Man is an intelligent mammal. His intelligence lies in his brain. In mammals the tissues of the central nervous system are irreplaceable. The human brain contains something like 100,000,000,000,000 neurons, but 100,000 are destroyed on average each day of a man's life. Cosmic rays and general internal and external radioactivity account for most of this destruction. Hunger and Gradey decided on an illegal experiment. They brought up a small group of children in a strange artificial setting where there was practically no radiation. The setting was improved. The environment grew more shielded as generations passed. At last the Thinkers exploded into a world that had not dreamed of their existence. The world was facing other complications at the moment. An alien had appeared from the other side of the cosmos! Humanity was faced with two potentially deadly enemies; could they be turned against each other, or was one a secret friend?
Release date:
September 30, 2014
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
156
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THE pram was not a particularly new one. In fact, it was downright shabby. It spoke of the recent presence of more than one occupant. A tatty old shopping bag was attached to it by two forlorn straps. It stood with its semi-efficient brake locking it outside the glittering window of a supermarket. The drab owner of the drab perambulator was inside the supermarket. It was one of those superb, ultra-modern affairs, where music blared from concealed loud speakers, and where ‘This Week’s Bargain Offer’ flashed up in coloured lights, where tape recorded voices coaxed the consumer into buying things which he or she did not really need. It had all the trimmings of modern, high-pressure salesmanship.
The drab little woman was hunting desperately for the cheapest tin of peas, weighing up in her mind whether the large size with fourpence off would be a better buy than the small size with twopence off. While she was trying to concentrate on this difficult feat of domestic economy a nearby machine was relaying an electronic voice which was cajoling her—had it been financially possible—into spending 12/6 on a bargain-sized, deep-freeze chicken. The drab little woman finally decided on the drab little tin of peas with 2d. off … She put it in her basket and moved off in search of the biggest bargain on the detergent counter.
It had become a vital necessity to watch every penny carefully. She was so engrossed in her bargain hunting and the endless problem of making money stretch when all its elasticity had been extended to an impossible degree already, that she never even glanced up once to make sure that the perambulator and its newest occupant were safe … She had left her two-year-old and three-year-old with a kindly old neighbour. The five, six and seven-year-olds were at school. Only the baby was accompanying her on her weekly battle with the hard, economic facts of life.
Nobody ever really sees what happens in a crowd; nobody ever really cares. Rick Hunter was a tall, distinguished looking man in the old-fashioned sense of the word. He had clean-cut, sensitive features, a rather protruding nose, sharp and pointed; his eyes were set just a fraction too close together and the ears were abnormally low. The tops of the ears ended just below eye level. Hunter’s forehead was high and intelligent, corrugated by the thought wrinkles of many years—for Hunter was by no means a young man. He wore thick, horn-rimmed spectacles with an air of great studiousness and scholarship. A neat, fashionable, grey trilby sat a little too squarely above that high, intelligent forehead. An indistinguishably ordinary, grey saloon car was nosing its way along beside the path. Hunter walked up to the window of the supermarket and glanced down at the occupant of the drab old pram. It was about the right age, he decided. With cool nonchalance and an air of unquestionable fathership, he picked the tiny bundle out of its somewhat unhygienic surroundings and moved towards the car. In all that crowd nobody, neither man, woman, nor child had noticed anything unusual or out of the way. Rick Hunter had done it with such perfect precision, such complete confidence, such absolute ordinariness; nobody noticed, nobody cared. He moved hurriedly to the edge of the pavement. The door of the ordinary, everyday, little saloon opened quietly and a short, plump man behind the wheel nodded with satisfaction at the bundle.
“Righto, Clem, take it away,” said Rick. Clem Gradey put his foot down carefully and the car moved away into the stream of traffic. A policeman stood on a box, taking charge of the cross-roads and those who used them. Clem Gradey waited patiently, indicated his intention of driving straight on by placing his hand flat on the windscreen, nodded to the policeman courteously and moved along as naturally as though he had been a kidnapper all his life.
Tall, new shops stood proud and glossy on their left, traffic islands were dotted down the right-hand side of the car, and further to the right, beyond the traffic lights, older property, with a distinctly Georgian or at least Victorian appearance, seemed to frown across the width of the new highway at the interlopers who had dared to build 20th century architecture into this 19th century street.
