'How far from there to Portree?'
'Over the hills not above ten miles; much longer if you manage to go by road, but you might get a lift in daylight.'
Fleming glanced at his watch. 'I'll walk,'
he said. 'My torch still has plenty of life in it. Should make it well before dawn.' He did. He hung around the outskirts of the little town until people were moving around and it was safe to go to the airport without attracting attention. He got a snack there after checking that the next flight for Oban wasn't due to take off for half an hour.
Then he went to a phone booth. Thorness was an unlisted number and the local exchange was manually operated. He thought he noticed a hesitancy when the operator repeated the number and asked what number he was calling from. It was a risk he had to take. Unless the local police were very quick off the mark and unless Quadring was even quicker in alerting them he'd be away on the plane before anything happened.
He knew, of course, that calls to Thorness were monitored at the station as a matter of routine. In the present crisis this was doubly certain. He had to hope that the tapping was just the usual tape recording for checking later, and not some super snoop who sat in a cubicle eavesdropping on everyone.
Rather to his surprise the call went through in under a minute. He recognised the P.B.X. operator at the station.
'Professor Dawnay,' he murmured as quietly as he could.
'Professor Madeleine Dawnay. Sick quarters.'
'She may be in her room. I'll check.'
The operator's voice was in the usual impersonal and efficient tone. Fleming listened closely for any tell-tale click of an extension coming into circuit. There was none.
'Dawnay.'
He was surprised how mannish her voice sounded as she gave her name. But he recognised her all fight.
'How are you, Madeleine?' he asked.
He heard her intake of breath, and half-speak exclamation his name. It was no more than the J sound. She repressed it instantly. Fleming smiled.
'I phoned to say I hope you're in the pink as it leaves me at present,' he said lightly. More slowly and distinctly he went on, 'but I'm worried about one health matter. What does one do for burns? You are so expert on them. Not for me, you understand.'
For a second or two he thought she had hung up. But eventually she said quietly. 'Where?'
'Oban. Solo by B.E.A. I shan't have too much time before I must catch a return plane.'
'You're a fool,' she said calmly. 'But as soon as I can. In the airport building.'
His flight took barely twenty minutes. He had to wait nearly an hour before Dawnay arrived. He saw her get out of a taxi while he stood looking out of the window in the men's lavatory. He noticed a second car behind hers, and he waited to see who alighted from it. There were three passengers: a middle-aged couple and a small boy, with a couple of suitcases. So that was all right. She hadn't been followed.
He walked leisurely into the foyer and studied a travel poster.
'You're mad to come,' he heard her whisper behind him.
'But I've got the stuff.'
He half turned round and nodded to a hot drink machine in a deserted corner. They walked over to it.
'Tea, coffee, or cocoa?' he asked, handing her a drinking carton, while he fished in his pocket for coins.
'It all tastes the same,' she smiled. She took the carton and at the same time passed a little white cardboard box to him.
He slipped it in his pocket before he pushed the coin into the slot.
'Thanks,' he said. 'It's the healing enzyme this time, I hope. Not the one that nearly polished you off.'
Dawnay sipped her drink and made a wry face. 'They call it coffee .... Yes, this lot is all right, I'll guarantee that. It's the original formula the computer gave when she was burned the first time. You remember how perfectly it worked. Sepsis overcome in hours;' renewal of the nerve fibrils and lymphatics complete in under three days. How is she?'
Fleming got himself a drink. 'Not too bad, except for her hands. I must get back. I don't want a dead girl on the premises.'
She glanced at him, amused. 'So you think of her as a girl now, do you? But you were mad to come here,' she repeated.
'I don't know exactly what's doing back at the station, but the search is certainly still on.'
He glanced at his watch. 'Got to be going,' he apologised.
'And thanks for the stuff. Talking about madness, you're pretty crazy to be doing this for me; I'm an enemy, or didn't you know?'
'No, I didn't,' she answered. 'As for doing it for you, I'm doing it for her. She's mine too, don't forget. I made her!'
They walked together towards the departure bay when the public address system announced the flight for Skye and Lewis.
'I don't expect I'll be seeing you again,' she said. 'I've been offered a new job. No point in staying at Thorness now this Andromeda project is over. It should be quite an experience, new faces, new tasks.'
'Where?' he asked.
'In the Middle East, one of those places all sand and oil, but little else.'
Fleming wasn't particularly interested. 'Best of luck,' he said vaguely. He impulsively bent down and kissed her on the cheek. She seemed girlishly pleased.
Fleming passed through the doors to the airport apron.
There seemed to be only four or five other passengers - all entirely innocent looking.
He was unaware of a middle-aged man, discreet in black homburg and tweed overcoat, who had been standing beside the magazine kiosk, reading The Times. He lowered the paper when Fleming handed his ticket to the B.E.A. girl for checking. Once Fleming had passed from the building the man hurried towards the road exit. The chauffeur in the car parked there immediately started the engine....
CHAPTER THREE
GALE WARNING
Fleming did not get back to the island until late that evening. He had to wait until darkness before he dared launch the boat which he had heaved up on to the shingle in a small inlet of the loch. The rain poured down remorselessly all the way back, but he was in high spirits and drove the little boat full out. The speed wasn't much, but the noise was considerable. He was so excited about getting back that he did not care whether any search vessels were around to hear him and investigate.
He burst into the cottage with a yell of greeting. Preen was sitting talking to Andre. Her appearance alarmed Fleming.
Her face, even in the lamplight, was almost putty coloured. But at the sight of him she stood up and stumbled across to him, throwing herself against him, her arms held high to protect her swollen hands.
'Easy, easy,' he whispered to her, clasping her gently. 'I've got the repair kit. You'll soon be okay.' Over her head he grinned at Preen. 'Everything in order. Not arrested or even questioned. And I didn't tell anyone about you.'
Preen was visibly relieved. 'I'll get you something to eat while you do whatever you can with her hands... An ointment, is it?'
'I suppose you could call it that,' Fleming agreed, helping Andre to the sofa. 'But a special kind. The only good thing I know of that came out of our inter-galactical tuition. But the less you know about that the better, in case your honest soul should ever be taxed by our lords and masters. You can take it from me that your forebodings about a pretty corpse are over.'
He took the little box from his pocket. 'Enzymes - a glorious little ferment of living cells, all ready and willing to build anew.'
Preen shook his head, bewildered. He went to the kitchen and opened yet another tin of soup. Fleming began immediately on the treatment.
The almost transparent jelly-like material spread quickly when it came in contact with Andre's unnaturally hot, mutilated flesh.