Polarian-Denebian War 3: The Man From Outer Space Page 5

  He hung up and turned to his friends who were impatient to know what it was all about. He told them, “My car… has been found.”

  The two men leaped up at the same time. “Your… They found your car? But if Marlow just told us that its ‘half’ was disintegrated by Zimko from his flying saucer, I don’t get it,” Dormoy admitted.

  “I said my car and not half of it,” Kariven smiled. “A cream-colored Kaiser with California license plates TTX 137 953 and registered in my name, Jean Kariven, anthropologist, 11 place Adolphe Chérioux, Paris, 15th arrondissement. Is it my car, yes or no?”

  “Hmm, that means… yes,” Angelvin said. “It’s your license and your address… But since it doesn’t exist anymore?”

  Kariven shook his head. “The Kaiser I bought 15 days ago doesn’t exist, that’s a fact. It was disintegrated, half by myself accidentally and half by the Polarians after I got back to Los Angeles. But I understand how they found it… It’s a diplomatic ploy, a trick set up by the special agents for me to keep my trap shut if I ever decide to report my adventure. By finding my Kaiser, they automatically destroy the version of the four passengers and everything that happened…”

  “So, they didn’t believe a word of your story or your alibi?”

  “Obviously. But since they have no proof and they can have absolutely none, they prefer to play innocent… and buy me a new car identical in every aspect to the one I thought was stolen. It’s a lot easier to replace a new car than a car that already has tens of thousands of miles under its belt. The substitution is possible except for a few minor, unimportant details—scratches on the body, maybe a tear in the seat—details that I have to close my eyes to.”

  Consequently, Kariven went to the headquarters of the Police Department, 200 N. Spring Street,18 where the chief of police met him in person. This was not a special honor but a sure sign bearing the stamp of the special agents, the same ones who had questioned the “victim” of the theft.

  After formally receiving his car in the presence of the chief of police and signing a statement and the release paper presented by a secretary, the chief accompanied the explorer to the door of his office, shook his hand and bid farewell with this advice full of innuendoes:

  “From now on, Mr. Kariven, don’t leave your car for too long to go and talk about Flying Saucers.”

  “I’ll be careful, chief, I’ll be careful,” the anthropologist promised in the same tone of voice. “And thanks a million for your kind assistance. In fact, be kind enough to congratulate the gentlemen from the ATIC. They work hard and fast when they drop their flying saucers to track down stolen cars.”

  Behind the wheel of his Kaiser—or rather the one they had just given to him—Kariven smiled. The exchange of phony courtesies was pretty funny. This little game was part of the secret interplanetary war that the Polarians and Denebians were fighting on the ground of the planets being defended by the former and coveted by the latter. A secret war in which Earthlings with the Mark were on one side and on the other were special agents trying to see clearly through the chaos that they could not make heads or tails of. In fact, their confusion and caution were understandable. For them, only one thing was certain: beings from another planet were living on Earth. They looked like Earthlings except for the color and texture of their skin. Three of these beings had just been killed in a mysterious way that could not be connected to humans. Did there exist on our planet other creatures, enemies of the first who were secretly waging a merciless war unbeknownst to the common man? For what purpose? What role, then, did certain Earthlings play in these tangled events that were baffling but somehow connected? Why did these Frenchmen on vacation in Los Angeles, after the incidents of the previous night, just reserve seats on the Shooting Star to go back to Europe? What connection was there with John Marlow, the president of the Flying Saucer Research Organization, the private group investigating flying saucers in every state?

  This puzzling headache haunted the minds of the special agents of the ATIC. The superior officers of this organization headquartered at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, followed the inquiry every step of the way but could not get a clear and precise picture to make the information useful. They would have to wait and persevere.

  The Shooting Star sped into the ionosphere at 2,000 miles an hour, starting to slow down when it was in sight of the French coast, a gray line cutting through the deep blue sea. 75 miles up, the ground was nothing but a brown zone, grayish in places, over which small, white flakes drifted—clouds—sometimes covering a clearer area—a town or city—bathed in sunlight.