The triangular patch of cobble stones to the right held a number of parked cars and one of those mobile tea stalls which are such a welcome feature in market places, race tracks, stock car rallies and fun fares.
Beyond the triangular area of cobble stones there was a zebra crossing. They waited politely while a number of elderly pedestrians made their way gratefully across the life-saving stripes across the roadway.
“You don’t think there’ll be a hue-and-cry yet, then?” asked Gradey.
“Not for some time,” answered Hunter, “and what’s the hue-and-cry going to be about, anyway? Nobody saw us. We were like the invisible men.”
“I hope so!” murmured his companion.
There were shops on their left, and to their right the medieval fortress, which had guarded the town since Norman times, reared strong and rectangular. They drove round the base of the huge, artificial mound upon which the fortress stood. There were traffic lights, many traffic lights at the next extremely busy intersection. They drove on, over the intersection and down towards the railway station. The buildings here had once been the units of a high-class residential area, but the majority of them were now used by professional people. A number of brass plates discreetly advised the public that dental, medical and legal services could be obtained within.
They drove on past two Chinese restaurants and a cinema. Only the river bridge now separated them from the railway station. They turned right over the bridge and parked alongside the river. The child they had kidnapped slept peacefully in the back.
“See what you can do in the waiting-room and I’ll try the refreshment room,” said Hunter.
“Right,” agreed Gradey. They moved quietly and unconcernedly on to the station. It never ceased to surprise Hunter, who had been observing such things recently, while thinking about their kidnapping venture, just how many people left prams unattended. There were two on the station without a soul in sight. He guessed that their parents were either making inquiries or taking refreshment. He nodded almost imperceptibly to Gradey and the two men left the station carrying small, helpless bundles with the greatest ease and naturalness. They reached the car and placed the children on the floor, where they were scarcely visible from outside.
“We only need one more,” said Gradey cheerfully.
“Don’t you think we ought to get these safely stowed away first,” said Hunter.
“Might be an idea,” agreed Gradey.
“Where shall we try now?” said Hunter interrogatively.
“I think the market’s as good a bet as any,” suggested Gradey. Hunter thought for a moment.
“Yes, you’re probably right,” he said. All three children were sleeping with the sound innocence of early infancy.
“They’re all young enough, anyway,” said Gradey.
“Absolutely essential!” agreed Hunter.
“I wonder whether we’ve got boys or girls?” pondered Gradey.
“Ideally, for a long term experiment, two of each would be ideal,” said Hunter, “but the odds against that are pretty considerable.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” said his companion, “I should think the odds are pretty even, really. I’m not a statistician, old man, maths are more up your street …”
“I’m not much of a mathematician, either,” said his colleague, “but it won’t matter very much.”
They drove on as calm and unconcerned as if they were picking flowers instead of disrupting human life. They reached the first set of traffic lights and turned right.
“I say, I thought you were going to the market?” queried Hunter.
“Damn,” exploded Gradey, “I’ve taken the wrong turn!”
This was an older part of the city. The Cathedral Close lay on their right, a dance hall on their left … They turned round and drove back to the lights, turned right and then right at the next set. They passed a pin table alley on their left, drove over a zebra crossing and turned sharply left by the offices of a large provincial newspaper. The row of advertisement hoardings on their right advised them that a number of worthwhile films were being shown locally, but they gave only the scantiest attention to the advertisement hoardings.
The inconspicuous grey saloon nosed its way on down the hill and Gradey paused yet again at another zebra crossing to allow some pedestrians to cross in unhurried safety. Not far ahead of them an alleyway led off to the left. In the alleyway were various grocers and butchers. Outside the nearest of these stood an unattended perambulator.
“That one will do very nicely. There’s no need to go round the market, is there?” said Gradey.
“No, not really,” agreed Hunter. “Pot luck here is as good as pot luck anywhere else. Tell you what, just to be on the safe side, you drive down into the car park there, turn round and drive back. Pick me up on this side of the road. You can meet me at the kerb as you did at the other end, where we got the first one.”
“Right, . . .
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