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  “Hardly so soon,” Clem corrected. “Ambassador Hurst has not yet returned, and the attack is not likely to start until he has done so. There are rules, even in war.”

  “What’s all the delay about?” bawled somebody, invisible to those inside the office. “Go in and get ’em.”

  “That’s right! Wipe ’em out! They’ve done their best to ruin the city and—”

  “Oh, stop talking like a lot of fools!” Clem cried, incensed. “You don’t seriously believe that any agents, no matter how capable, could bring about the death of people from old age in widely differing parts of the world, do you? The whole thing is explained by released entropy, entropy chained down for a thousand years by an unusually clever scientist. The Master believed it, and so must you—”

  He broke off for the sudden surging of the people to the rear of those in the broken doorway forced those almost within the office to tumble inside it. Buck half raised his arm to give the signal to fire, but when it came to it even. he could not give the okay to a massacre, which it certainly would have been had the blast-guns opened up. A second later he regretted it for, seizing their chance, the mob rolled in irresistibly, surrounding the guns and the trio who now stood together.

  The man who had appointed himself the spokesman of the mob came forward, a sour grin of triumph on his face.

  “This time there won’t be any mistakes,” he said. “Not even a trial for we’re convinced it isn’t necessary anymore. When the partial wrecking of a city and the killing off of its people—to say nothing of cattle—is put down to entropy being tied up for a thousand years you stand condemned by your own audacity. Unfortunately the Council won’t let us use the lethal chamber: in fact they won’t let us do anything without a trial. So we’ll act on our own. Members of the Council did their best to stop us getting into this building—but most of ’em won’t do it again. All right, tie ’em up,” he ordered.

  There was nothing the three could do, pinioned on all sides. Thin cabling was ruthlessly ripped from the instruments on the Master’s desk and used to bind the wrists and ankles of the three tightly.

  “Why all this preliminary?” Clem asked bitterly. “There are blast-guns there. Why don’t you use them and get it, over with?”

  “Bit too effective,” the spokesman answered. “Like using a cannon to swat a fly. Besides, some of us might get hurt, too. No, there’s a better way. We’re two thousand feet up here. Do I have to say more? Start moving to that window!”

  “What?” Lucy gasped in. horror. “You don’t mean that you’re going to—”

  “We mean that you’re going to go down a lot quicker than you came up. Drastic but necessary. In fact much too good for three spies who—” The spokesman broke off and turned, frowning, at interruptions from the corridor. A second or two later the reason became obvious as a strongly-built immaculately-dressed man, carrying a bulging briefcase in his hand, stepped through the broken door.

  “Leslie. Hurst!” Clem cried thankfully, recognizing the famous ambassador. “Oh, thank God you came at this moment. Mister Hurst! These people will not believe—”

  “These people,” Hurst said, with a cold glance around him, “are behaving like a lot of recessive units. Every one of you ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” he went on angrily. “What’s the use of a scientific upbringing if you don’t use it? Cut those three free instantly.”

  Such was his air of command he was obeyed, though reluctantly and the people stood looking at him grimly. It was only his unexpected arrival and apparent complete lack of fear that had enabled him to stride into their midst in any case.

  “For your edification,” he said, “I heard over my personal radio, which is tuned to the Master’s private waveband, all that was going on in here. When you gave your original announcement concerning the interview you had with the Master, Mister Bradley, you evidently didn’t switch off afterwards. I gathered exactly what was happening and came on the last lap of my journey with all speed. I would have been here some days ago except for an important happening in the Eastern hemisphere.”

  Everybody waited, then Hurst finished: “You idiots who were so determined to kill this young woman, along with Mister Bradley and Mister Cardew here, ought to go down on your knees to her in thankfulness. Because of her, because of the fact that she lived a thousand years ago and revived again in this age, the threat of war has been destroyed. If that doesn’t prove she isn’t a spy I don’t know what does.”

  “But—but how do you mean?” Lucy herself asked blankly.

  “I mean,” Hurst replied deliberately, “that Generals Zoam and Niol, who were directly responsible for wanting war with the West, have both died of extreme senility. President Ilof radioed the news to me when I was on my return flight, so I went back. I found, as I have always believed, that president Ilof is a peace-loving man and desires nothing more than friendly relations between the hemispheres. Apart from Generals Niol, and Zoam, hundreds of other people in the Eastern hemisphere have died too. The reason? This woman here! Zoam and Niol, like many Easterners, were also remote descendants of Lucy Denby. That fact has saved all of us, and re-established relations between the two hemispheres on a better footing than ever.… As for our own Master, it is for the Council to decide who must succeed him.”

  “Then—then that interview was true?” gasped the spokesman for the people.

  “Every word of it, and this girl you have vilified is your savior. Now, apologize, and make a fresh demand—that she be given city status.”

  The people turned from Hurst to look at the girl. So did Clem and Buck. Then they were silent, stunned by the unbelievable as the last piece in the puzzle had evidently resolved itself.

  Lucy Denby had vanished—but her clothes remained.