  Around 10:15 the huge Shooting Star started its whistling descent. With its two rows of windows, its delta wings starting at the nose fitted with a radar mast and its gaping jet engines leaving a trail of condensation in its wake, the plane was radiant, like a steel shark seen in profile. It made one round of the capital and then, losing altitude, turned on its decelerating jets to circle back at low speed and finally came down on the long runway reserved for the giants of the ionosphere. The plane landed smoothly at the Paris-Orly airport two and a half hours after its departure from Los Angeles.

  While the passengers headed for customs, the “dollies” were busy with the international cargo before leaving for Sydney via Rangoon. Out of the cargo hold and rolling on a tilted conveyor the freight was unloaded: mail, crates and cars boarded as “registered luggage.” The splendid Kaiser was picked up by an employee who got it “targeted” by customs before parking it in front of the terminal where its owner and his friends could climb in half an hour later.

  The Kaiser was now cruising down Avenue de Paris, an extension of Boulevard Lamouroux and Avenue de Choisy. It was driving smoothly, silently… without its passengers having the least suspicion that a green Frazer 19 had been following 100 yards behind them since Orly.

  At 50,000 feet altitude, in what astronomers stubbornly took for a weather balloon or common meteor, Zimko and Yuln were keeping a close watch on the Kaiser through their tele-projection screen. They had spotted Kariven at the Orly airport thanks to their wave detector homing in on the young French scientist’s frequency. Yuln furrowed her brow and then zoomed in. The Kaiser had just turned left at Place d’Italie to take Boulevard Auguste Blanqui. A second car, a green Frazer, was taking the same route.

  “I think I saw that car parked in front of the terminal,” Yuln remarked. “Here it is now behind Jean’s car. Do you think…?”

  “It’s possible,” Zimko said skeptically. “It wouldn’t surprise me that the special agents are already on Kariven’s tail.”

  The Kaiser got off Boulevard Pasteur, turned right and drove down Rue de Vaugirard, still shadowed by the green Frazer.

  “I have to warn our friends,” Zimko stated.

  He stood motionless for a moment and concentrated while his sister piloted the flying disc following the two vehicles on the screen. Inside the Kaiser, Kariven was driving pretty slowly because Rue de Vaugirard at rush hour was full of people crossing the street. All of a sudden he felt weird and slowed down even more. A voice rang out in his head, clear distinct:

  Kariven, it’s me, Zimko, talking to you…

  Troubled at first, the anthropologist suddenly remembered what Marlow had said about the telepathic messages sent across space by the Polarians. Not being able to concentrate on driving, he decided to take the first right turn and pull up to the curb. He waved his friends off so they would not talk to him. Attentive and stressed, he seemed to be listening to a sound or “something” that his stunned and confused friends could not hear.

  You’re being followed, Kariven. A green car’s been with you since Orly. Watch out, it’s turning onto your street now… It’s passing you… Just take a glance…

  Kariven pretended to look out the open window and examine his front fender. Like this he could sneak a peek at the Frazer that was just passing by. Two young men were sitting in the front seat. Their faces betrayed a slight surprise at seeing Kariven l
eaning out the window. But since he was looking down toward the front of the car, they were not worried. The Frenchmen could not have spotted them.

  It’s gone, the telepathic voice from the Man from Outer Space resumed. Did you see who was driving?

  Kariven paused a moment, wondering whether he should answer aloud or mentally but Zimko kept him from lingering over this problem.

  I read the answer in your mind, Kariven. You saw them. Stay on your toes and be careful not to be followed from now on. When you have to go to an important appointment or fulfill a mission…

  The explorer suddenly felt a strange, emotional shock. It was not the same voice echoing in his head. He was certainly not expecting this voice but its different tone oddly reminded him of Yuln, the blond Polarian girl.

