He gathered the papers together on his desk. They would be ready for his secretary to tpe first thing in the morning. Rarely a happy man, Quinn-Reece- allowed his smile to broaden. He was pleased with the wording, for it emphasised, in all due modesty, of course, his strenuous efforts to secure those rights before anyone else got wind of the find, continuously trying to contact their agent on the island by telephone, telex and even personal messenger to his hotel. Unfortunately, the man could not be located (or so Quinn-Reece indicated in his report) and in the meanwhile, Magma's biggest rival had learned of the 'find'.
He allowed himself to chuckle.
Time to go home, he decided. Enough is enough. The report could indeed be more full, but why the hell should he put in any more hours on a Sunday? It was late afternoon and the skies were already darkened by clouds and drizzle. Before he went, though, a stiff gin and tonic to celebrate yet another successful deception.
lie left his desk and went to a wall cabinet, opening it to reveal his private liquor stock, there for entertaining business associates or, more often than not, for the frequent 'nips' that got him through the day. The small ice bucket was empty, but who needed ice'? fie poured a good measure of gin into a glass tumbler anti added an equal amount of tonic. He raised the glass to his ips when the noise outside his office door stopped him.
He shrugged. Security on their rounds, checking all offices. lour excellent health! he silently toasted himself, and took a large .wallow of the drink. The mixture warmed him, lightening his mood even further.
Just a few more months' subservience to chat obnoxious, stunted oaf, then home and dry, working for a company who would appreciate his business acumen, and who Mould be extremely grateful for past services. The risk had been :north it. And what could the Corporation do anyway even if they had discovered he was the source of the leaks? Take him to court? I Oh no, he knew too much for that. The share-holders would be ;unhappy if they were to (earn of Kline's true position at Magma, and the financial Press would have a ball. Even Consolidated were unaware of the psychic's presence within Magma—they merely ,assumed that the Corporation's field agents were more astute than their own. No, the worst that Magma could do would be to dismiss him. And pay him off for keeping his mouth shut, of course. Instead they were sacking the girl, Cora.
He was smiling again.
Quinn-Reece turned his head. Was someone still outside? He was sure he'd heard movement in the outer office. Leaving the glass on the corner of his desk, the vice-chairman walked to the half-open door.
He pulled it open all the way and looked through. 'Anyone ;here'?' he called out, feeling rather foolish.
There was no response.
He stepped forward and caught a whiff of spices just before -)mething soft fell over his head and blocked out the light.
Hands shoved him from behind and he staggered forward, fell, 'ay sprawled on a hard floor, his head still covered.
Quinn-Reece remained prone for a few seconds, regathering his senses. terribly afraid to move. He heard the click of a door closing. He was trembling badly.
The brief, stumbling journey had been one of the worst experiences of his life (so far), for it was a brutally rushed trip towards a fate unknown. He now knew how murderers must have felt in the old days when they were taken hooded from their cell and hurried to the gallows, giving them precious little time to consider the eternity waiting for them at the end of the corridor (except there was always time to consider that prospect, no matter how fast they took you, no matter how roughly they treated you, because part of your mind was quiet, entirely remote from the rest of your feverish thoughts, numbingly and so fearfully aware . . .). He had been held down—by two of them—even though no words were spoken, no one answered his demands, nor his pleas, he was sure there were two of them—yet he had felt himself rising.
The lift. They must have bundled him into the lift. But why? Where were they taking him? Oh God, was it true then? Were these people after Felix Kline? Had they made a mistake, thinking that he was psychic'?
That had to be it! So perhaps it was safe to look up, to show them, convince them they'd got the wrong man. He had no allegiance to Kline, far from it: he could tell them all they wanted to know. No need to harm him, he wasn't the one they were after.
Quinn-Reece hesitantly raised his head and saw the whiteness of the floor below the edges of the cloth.
Tentatively, expecting to have his hand knocked away at any moment, he lifted the hem. He could see the room now. Slowly he pulled the fluffy material away (it was a large towel, he realised, probably from one of the executive bathrooms) and looked around.
He was in the white room. Kline's white room.
And he was alone.
He pushed himself to his knees, his eyes half-closed against the brilliant glare. What was happening, what the hell were they playing at? Was the idea only to keep him out of the way for a while? The notion came as a relief. It emboldened him enough to rise to his feet.
Quinn-Reece went to the double-door and listened with his ear flat against the glossy surface. No sounds without. He tried one of the doorhandles. Locked.
Stepping back, he surveyed the entrance for a while, gradually becoming used to the assailing brightness.
He turned and began walking towards the smaller door on the opposite side of the room, his footsteps loud because of uninterrupted acoustics. He had reached the low central dais when the harsh whiteness around him collapsed into utter darkness.
Quinn-Reece cried out, as if the abrupt change had come as a physical blow.
There was nothing to see, absolutely nothing to focus on.
Even the floor beneath his feet had somehow lost substance. His hands—unseen—waved in the air before him, as though grasping for light itself.
'What are you doing?' he shouted, a feeble entreaty to the blackness.
Naturally there was no reply.
So disorientated was Quinn-Reece that he had to will one toot to go forward. The thought that he might be stepping over the brink into an abyss was difficult to dismiss. He moved his other foot, arms still outstretched like a blind man's (which, in effect he was), even though he knew there were no obstacles in his way.
Another step.
His breathing was fluttery.
Another step.
He could not see them, but he was aware that his fingers twitched like insect antennae.
Another step.
And he touched flesh.
So unexpected was the sensation, and so tense had QuinnReece become, that he shrieked like a woman. He fell away, a leg coming into sharp contact with the dais. He slumped across it and lay shaking.
Wondering why the fingertips of the hand that had touched whatever-no, he meant whoever-stood in his way were tingling, he brought them closer to his face, disregarding the fact that he was unable to see. He felt something clinging to them.
He rubbed his fingers together and whatever had been there flaked away. It had been tissue-thin.
'Who's there?' he managed to say, and was uncomfortable with the sound of his own voice.
The silence was more frightening than any reply.
A warm breath brushed his cheek. He spun around on the platform, scurrying to its furthest edge, away from whoever had leaned over him.
But a sigh close to his ear sent him scuttling back.
The men who had dragged him into this room must have slipped inside somehow after the lights had gone out! Yet he hadn't heard the opening and closing of a door, there had been no sudden shaft of light.
How could they be in there with him? He remembered the spicy smell before he had been hooded. The smell was familiar. From where, from when?
A low chuckle. From someone close by. And then a hand caressing his cheek.
Quinn-Reece flinched violently and quickly squirmed away.
The touch against his cheek had been roughened as though the other's skin was crispy with age. When he tried to wipe off the mark he felt had been left there, he discovered flaky tissue hanging to his own skin. He slapped it off in revulsion.
He twisted his head, this way and that, sightless but attempting to perceive. His whole body was quivering uncontrollably now. He sniffed, for there was a peculiar aroma in the air. Nothing to do with spices, this. Something different, vaguely unpleasant. Like a faint moulding dampness. Decay.
Light lashed out at him.
He cringed, covering his face with his hands. Peeped through open fingers at the rectangle of vivid colours high on the wall. One of the screens was lit.
It depicted a relief map of an island. A recognisably irregular shape. New Guinea. The colours merged, became a muddy blur. Faded to white. Became black.
A new map lit up. He forced himself to look. Was it?—yes, it was. Brazil. There had been a recent find, a low-grade gold deposit. Not by Magma, though. No, by Consolidated.
As the colours merged, Quinn-Reece looked around the room. The brightness from the screen should have revealed anyone else present. But he was the only occupant.