  THE HOUSE ON THE MOORS, by John Glasby

  “You say you’re the last of the Ingham family?” The innkeeper leaned his elbows on the bar and spoke in a low whisper, evidently not wanting to be overheard by his other customers.

  “That’s right.” Charles Ingham nodded. “My uncle, Henry Ingham, died in London last week leaving everything to me.”

  “And that’s why you’ve come to Exborough?”

  Picking up his change, Charles said, “I understand my family came from this part of Yorkshire some two centuries ago. I believe they lived some distance from the village, out on the moors yonder. I’m sure I caught a glimpse of the Manor on my way here.”

  The other rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Reckon you might just have seen the ruins of the west wing,” he remarked. “There’s not much else left to see.”

  Charles paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “Ruins?” He looked bewildered. “Nothing like that. This seemed to be quite a splendid building. Very old, of course, but I’d say it was in quite good condition considering its age.”

  He was suddenly aware that one of the regulars had approached the bar and was standing beside him, an odd expression on his lined features.

  “You say you saw the Manor on your way here?” The man looked to be well into his eighties but his eyes were bright and alert.

  Charles nodded, controlling his irritation at this unexpected interruption.

  “Then you either imagined it—or you’re one o’ that accursed family. We all thought the Inghams had died out a hundred years ago.”

  Charles’ irritation turned into anger at this remark. Brusquely, he retorted, “Certainly my name is Ingham but I don’t see—”

  “Now let’s have none of your wild tales, Seb,” the innkeeper interrupted sharply. “Mister Ingham is merely staying here for a few days and I’m sure he’s not interested in any of your fancies.”

  “On the contrary, if he’s anything to say against my family, I’d prefer it if he’d say it to my face.”

  “All right, mister, I will. It’s all true, even though it did happen nearly two hundred years ago. The Inghams were a wild lot who lived in the Manor in those times and Sir Roger Ingham was the worst of ’em all. Fo
lk swore he’d sold his soul to the Devil.

  “All the Lords and Ladies attended his devilish parties and most o’ the local gentry. He were a man o’ the most violent temper. They do say that if one o’ his servants angered him, he’d turn the man out on the moors and set the dogs after him. Nobody dared say a word against him.”

  The octogenarian took a swallow of his beer, then set the glass down on the counter. “But even then, the Devil took care of his own. Seems that one night some o’ the drapes caught fire. Within five minutes the whole o’ the house was ablaze, flames shootin’ up into the sky from one end o’ the Manor to the other.”

  Charles uttered a derisive laugh. “So now you’re telling me they were all burned in the fire and their ghosts still haunt the Manor. Utter rubbish.”

  “Nay, mister. Nothing like that. Somehow, they all got out alive but it were impossible to save the building. There was talk that one body was found inside the ruins the next day but there weren’t enough left to identify him. Bat since it were none o’ the party that night, they reckoned it must’ve been one o’ the servants they hired from York.”

  “Or some poor devil Sir Roger had killed after having sport with him,” put in the innkeeper.

  “All very interesting,” Charles said with a note of derision in his voice. “But since I’m certain of what I saw, I think I’ll go out there myself and see what’s really there.”

  “Then on your own head be it,” muttered the old man. “But you won’t find anything. Trouble with you city folk is that you reckon you know it all.”

  Charles felt a stab of anger rise up in him again but he managed to choke it down. Checking his watch, he estimated there were still two hours of daylight left.

  “How do I get to the Manor?” he asked.

  He sensed the hesitation on the innkeeper’s part, then the other said, “Go to the end of the village. There’s a narrow lane on the left. Follow it for about two miles and you’ll come upon a track leading onto the moors. It’s quite a long walk but I wouldn’t advise you to take the car. And I can assure you, you’ll find nothing but ruins.”

  Thanking him, Charles set off, soon leaving the village behind. The sun was still quite high above the western horizon as he reached the lane.

  Twenty minutes later, he found the track. It was only just discernible, a rough trail that led him through patches of tangled briar and clusters of stunted trees before topping a low rise.

  Below him, in a shallow valley, stood a large, stately building. The track continued, passing between tall metal gates, still standing after all those years since it was last occupied two centuries earlier.

  The extensive grounds were a jungle of riotous growth but it was comparatively easy to visualize how magnificent they had once been and to feel some of the old-worldly charm which had once existed here.

  Pushing his way through the entangling growths, Charles walked up to the magnificent door. Above it was a stone lintel and on it was the ancient crest of the Inghams, only just visible in the smooth stone.

  He stood absolutely still, taking in every detail of the building, wondering why a sudden chill had descended upon him. Somehow, he had the impression there was something more here than mere neglect amiss with this place. Something dead, yet still terribly alive, was watching him with unseen eyes.

  Quickly, he shrugged the sensation away. He did not believe in ghosts haunting old buildings such as this. Certainly, if he decided to take it and live here there was a lot needing to be done to make it habitable again.

  On impulse, he grasped the heavy brass handle, twisted it, and pushed.

  He had expected the door to be locked. Instead, it opened noisily and, after a momentary pause, he stepped inside. It was cool and dark inside the long hallway with its oak paneled walls.