  We’re with you, Jean, it chanted in his mind. I told you that we’d find you. Be careful… I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.

  Dormoy and Angelvin looked at each other, intrigued by the body language of their companion. Did he just smile?! What was happening? Had he lost his mind?

  Why, Yuln, are you so interested in my personal safety? He asked mentally.

  I, uh… Oh, men!

  And that was all. His mind felt no more telepathic vibrations but his ears heard the surrounding noises. In the sky over the capital three jet fighter planes were soaring up and howling out a shrill sound. Was it a simple exercise or had they spotted the flying saucer?

  “Well, Kariven? Are you going to sit there dreaming like that forever?” Angelvin asked impatiently.

  “I just got a telepathic message from Zimko. We’ve been followed since… Hold on, check out that green Frazer that’s heading toward us… It’s been with us since Orly.”

  The car slowed down as it passed by the Kaiser again, which, at the very moment, was driving off slowly. They turned around at the end of the block and pulled up at Place Adolphe Chérioux where Kariven lived.

  After parking the car in the garage the three friends were about to enter Number 11 when the Frazer passed by the front steps, drove around the Place and off down Rue de Vaugirard. The three of them stood there, puzzled, cooking up all kinds of theories about the stalking without noticing that another car, a black Citroën Traction Avant 15,20 was crossing Rue de Vaugirard to get on Place Adolphe Chérioux heading for Number 11. The three explorers entered the building and let the glass door close slowly behind them.

  In the lobby an old lady was coming toward them with faltering step. They moved out of the way to let her go by. At this very moment a woman screamed out on the street and a weird buzzing or crackling sound filled the lobby. The temperature suddenly become stifling and the old lady slumped over coughing.

  “Against the wall!” Kariven yelled, plastering himself against the hallway.

  The frosted glass of the big, wrought iron entrance door had melted. A huge hole, three feet in diameter, appeared, bubbled around its irregular edges. The thick metal bars of the entrance door were no longer visible. They had melted!

  Kariven hurried out to the front steps and found a young woman passed out, surrounded by passers-by. Her left arm, left hip and the left side of her chest were badly burned. Half of her clothes were missing along with some of her black-fringed underwear that was slipping off to her right side and revealing her body. The material had been burned down a wavy line from the bottom of her skirt up to her left shoulder.

  The anthropologist went back to his friends who were squatting around the old lady. They looked at him without saying a word but shaking their head sadly. The poor woman was curled up on the floor. Only a blackened sliver of her cane lay on the floor; the rest had evaporated in the hellish heat.

  The concierge, turning pale, had came out of his room when the young woman screamed and he kept muttering, “Poor Madame Brun… I saw her fall, Monsieur Kariven, when you stepped aside with your friends to let her by. Poor Madame Brun…”

  Kariven looked at his companions and whispered through clenched teeth, “I refuse to believe that the special agents of the ATIC use thermal rays to further their investigations. This innocent old lady got it full in the face what it was meant for us. Zimko was right. We have to be very careful. Especially now that the green-skinned monsters are out in full daylight and shooting for us!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When the inspectors from the police investigating the extraordinary attack had left, Kariven offered his friends some whiskey and holding his glass he collapsed into a yellow leather club chair.

  “Things are starting to heat up,” Angelvin grumbled after gulping down his Black and White scotch.

  Kariven stared at him, raising his right eyebrow and wondering if he was making a joke or being dead serious.

  “Indeed,” Dormoy agreed. “That thermal ray that killed the old lady and melted the metal on the door must have reached at least 2,000C.”

  “We barely escaped it. It was a pretty unexpected welcome.”

  “Do you really think the Denebians were trying to put us out of circulation?”

