Destination Unknown

  It was that confused feeling of surprise that decided her. She would go all out for her first desperate expedient.

  She made a quick movement forward, then drew back. Her voice rang out, startled, dismayed...

  "But - that isn't Tom. That isn't my husband..."

  It was well done, she felt it herself. Dramatic, but not overdramatic: Her eyes met Van Heidem's in bewildered questioning.

  And then Tom Betterton laughed: A quiet, amused, almost triumphant laugh.

  "Pretty good, eh, Van Heidem?" he said, "if even my own wife doesn't know me!"

  With four quick steps he had crossed to her and gathered her tightly into his arms.

  "Olive, darling. Of course you know me. I'm Tom all right even if I haven't got quite the same face as I used to have."

  His face pressed against hers, his lips by her ear, she caught the faint whispered addition.

  "Play up. For God's sake. Danger."

  He released her for a moment, caught her to him again.

  "Darling! It's seemed years - years and years. But you're here at last!"

  She could feel the warning pressure of his fingers below her shoulder blades, admonishing her, giving their urgent message.

  Only after a moment or two did he release her, push her a little from him and look into her face.

  "I still can't quite believe it," he said with an excited little laugh. "Still, you know it's me now, don't you?"

  His eyes, burning into hers, still held that message of warning.

  She didn't understand it - couldn't understand it. But it was a miracle from heaven and she rallied to play her part.

  "Tom!" she said, and there was a catch in her voice that her listening ears approved. "Oh, Tom - but what -"

  "Plastic surgery! Hertz of Vienna is here. And he's a living marvel. Don't say you regret my old crushed nose."

  He kissed her again, lightly, easily, this time, then turned to the watching Van Heidem with a slight apologetic laugh.

  "Forgive the transports, Van," he said.

  "But naturally, naturally -" the Dutchman smiled benevolently.

  "It's been so long," said Hilary, "and I -" she swayed a little, "I - please, can I sit down."

  Hurriedly Tom Betterton eased her into a chair.

  "Of course, darling. You're all in. That frightful journey. And the plane accident. My God, what an escape!"

  (So there was full communication. They knew all about the plane crash.)

  "It's left me terribly woolly-headed," said Hilary, with an apologetic little laugh. "I forget things and get muddled up, and have awful headaches. And then, finding you looking like a total stranger, I'm a bit of a mess, darling. I hope I won't be a bother to you!"

  "You a bother? Never. You'll just have to take it easy for a bit, that's all. There's all the time in the world here."

  Van Heidem moved gently towards the door.

  "I will leave you now," he said. "After a little you will bring your wife to the Registry, Betterton? For the moment you will like to be alone."

  He went out, shutting the door behind him.

  Immediately Betterton dropped on his knees by Hilary and buried his face on her shoulder.

  "Darling, darling," he said.

  And once again she felt that warning pressure of the fingers. The whisper, so faint as hardly to be heard, was urgent and insistent.

  "Keep it up. There might be a microphone - one never knows."

  That was it, of course. One never knew... Fear - uneasiness - uncertainty - danger - always danger - she could feel it in the atmosphere.

  Tom Betterton sat back on his haunches.

  "It's so wonderful to see you," he said softly. "And yet, you know, it's like a dream - not quite real. Do you feel like that, too?"

  "Yes, that's just it - a dream - being here - with you - at last. It doesn't seem real, Tom."

  She had placed both hands on his shoulders. She was looking at him, a faint smile on her lips. (There might be a spy hole as well as a microphone.)

  Coolly and calmly she appraised what she saw. A nervous good-looking man of thirty-odd who was badly frightened - a man nearly at the end of his tether - a man who had, presumably, come here full of high hopes and had been reduced - to this.

  Now that she had surmounted her first hurdle, Hilary felt a curious exhilaration in the playing of her part. She must be Olive Betterton. Act as Olive would have acted, feel as Olive would have felt. And life was so unreal that that seemed quite natural. Somebody called Hilary Craven had died in an aeroplane accident. From now on she wouldn't even remember her.

  Instead, she rallied her memories of the lessons she had studied so assiduously.

  "It seems such ages since Firbank," she said. "Whiskers - you remember Whiskers? She had kittens - just after you went away. There are so many things, silly everyday little things, you don't even know about. That's what seems so odd."

  "I know. It's breaking with an old life and beginning a new one."

  "And - it's all right here? You're happy?"

  A necessary wifely question that any wife would ask.

  "It's wonderful." Tom Betterton squared his shoulders, threw his head back. Unhappy, frightened eyes looked out of a smiling confident face. "Every facility. No expense spared. Perfect conditions to get on with the job. And the organisation! It's unbelievable."

  "Oh, I'm sure it is. My journey - did you come the same way?"

  "One doesn't talk about that. Oh, I'm not snubbing you, darling. But - you see, you've got to learn about everything."

