“Sure, sure,” Quint said in English. “I know Ferd and Marty are still in bed, but I want to see Professor Ferencsik.” He walked on by her, and she did no more than look after him worriedly. Undoubtedly, she knew
Quint made his way back to Ferencsik’s rooms and banged on the door. When it opened, he pushed his way through and closed the door behind him.
Nicolas Ferencsik, in bathrobe and slippers, had evidently been at his breakfast. There was a tray on a small table before the couch with the standard Continental breakfast, coffee, rolls, butter and marmalade. He glared, unbelieving, at the American intruder.
“Just what is…”
Quint Jones rasped, “Hold it. Obviously, I wouldn’t break in on you like this unless I had some damn good reason.”
The Hungarian scientist closed his mouth tightly for a moment, looking like nothing so much as a small mouth bass, it came to Quint irrelevantly. But then Ferencsik snapped, “I assume you are under no illusions about your welcome.”
“None at all,” Quint said. Then, “But I’m desperate.”
The other stared at him. “Desperate? You do not seem the desperate type of man, Mr. Jones. Please come to the point. My breakfast grows cold.”
“It’ll grow colder, before we’re through,” Quint muttered. Without invitation, he took a chair. He stared at the other, wondering where to begin.
He might as well throw it from the shoulder. As it was now, it wouldn’t take much to have Ferencsik yelling for the servants to toss him out.
He snapped, “The two world authorities on transplanting of human organs are probably Professor Nicolas Ferencsik and Doktor Stahlecker, both of whom are now in Madrid. It’s hardly a coincidence. However, Stahlecker is wanted by the police of a dozen countries.”
Ferencsik snorted contempt of that statement. “Science is above the police.”
Quint snapped, “Are you familiar with the Frankenstein story, Professor Ferencsik?”
“I am not ignorant of English literature.”
“Then I ask you. Is it today possible to manufacture a man in a laboratory?”
Ferencsik snorted again. “Don’t be ridiculous. And now, will you spare me your company so that I may return to my breakfast?”
The American columnist was taken aback. Ferencsik’s attitude, his tone of voice, did not suggest he was lying. Quint ran a hand over his mouth. “All right. But is it possible that Doktor Stahlecher thinks such a thing practical?”
“Certainly not! Doktor Stahlecker is a competent scientist.” However, there must have been something that was arousing the controversial Hungarian’s interest in this line of questioning. He said, grudgingly, “It would be possible, of course, to take a healthy human body and
Pay dirt. Quint said, “How do you mean?”
Nicolas Ferencsik reseated himself behind his tray and poured coffee, adding an unbelievable amount of sugar before stirring. He said, not quite so offensively, “Almost any human body can be improved. Take an athelete in seemingly top physical condition. It is almost sure that one or two organs are less than perfect. In a laboratory, I could possibly replace such an organ. I can also, through minor brain surgery, all but eliminate the need for sleep. I can strengthen the muscles. I can speed up, or slow down, various body functions.” He twisted his mouth, sarcastically. “I could make a Casanova out of a eunuch, or vice versa.”
“And intelligence?” Quint said softly.
“The mind can be greatly stimulated,” Ferencsik said. There was a guarded quality in his words now.
“And immortality?” Quint pressed.
“Immortality,” the Professor scoffed, “is obviously an impossibility. All that lives eventually dies. Eventually earth will die, eventually our sun will grow cold and die, even eventually the whole galaxy of which we are an insignificant part, will die.”
“But…” Quint prodded.
Ferencsik said guardedly, “Admittedly the life span can be prolonged greatly. There have been accurate statistics on persons known to have lived more than one hundred and fifty years. There are scores of people today living in Soviet Armenia who are well over the hundred mark and in good health. Given such a basically long lived person, in the laboratory, by transplanting weak organs, by stimulating other processes, we might prolong life all but indefinitely.” He drank some of the coffee, took up a piece of roll. “And now, Mr. Jones, I have been patient with you. Will you either state your reason for desperation, or leave me to my own resources?”
Quint ignored that last. He said flatly, “The other night, at the party, while you were in the heat of your enthusiasm for World Government, you mentioned that possibly a superman was needed to lead the world along the path toward the One World State. You seemed to be of the opinion that such a superman might make his appearance.”
The feisty little Hungarian’s eyes gleamed danger.
The American pressed on. “A superman whose ethical code was above reproach. A superman whose intelligence dwarfed that of the rest of us. A superman who would live so long that he would have ample time to accomplish his goal.”
Ferencsik pushed back the little table on which his tray sat and came to his feet. “Well?” he snapped.
“That’s why you’re in Madrid, isn’t it? Pursuing this dream!”
The other was coming to a boil.
Quint stood too. “Remember Bart Digby, the American at the party who asked how you expect to bring this World Government about? He was killed last night. Evidently butchered by some sort of monster. He was a secret American agent. Ronald Brett-Home, a British agent who worked with Digby, was also killed, and some of his organs surgically removed from his body, just before he was to leave to come to the party. Besides them, at least a dozen Spaniards have been killed in Madrid of recent months. Almost always the blood had been drained from their bodies, and often heart, liver, kidneys, or other organs are missing. Surgically removed.”
As he went on, Nicolas Ferencsik’s eyes went wider and wider still in disbelief.
Quint wound it up, “That’s why I’m desperate. Without my exactly wanting to, I’ve become embroiled in the whole thing. Frankly, I’m afraid. On top of everything else, the police suspect me.”
Ferencsik said wonderingly, but the snap out of his voice now, “And you imagine me guilty of all this?”
“No, I didn’t say that. But, frankly, I want a showdown, and I’m not leaving until you talk.”
“Just a moment,” Professor Ferencsik said in obvious sudden decision. He turned and went back into his bedroom, emerging after a couple of minutes with a small black case, similar to a woman’s jewel box.
He came up to Quint, holding the box before him. “Look here,” he said.
Quint scowled down at it, at a loss.
Nicolas Ferencsik moved with a surgeon’s speed of hand. The needle was out of the box and jabbed into Quint’s arm so split second fast that even the younger man’s karate training gave him no time to resist.
For a moment he stared down at the arm, unbelievingly. Ferencsik had stepped back, triumph in his eyes. “You are a meddler, Mr. Jones, I trust this will prove somewhat of a lesson to you.”
Quint’s hand streaked to his trouser pocket, emerging with the .38 revolver he had taken from Digby. He brought it up… but already hesitating.
The Hungarian glared at him. “Would you dare shoot?” he sneered.
Quint’s eyes went in desperation down to his arm again. “What was in that hypodermic?” he demanded.
The Hungarian didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he turned and headed back for his bedroom. Quint steadied the gun, his finger tightened on the trigger.
But already the weakness was ebbing through him. Already the strength was not there. He tried to shout for help, and nothing came beyond the merest of squeaks. Slowly the floor came up to meet him, but he failed to feel it when his head banged against the couch.
