[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Global Globules Affair - Latter Simon (е книги .txt) 📗

"You have been here at night?" Karadin asked when he had ordered their meal. "The scene is like a fairyland city."

"My first visit." She gazed through the panoramic windows at the vista fanning out hundreds of feet below them. The day was showery, the blue sky patchworked with grey- white cloud giving good visibility as the restaurant slowly revolved.

"Over there is what you Americans call Buck House." He indicated. "Follow the line from the Nelson column in Trafalgar Square—see the Admiralty Arch, the wide avenue of The Mall, the white monument in front of Buckingham Palace—all so tiny, so neat, don't you think?"

"Yes indeed." She let him talk as she acted her part of ex-pupil. When he switched to French she answered him in that language. He played a little game by pointing out the position of various Embassies and Legations and describing them in the different languages of their countries.

April Dancer answered him in each tongue. They smiled and laughed, the suave bon vivant and the young American beauty—yet as each language was exchanged it became obvious that Dr. Carl Karadin was using words like probing rapiers. Intellect sparred with intellect, talent with talent.

"You have studied well and traveled widely," he said. "I congratulate you, my dear. I wish Suzanne had one tenth of your mental power."

She laughed. "And I wish I had one tenth of yours! Have you lived in London a long time?"

"Not very long, but I have known it for years."

"You are working over here? Don't you miss Paris?"

He shrugged. "Each city, each country has its attractions. You say you are on a touring holiday. Do you not miss New York?"

"I guess so. But working away from home is very different—it must take more adjustment. Are you still pursuing the Parsimal Theory?"

"Ah! So you remember that too! I have not wholly discounted Parsimal. His theory of moisture layers being directed and harnessed by sonic waves is palpably absurd, but his sub-theory of stratum has a potential."

"Spare me!" April Dancer giggled. "My old professor is as brilliant as ever! You are the only man I ever met whose eyes flashed when he spoke about air. What was it you told us?––the whole of creation is suspended in air? Every thought, every act, every sound is transmitted and received by air—air, the invisible, air, the unseen power, air, the giver and taker of life!"

He laughed softly. "And what did my students call me? Papa Hot-air?"

"Students are not the nicest of people." She switched subjects suddenly. "But surely your talents would be more appreciated by commercial firms? Have you not been to America?"

"Soon," he said. "Soon, I hope to go."

Oh brother! she thought. Why the cover up? After all, I'm only an ex-student, so why be coy? I know damn well you've been to America. Aloud she said: "They'd love you there."

He smiled. "You think so? I have work to finish here." He waved a hand embracing the scene below. "A mellow city, this London. A grimy city, as are many English towns. They have a big air pollution problem here. I am carrying out some research. The British have given me facilities."

"That's wonderful !" She beamed at him, then glanced up as Mark Slate and Suzanne passed on the way to their table.

Dr. Karadin gave no sign of recognition. They both started talking at once, then laughed. A waiter came.

"Excuse me, sir—Dr. Karadin?"

"Yes?"

"There is a phone call for you—if you would come this way, please."

Karadin rose, bowed slightly. "Forgive me? I left word that I would be lunching here."

She smiled. "Of course." Waited until he was across the room, then rested one hand against her head, the other hand apparently idly twiddling the charm bracelet. She lip-spoke into the micro-sender. "Hear me, Mark." She saw his hand flick casually up to his head as if smoothing the side hair. "Watch it, lover boy. The little lollapalooza is daddy's girl and I'm working on daddy. This thing is wide open. We'll have to play it by ear. Headquarters is on to it. Turn and smile acknowledgement."

Mark Slate did not at once turn, but flicked his finger over his button micro-sender. The howl nearly blew out her eardrums. Then he turned, nonchalantly surveying the restaurant, and beamed a beatific but devilish grin at her as if to say: "Don't be childish—I know what I'm doing."

April was furious. She oscillated her own sender just as Mark was raising his glass of wine and smiling into the eyes of Suzanne. The blast lifted him in his seat. The glass of wine shot in a neat spout between the well-advertised breasts. Dr. Karadin returned at that moment, thus cutting out April's view of the fun. Karadin ignored the commotion of bustling waiters and mopping napkins at the distant table.

They ate their meal, leisurely talking and watching the panoramic views below them. Karadin pointed out landmarks, famous buildings, wittily discussed their historic associations and compared them with the more modern, changing skyline around St. Paul's and the City of London.

"As in all countries," he observed as they were served with coffee and liqueurs, "the tourist usually is drawn to tourist centers. While these are major attractions, there are many others sometimes of even greater interest. For example, Paris does not represent France any more than New York represents America, and the English countryside with its smaller towns and centuries-old villages is not truly represented by London."

"Time is restricted, I suppose," said April. "One books a tour to Europe—takes in London, Stratford-upon-Avon, some cathedral cities, then zips over to Holland to see windmills, canals and tulip fields." She spoke in the same easy, friendly, impersonal tone set by Karadin himself. But she knew this was all feed-in guff. To what, she didn't know, but her "radar" was beaming strong signals.

"The roads, of course, are difficult for the foreign driver." Dr. Karadin smiled. "They not only drive on the wrong side but in many areas the roads are so narrow and winding that one has to drive in the middle. A most disconcerting experience for many tourists."

"But surely no different from many mountain roads and other country areas in Europe?"

"True?' He nodded. "But hedge-lined roads are a particular hazard. One cannot see over the tall hedges, nor is it wise to use a very large car. It is a pity you are on a timed tour. I am sure you would find the West country of England quite fascinating. My research center is on Dartmoor—a wild and lonely place, but quietly secluded."

"It sounds ideal for research work." She rose to his thinly disguised bait. "I'm not actually booked on a tour—not with a party—just following a schedule of my own."

He smiled. "Ah! The discipline of the ordered mind! At work or play, this discipline must be applied else all is chaos. Others prefer to be disciplined by committing themselves to an organized party with its fixed timetables and block bookings. So you can change your schedule if you wish?"

"Certainly I can." She assumed an air of embarrassment. "As a matter of fact, Dr. Karadin, I am a little bored with ordinary sight-seeing. I love to get off the beaten track. I think I'll hire a car and drive through this West country you've been telling me about."

He paused to sip his liqueur, then walked right into her trap.

"That phone call was to tell me that an important experiment of mine is about to be resolved. This means I have to drive down to the West country this afternoon. We have a large house with a number of guest rooms. I'm sure you would be enchanted"—he beamed a warm smile at her––"and so would I, if you would care to accompany me?"