Secret of the Towers

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

By order of the World Council, a vast chain of towers was being constructed across the globe. The people were told that the towers would provide free universal power from broadcast energy. When Statander, a member of the World Council, questioned their construction, he was assassinated to ensure his silence. But there was one other who shared Statander's suspicion - Altair the Thief, whose father had also been killed for a similar reason. Just one man, a criminal and a fugitive, but a man determined to uncover the monstrous secret that had led to their deaths . . . the secret of the towers!

Release date: January 30, 2014

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 192

Sample

He moved, a shadow among shadows, pressing into the darkness of friendly corners, avoiding the bright patches beneath the glaring arc lights and moving with deceptive speed as he dodged the figures of the patrolling guards.

He was like a ghost, a black ghost, his tall slender figure covered in clothing the colour of night, with thin black gloves on his hands and his features hidden beneath a hood of the same hue. He slipped quietly along the deserted streets, the rubber soles of his soft shoes making no sound on the concrete, and from time to time he froze against the edge of a building or within a shadowed doorway, waiting until the tread of heavy boots had died away.

The guards were active tonight!

Two of them halted within a few feet of him, so close that he could hear the wheezing breath of one and the slight rustle of equipment as the second gazed about him. For a moment the guard stared directly at the dim shape, his eyes glinting from the reflected glare of a distant arc light, then he turned his head not seeing the hiding man.

“I suppose we’d better get on with it,” grumbled the short fat man with the wheezing breath. “For the life of me I can’t see why we should have to patrol this sector, a waste of time I say, the block guards would prevent any unauthorised entry.”

“Maybe,” snapped his companion. “Perhaps you’d like to tell the commander that? If you’re not satisfied he could probably find a different job for you—in the labour squads.”

“Why talk like that? Can’t a man voice an opinion now without someone thinking that he’s a subversive? I meant no harm.”

“Then keep a guard on your tongue, better men than you are sweating it out on forced labour for less than what you’ve said.” The guard stared about him, and hitched his rifle to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. The short fat man grunted, and noisily spat.

“To hell with it all! Let’s get moving.”

Their heavy boots rang on the concrete as they moved away, and the glow of the arc lights shone on the polished leather and bright metal of their equipment.

Slowly the man in the doorway relaxed. First his hands, gripped tight around the butt of a pistol and the hilt of a razor-edged knife. Then the neck muscles, taut and cramped from nervous strain and the sheer necessity of denying movement to the instinct of escape.

He breathed again, great deep breaths filling starved lungs and oxygenating his blood, bringing nervous calm and speeding the relaxation. Not until his pulse was normal, his breathing soft and shallow again, did he move, slipping from shadow to shadow until he paused at the edge of a well-lighted area.

Then he could move no further.

A building reared its height towards the hidden stars, a slender needle of a building, a narrow cone of smooth concrete devoid of windows and brilliantly lit for the first hundred feet. Above that limit darkness clothed the sheer surface in the cloak of night, and like pale stars windows reflected the glaring light below.

Around the building for fifty yards in each direction was a cleared space, every inch illuminated with the cold white glow from the arc lights, and patrolled by many guards. They marched as if they were on parade, their boots ringing on the unbroken concrete, their rifles ready for action and the little gold insignia of their rank glittered as they marched.

Tensely the man waited.

He lifted his gloved hand to a point just before his eyes, and peeled back a thin layer of cloth. The swinging hand of an illuminated chronometer ticked steadily around a dial, and for the thousandth time he made swift mental calculations.

Fifty yards to the building, say five seconds, perhaps a little less. One hundred feet of sheer climb, thirty seconds, probably more. Say a full minute, it should be safe to count on that, but even a minute was cutting things too fine. He shrugged, forcing himself to be calm, the test would come soon enough without worrying too much beforehand.

Rapidly he adjusted hollow cups of specially lined plastic to knees, elbows, the insides of his ankles and to the palms of his hands. He glanced at the chronometer again, then stood relaxed and ready, his breath fuming against the inside of his hood.