  "But the lepers? Is it really a Leper Colony?"

  "Oh yes. Perfectly genuine. There's a team of medicos doing very fine work in research on the subject. But it's quite self-contained. It needn't worry you. It's just - clever camouflage."

  "I see." Hilary looked round her. "Are these our quarters?"

  "Yes. Sitting room, bathroom there, bedroom beyond. Come, I'll show you."

  She got up and followed him through a well-appointed bathroom into a good-sized bedroom with twin beds, big built-in cupboards, a dressing table, and a bookshelf near the beds. Hilary looked into the cupboard space with some amusement.

  "I hardly know what I'm going to put in here," she remarked. "All I've got is what I stand up in."

  "Oh that. You can fit yourself out with all you want. There's a fashion model department and all accessories, cosmetics, everything. All first class. The Unit is quite self-contained - all you want on the premises. No need to go outside ever again."

  He said the words lightly, but it seemed to Hilary's sensitive ear that there was despair concealed behind the words.

  No need to go outside ever again. No chance of ever going outside again. Abandon hope all ye who enter here... The well-appointed cage! Was it for this, she thought, that all these varying personalities had abandoned their countries, their loyalties, their everyday lives? Dr. Barron, Andy Peters, young Ericsson with his dreaming face, the overbearing Helga Needheim? Did they know what they were coming to find? Would they be content? Was this what they had wanted?

  She thought: "I'd better not ask too many questions... If someone is listening."

  Was someone listening? Were they being spied upon? Tom Betterton evidently thought it might be so. But was he right? Or was it nerves - hysteria? Tom Betterton, she thought, was very near to a breakdown.

  "Yes," she thought grimly, "and so may you be, my girl, in six months' time..."

  What did it do to people, she wondered, living like this?

  Tom Betterton said to her:

  "Would you like to lie down - to rest?"

  "No -" she hesitated. "No, I don't think so."

  "Then perhaps you'd better come with me to the Registry."

  "What's the Registry?"

  "Everyone who clocks in goes through the Registry. They record everything about you. Health, teeth, blood pressure, blood group, psychological reactions, tastes, dislikes, allergies, aptitudes, preferences."

  "It sounds ver
y military - or do I mean medical?"

  "Both," said Tom Betterton. "Both. This organisation - it's really formidable."

  "One's always heard so," said Hilary. "I mean that everything behind the Iron Curtain is really properly planned."

  She tried to put a proper enthusiasm into her voice. After all, Olive Betterton had presumably been a sympathiser with the Party, although, perhaps by order, she had not been known to be a Party member.

  Betterton said evasively,

  "There's a lot for you to - understand." He added quickly: "Better not try to take in too much at once."

  He kissed her again, a curious, apparently tender and even passionate kiss, that was actually cold as ice, murmured very low in her ear, "Keep it up," and said aloud, "And now, come down to the Registry."

  Chapter 12

  The registry was presided over by a woman who looked like a strict nursery governess. Her hair was rolled into a rather hideous bun and she wore some very efficient-looking pince-nez. She nodded approval as the Bettertons entered the severe office-like room.

  "Ah," she said, "you've brought Mrs. Betterton. That's right."

  Her English was perfectly idiomatic but it was spoken with a stilted precision which made Hilary believe that she was probably a foreigner. Actually, her nationality was Swiss. She motioned Hilary to a chair, opened a drawer beside her and took out a sheaf of forms upon which she commenced to write rapidly. Tom Betterton said rather awkwardly:

  "Well then, Olive, I'll leave you."

  "Yes, please, Dr. Betterton. It's much better to get through all the formalities straight away."

  Betterton went out, shutting the door behind him. The Robot, for as such Hilary thought of her, continued to write.

  "Now then," she said, in a businesslike way. "Full name, please. Age. Where born. Father's and mother's names. Any serious illnesses. Tastes. Hobbies. List of any jobs held. Degrees at any university. Preferences in food and drink."

  It went on, a seemingly endless catalogue. Hilary responded vaguely, almost mechanically. She was glad now of the careful priming she had received from Jessop. She had mastered it all so well that the responses came automatically, without having to pause or think. The Robot said finally, as she made the last entry,

  "Well, that seems to be all for this department. Now we'll hand you over to Doctor Schwartz for medical examination."

  "Really!" said Hilary. "Is all this necessary? It seems most absurd."

  "Oh, we believe in being thorough, Mrs. Betterton. We like to have everything down in the records. You'll like Dr. Schwartz very much. Then from her you go on to Doctor Rubec."

  Dr. Schwartz was fair and amiable and female. She gave Hilary a meticulous physical examination and then said,

  "So! That is finished. Now you go to Dr. Rubec."

  "Who is Dr. Rubec?" Hilary asked. "Another doctor?"

  "Dr. Rubec is a psychologist."

