; they should
have been scudding across the sky. All around him was the unnatural stillness
of the high-speed photograph, the vivid unreality of a scene glimpsed in a
flash of lightning.

‘You are intelligent enough to realise what
is happening, even if you cannot understand how it is done. Your time scale has
been altered: a minute in the outer world would be a year in this room.’

Again she opened the handbag, and this time
brought forth what appeared to be a bracelet of some silvery metal, with a
series of dials and switches moulded into it.

‘You can call this a personal generator,’
she said. ‘With it strapped about your arm, you are invincible. You can come
and go without hindrance – you can steal everything on that list and bring it
to me before one of the guards in the Museum has blinked an eyelid. When you
have finished, you can be miles away before you switch off the field and step
back into the normal world.

‘Now listen carefully, and do exactly what I
say. The field has a radius of about seven feet, so you must keep at least that
distance from any other person. Secondly, you must not switch it off again
until you have completed your task and I have given you your payment.
This
is most important
. Now, the plan I have worked out is this….’

No criminal in the history of the world had
ever possessed such power. It was intoxicating – yet Ashton wondered if he
would ever get used to it. He had ceased to worry about explanations, at least
until the job was done and he had collected his reward. Then, perhaps, he would
get away from England and enjoy a well-earned retirement.

His visitor had left a few minutes ahead of
him, but when he stepped out onto the street the scene was completely
unchanged. Though he had prepared for it, the sensation was still unnerving.
Ashton felt an impulse to hurry, as if this condition couldn’t possibly last
and he had to get the job done before the gadget ran out of juice. But that, he
had been assured, was impossible.

In the High Street he slowed down to look at
the frozen traffic, the paralysed pedestrians. He was careful, as he had been
warned, not to approach so close to anyone that they came within his field. How
ridiculous people looked when one saw them like this, robbed of such grace as
movement could give, their mouths half open in foolish grimaces!

Having to seek assistance went against the
grain, but some parts of the job were too big for him to handle by himself.
Besides, he could pay liberally and never notice it. The main difficulty,
Ashton realised, would be to find someone who was intelligent enough not to be
scared – or so stupid that he would take everything for granted. He decided to
try the first possibility.

Tony Marchetti’s place was down a side
street so close to the police station that one felt it was really carrying
camouflage too far. As he walked past the entrance, Ashton caught a glimpse of
the duty sergeant at his desk and resisted a temptation to go inside to combine
a little pleasure with business. But that sort of thing could wait until later.

The door of Tony’s opened in his face as he
approached. It was such a natural occurrence in a world where nothing was
normal that it was a moment before Ashton realised its implications. Had his
generator failed? He glanced hastily down the street and was reassured by the
frozen tableau behind him.

‘Well, if it isn’t Bob Ashton!’ said a
familiar voice. ‘Fancy meeting you as early in the morning as this. That’s an
odd bracelet you’re wearing. I thought I had the only one.’

‘Hello, Aram,’ replied Ashton. ‘It looks as
if there’s a lot going on that neither of us knows about. Have you signed up
Tony, or is he still free?’

‘Sorry. We’ve a little job which will keep
him busy for a while.’

‘Don’t tell me. It’s at the National Gallery
or the Tate.’

Aram Albenkian fingered his neat goatee.
‘Who told you that?’ he asked.

‘No one. But, after all, you
are
the
crookedest art dealer in the trade, and I’m beginning to guess what’s going on.
Did a tall, very good-looking brunette give you that bracelet and a shopping
list?’

‘I don’t see why I should tell you, but the
answer’s no. It was a man.’

Ashton felt a momentary surprise. Then he
shrugged his shoulders. ‘I might have guessed that there would be more than one
of them. I’d like to know who’s behind it.’

‘Have you any theories?’ said Albenkian
guardedly.

Ashton decided that it would be worth
risking some loss of information to test the other’s reactions. ‘It’s obvious
they’re not interested in money – they have all they want and can get more with
this gadget. The woman who saw me said she was a collector. I took it as a
joke, but I see now that she meant it seriously.’

‘Why do we come into the picture? What’s to
stop them doing the whole job themselves?’ Albenkian asked.

‘Maybe they’re frightened. Or perhaps they
want our – er – specialised knowledge. Some of the items on my list are rather
well cased in. My theory is that they’re agents for a mad millionaire.’

It didn’t hold water, and Ashton knew it.
But he wanted to see which leaks Albenkian would try to plug.

‘My dear Ashton,’ said the other
impatiently, holding up his wrist. ‘How do you explain this little thing? I
know nothing about science, but even I can tell that it’s beyond the wildest
dreams of our technologies. There’s only one conclusion to be drawn from that.’

‘Go on.’

‘These people are from – somewhere else. Our
world is being systematically looted of its treasures. You know all this stuff
you read about rockets and spaceships? Well, someone else has done it first.’

Ashton didn’t laugh. The theory was no more
fantastic than the facts.

‘Whoever they are,’ he said, ‘they seem to
know their way around pretty well. I wonder how many teams they’ve got? Perhaps
the Louvre and the Prado are being reconnoitred at this very minute. The world
is going to have a shock before the day’s out.’

They parted amicably enough, neither
confiding any details of real importance about his business. For a fleeting
moment Ashton thought of trying to buy over Tony, but there was no point in
antagonising Albenkian. Steve Regan would have to do. That meant walking about
a mile, since of course any form of transport was impossible. He would die of
old age before a bus completed the journey. Ashton was not clear what would
happen if he attempted to drive a car when the field was operating, and he had
been warned not to try any experiments.

It astonished Ashton that even such a nearly
certified moron as Steve could take the accelerator so calmly; there was
something to be said, after all, for the comic strips which were probably his
only reading. After a few words of grossly simplified explanation, Steve
buckled on the spare wristlet which, rather to Ashton’s surprise, his visitor
had handed over without comment. Then they set out on their long walk to the
Museum.

Ashton, or his client, had thought of
everything. They stopped once at a park bench to rest and enjoy some sandwiches
and regain their breath. When at last they reached the Museum, neither felt any
the worse for the unaccustomed exercise.

They walked together though the gates of the
Museum – unable, despite logic, to avoid speaking in whispers – and up the wide
stone steps into the entrance hall. Ashton knew his way perfectly. With
whimsical humour he displayed his Reading Room ticket as they walked, at a
respectful distance, past the statuesque attendants. It occurred to him that
the occupants of the great chamber, for the most part, looked just the same as
they normally did, even without the benefit of the accelerator.