  At the end, he found himself in the huge banqueting hall with a massive table along the center and some twenty ornate chairs ranged neatly around it. Woven tapestries hung along the walls, their long drapes interspersed with large portraits.

  He gave a little shudder. It was startling but everything looked as though the occupants had just stepped outside into the gardens a few moments before. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. There were no cobwebs festooning the walls and high corners, nothing out of place.

  Yet this was utterly impossible. The solicitors had told him there was nothing but ruins after that fire two hundred years earlier. Evidently those old stories of a fire had been nothing more than that; old stories. Certainly it was a mystery why Sir Roger had left so abruptly and no one seemed to have been here since.

  He had to admit there was an eerie atmosphere about it but he put this down to having been untenanted for so long. After exploring the rooms on the ground floor, he made his way up the wide stairway to the upper stories. Here, everything was as though it had been in use only the day before. There were eight bedrooms, all with clean sheets and covers on the beds.

  In the last one at the end of a long corridor, he walked over to the window and looked out over the grounds. Once the rank weeds were dug up and burned it would not take long to get the gardens back into shape.

  To his left was what had once been the orchard. Several fruit trees hung with blossom with the previous year’s leaves lying in thick carpets beneath them. He stood there for several minutes with the light of the setting sun shining directly into his eyes.

  It was just as he turned away that he noticed something distinctly odd. For a split second he had the impression that the scene outside changed. Everything happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that he couldn’t be absolutely sure of what he saw. It was as if another scene had been abruptly superimposed upon the unkempt gardens outside.

  Almost, he decided, as if they had been subtly altered in some way. He shook his head angrily. Nothing more than a thin cloud passing across the sun, he told himself fiercely.

  Going outside, he closed the heavy door and walked back to the village.

  By now, he had made up his mind. He was determined to take occupancy of the Manor. From what he had seen, very little needed to be done inside. He could move in right away. A few external repairs and a couple of gardeners to put the grounds into shape, and it would be fully habitable.

  That evening, after supper in the dining room of the inn, he mentioned his intentions to the innkeeper. There were now several of the locals in the bar and the air was thick with tobacco smoke.

  “Surely you’re not serious, sir?” The other eyed him with a blend of puzzlement and concern on his ruddy features. “I don’t know what you think you saw at that accursed place. But if you saw anything at all, you’ll put that foolish idea out of your mind completely.”

  “Why? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the house. It’s in perfect condition. I won’t even have to buy any furniture.”

  “You’ve actually seen it—you’ve been inside?”

  “Of course I have. Why shouldn’t I? After all, it is my property now. I can do exactly as I like with it.”

  “But—” the innkeeper began. He was on the point of saying something more but at that moment, the old man Charles had met earlier, now seated in the far corner, said,

  “You’re a danged fool, mister. Either that or you’ve been seeing things.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Charles demanded. “I know precisely what I saw.”

  The other shook his head, almost pityingly. “I’ve no doubt you saw something. A few folk have but nobody from this village. Ain’t one of us who’d go near that Devil’s place.”

  “Suit yourselves,” Charles said shortly. He was beginning to lose his patience with these locals and their fanciful, spectral tales.

  * * * *

  The next day, after paying the innkeeper, he thrust his bags into the boot of the car and drove out of the village. The weather had taken a turn for the worse with a high wind and towering clouds threatening rain. As he turned onto the narrow track he eased his foot off the accelerator. A thin mist shrouded the
moors and he had no wish to damage the car as it swayed and bumped over the treacherous, rugged terrain.

  Topping the low hill, he drove carefully through the gates and parked immediately in front of the Manor. In the dismal gray light it held a strangely forbidding look, quite different from how it had appeared in the bright sunlight.

  Taking his bags inside, he set them down in the hall. He had already ascertained there was no electricity laid onto the house but in the kitchen he found three paraffin lamps and several large candles. Having brought with him a plentiful supply of food and drink, he settled in, checking every room for any evidence of a drip with would suggest a leak where rain was getting in. He made himself something to eat, then went into the well-stocked library. Taking down a couple of books, he spent the afternoon reading.

  That night, he retired early. It was already dark outside with rain lashing against the windows and the wind howling around the ancient eaves.

  Lying in the large bed with the candle flame flickering on the mahogany dresser beside him, he suddenly realized that ever since entering the house, he had been listening intently for sounds that might be lurking behind those normal to old buildings.

  There had been nothing.

  No ghostly voices murmuring in the dark shadows; no clanking of chains in the long, gloomy corridors. As he had suspected, the spectral stories spoken of by the villagers were nothing more than that—idle gossip handed down from one generation to another and undoubtedly suitably embellished over the years.

  He fell asleep almost at once. When he woke, an indeterminate time later, it was still dark. The candle had burned down only a little way. Clearly, he had not slept for long.

  He lay quite still for a moment, struggling to identify what had woken him. Then the sound came again. It was quite distinct and unmistakable and it came, not from inside the house, but from outside; horses’ hooves and the creak of carriage wheels.