He had not long to wait.

Fire sprayed on the far side of the building, fire and rolling smoke, and the roaring thunder of high explosives. The sound smashed through the silent air, shocking in its utter unexpectedness, and for a moment the guards halted, their faces slack and bewildered. For a moment only, then obeying their ingrained conditioning, their inevitable reaction to alarm, they raced for the source of the noise.

Before they had even cleared the lighted area he was racing towards the building.

Fifty yards. Fifty long strides, head down, legs thrusting at the hard concrete with noiseless steps, moving like a black smear against the stark whiteness of the unbroken surface. Fifty yards, and at any moment a guard could turn, see the flitting shape, and yell quick alarm.

He made it without discovery.

Thigh muscles tensed as he neared the building, and with a great leap he sprang towards the sheer surface.

He struck with arms and legs outsprawled, hung a moment, and then like some great black spider began crawling up the smooth wall. The suction cups made little popping noises as he jerked them from their seating and thrust them at a higher point. To him they sounded dangerously loud.

Higher, higher, racing against time, against the certainty that some guard would remember his duty and return to scan the area below. He had passed that danger, but against the bright illumination thrown against the building he stood out stark and clear for what he was. A rifleman could pick him off with a single shot. All the guards were trained marksmen.

Higher, higher, releasing no more than two of the suction cups at any one time and feeling the others begin to yield beneath the weight of his body. Desperately he crawled up the sheer surface, his heart thudding with strain and his breath rasping through his throat as his lungs struggled for oxygen.

Despite the cold, sweat trickled from his forehead, stinging his eyes and making the soft fabric of his hood stick to his skin. He gasped, half-tempted to halt and free his mouth of the clinging material, then sense returned and he struggled upwards. He hardly knew when he passed into the zone of darkness.

Far below him guards shouted, their boots ringing on the concrete as they raced around the entire area. Lights flickered, sweeping about the deserted streets and flashing upwards as the searchbeam operators sprayed the surrounding sector with light. A beam flashed against the building, its cone of light passing within inches of his feet, and the near-miss spurred him to fresh effort.

Higher, still higher he crawled, his limbs aching from the effort of lifting his body up the almost vertical wall, the suction cups dragging at his joints. His outstretched fingers gripped the slight edge of a window sill and with a sob of relief he dragged himself level with the pane.

It was locked.

He stared at it, numb with disappointment. The smooth shatterproof glass mocked him with its soft reflection of the lights far below. He rested for a moment, his feet resting on the narrow ledge. He forced himself to relax.

Beneath him the guards had resumed their steady march. He wondered if they had found the time-set catapult that had launched the harmless bomb. He hoped not, discovery would betray him, someone would recognise the bomb for what is was, a diversion, and he was still a sitting target.

A cold wind droned about him, pressing him closer to the sheer concrete of the needle-like building, and he felt the touch of icy fingers beginning to chill his blood. He had to move, and move fast. Grimly he struggled upwards.

The second row of windows were locked. The third row were locked, and when he found that the fourth row presented the same impregnable face to the droning wind he began to get desperate.

The suction cups couldn’t support his body indefinitely, even if his muscles could bear the strain, and they couldn’t. Fatigue burned in every limb and joint, and the chill air seemed to sear his lungs with every breath. He had stopped sweating, but his skin felt clammy and the hood pressed against his lips threatening suffocation. Irritably he tore it off and thrust it into a pocket, the cold night air bringing temporarily relief.

He stared upwards, towards the thin cone-shaped top of the building, and was surprised to find himself so high. One last row of windows broke the smooth concrete, then nothing but a low observation dome of flaw-less plastic, impenetrable from the outside. He had one last chance.

Grimly he struggled upwards.

The first window he tried was locked, the second and third the same and he had but one more to go. He pressed it, swallowing as it resisted his pressure, and desperation forced him to think of something he had probably forgotten.

The proofed glass couldn’t be smash. . .