  “I don’t see any other possibility, Michel. The pedestrians who heard the woman scream outside saw her collapse right when a black Citroën was passing by. Since they didn’t hear any explosions—pistol shots or machine gun fire—they didn’t bother to get the car’s license. The poor girl got the entire left side of her body licked by the ray right before it stopped firing. That explains why she’s still alive, seriously burned but out of harm’s way. There’s no doubt that this diabolical weapon does not come from Earth. In my opinion, the black Citroën must have followed the Frazer, knowing that they were on our trail and unwittingly leading them to our doorstep.”

  The anthropologist stood up and took a few nervous steps in the living room, passing by the big window. He looked outside at Place Adolphe Chérioux, the square, the metro station and Rue de Vaugirard. He let his mind wander over the familiar neighborhood that he had always enjoyed. The alleyways off the square were full of the same noisy gangs of young men; the metro entrance had the same flower seller and news stand busy with their customers who were always in a hurry. Wait, there was a second newspaper seller sitting on a folding stool with the dailies spread out on the ground and looking around him with a goofy smile. On the whole nothing had changed; everything was calm. The people were going about their business, unaware of the frightening menace that loomed over the Earth.

  “What do you say to some lunch?” Dormoy proposed. “It’s 2:30.”

  “OK. Let’s go to the Brasserie Alsacienne. It’s right there on Rue de Vaugirard.”

  Kariven opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out a Colt in its holster. “Forewarned is forearmed,” he opened his coat and slipped the weapon under his armpit. “I advise you to do the same when you get home. And to hell with the law if we’re breaking it by carrying big guns. This Colt is better than a tiny 7.65…”

  On the street Kariven stopped in front of a candy store. “Well, take a look at those chocolates shaped-like discs called Flying Saucers.” Then looking in the window’s reflection he whispered, “Do you see that newspaper seller behind us at the metro entrance? He pointed at us while talking with that guy who just bought one of his rags…”

  Dormoy and Angelvin did indeed see the reflection of the seller talking to his “customer” who was around 40 years old, dressed plainly and wearing a brown felt hat. The guy was casting furtive glances in their direction.

  “Come on,” Kariven murmured. “Let’s eat lunch in peace. We’ll see if I’m imagining things or if this guy follows us.”

  They walked to the Brasserie Alsacienne and chose a table in the back of the room. From their table they could see everyone walking by the restaurant. One minute after they were seated, the man in the hat stopped in front of the window and stared at the menu for a long time. Apparently finding it to his taste, he entered and sat close to the door where he could keep the whole restaurant in view.

  “Here we go, hooked,” Kariven grimaced. “Special ag
ents, the Denebians, and now this spooky guy with a felt hat! I wonder who’s he with?”

  “Maybe the Denebians have won over some Earthlings to their side?”

  “I can’t imagine them driving that Citroëns themselves. With their kind of reptilian beauty, there’s no way they could show their faces in broad daylight. They’ve certainly found some accomplices among the local populace. What could they possibly say to win their support? Did the green monsters claim that the Polarians are invaders, or did they just go for the lowlifes and promise them money?”

  “Maybe this guy’s a flunky of the special agents?”

  Kariven shrugged and continued eating. “That’s possible too, but he looks pretty seedy to me. Here’s what you’re going to do, Michel. You go back home and don’t leave until six to come back to my place. Robert, do the same, but you’ll come at five. Arm yourselves. I’ll watch the newspaper guy from my window. Maybe he has other acquaintances in the area. If so, he’ll show it in one way or another to his stooge or stooges. Plus, we’ll see who of us three will be followed on leaving the restaurant… because we’ll leave at different times and take different routes.”

  At the end of the meal Dormoy shook their hands and left. The man in the hat did not budge but a vagrant outside who had been begging at the door for a while pulled himself together and started walking casually in the footsteps of the geophysician.

  “OK, I’ve got it,” Kariven whispered. “It’s a cheap trick but it’s there. We’re going to have personal guardian angels. For Michel it’s the bum—they could have at least found someone a little less conspicuous—for you it might be a businessman and for me I bet it’ll be the rat in the brown hat.”