  "I don't want a psychologist. I don't like psychologists."

  "Now please don't get upset, Mrs. Betterton. You're not going to have treatment of any kind. It's simply a question of an intelligence test and of your type-group personality."

  Dr. Rubec was a tall, melancholy Swiss of about forty years of age. He greeted Hilary, glanced at the card that had been passed on to him by Dr. Schwartz and nodded his head approvingly.

  "Your health is good, I am glad to see," he said. "You have had an aeroplane crash recently, I understand?"

  "Yes," said Hilary. "I was four or five days in hospital at Casablanca."

  "Four or five days are not enough," said Dr. Rubec reprovingly. "You should have been there longer."

  "I didn't want to be there longer. I wanted to get on with my journey."

  "That, of course, is understandable, but it is important with concussion that plenty of rest should be had. You may appear quite well and normal after it but it may have serious effects. Yes, I see your nerve reflexes are not quite what they should be. Partly the excitement of the journey and partly, no doubt, due to concussion. Do you get headaches?"

  "Yes. Very bad headaches. And I get muddled up every now and then and can't remember things."

  Hilary felt it well to continually stress this particular point. Dr. Rubec nodded soothingly.

  "Yes, yes, yes. But do not trouble yourself. All that will pass. Now we will have a few association tests, so as to decide what type of mentality you are."

  Hilary felt faintly nervous but all appeared to pass off well. The test seemed to be of a merely routine nature. Dr. Rubec made various entries on a long form.

  "It is a pleasure," he said at last, "to deal with someone (if you will excuse me, Madame, and not to take amiss what I am going to say), to deal with someone who is not in any way a genius!"

  Hilary laughed.

  "Oh, I'm certainly not a genius," she said.

  "Fortunately for you," said Dr. Rubec. "I can assure you your existence will be far more tranquil." He sighed. "Here, as you probably understand, I deal mostly with keen intellects, but with the type of sensitive intellect that is apt to become easily unbalanced, and where the emotional stress is strong. The man of science, Madame, is not the cool, calm individual he is made out to be in fiction. In fact," said Dr. Rubec, thoughtfully, "between a first-class tennis player, an operatic prima-donna and a nuclear physicist there is really very little difference as far as emotional instability goes."

  "Perhaps you are right," said Hilary, remembering that she was supposed to have lived for some years in close proximity to scientists. "Yes, they are rather temperamental sometimes."

  Dr. Rubec threw up a pair of expressive hands.

  "You would not believe," he said, "the emotions that arise here! The quarrels, the jealousies, the touchiness! We have to take steps to deal with all that. But you, Madame," he smiled. "You are in a class that is in a small minority here. A fortunate class, if I may so express myself."

  "I don't quite understand you. What kind of a minority?"

  "Wives," said Dr. Rubec. "We have not many wives here. Very few are permitted. One finds them, on the whole, refreshingly free from the brainstorms of their husbands and their husbands' colleagues."

  "What do wives do here?" asked Hilary. She added apologetically, "You see it's all so new to me. I don't understand anything yet."

  "Naturally not. Naturally. That is bound to be the case. There are hobbies, recreations, amusements, instructional courses. A wide field. You will find it, I hope, an agreeable life."

  "As you do?"

  It was a question, and rather an audacious one and Hilary wondered a moment or two later whether she had been wise to ask it. But Dr. Rubec merely seemed amused.

  "You are quite right, Madame," he said. "I find life here peaceful and interesting in the extreme."

  "You don't ever regret - Switzerland?"

  "I am not homesick. No. That is partly because, in my case, my home conditions were bad. I had a wife and several children. I was not cut out, Madame, to be a family man. Here conditions are infinitely more pleasant. I have ample opportunity of studying certain aspects of the human mind which interest me and on which I am writing a book. I have no domestic cares, no distractions, no interruptions. It all suits me admirably."

  "And where do I go next?" asked Hilary, as he rose and shook her courteously and formally by the hand.

  "Mademoiselle La Roche will take you to the dress department. The result, I am sure -" he bowed "- will be admirable."

  After the severe Robotlike females she had met so far, Hilary was agreeably surprised by Mademoiselle La Roche. Mademoiselle La Roche had been a vendeuse in one of the Paris houses of haute couture and her manner was thrillingly feminine.

  "I am delighted, Madame, to make your acquaintance. I hope that I can be of assistance to you. Since you have just arrived and since you are, no doubt, tired, I would suggest that you select now just a few essentials. Tomorrow and indeed during the course of next week, you can examine what we have in stock at your leisure. It is tire
some I always think, to have to select things rapidly. It destroys all the pleasure of la toilette. So I would suggest, if you agree, just a set of underclothing, a dinner dress, and perhaps a tailor."

  "How delightful it sounds," said Hilary. "I cannot tell you how odd it feels to own nothing but a toothbrush and a sponge."