Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [42]
"Sure. But look, Sir Lafayette, give me about five minutes to do a fade, OK? I don't want to be nowhere around in case anything goes wrong."
"If I'm captured, I won't implicate you, if that's what you mean."
"Good luck, Sir Lafayette," the rumbling voice breathed. There was a soft rustle, and O'Leary was alone. He waited, counting slowly to three hundred, then felt over the panel, found an inconspicuous latch at one side; it clicked as he flipped it up. The panel moved smoothly aside. He peered out into the dark room. Only a few hours ago, a hand had propelled him violently through the same opening; now he was back, voluntarily.
He stepped through onto the deep pile rug. He could see the shape of the big canopied bed.
"Adoranne!" he whispered, moving forward softly. "Don't yell. It's me, Lafayette! I want to explain . . ." his voice trailed off. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the gauzy curtains at the high windows, he could see that the bed was empty.
A five-minute search confirmed no one was in the apartment. O'Leary stood by the ornately carved gold and white dressing table, feeling unaccountably let down. But after all, why should he have blandly assumed she'd be here? Probably there was a big party going on, and she was there, dancing with Count Alain.
But never mind that train of thought. It was time to go—before the fat lady-in-waiting came in and set up a howl. He went back to the inner doorway leading to the bedroom—and stopped short at the sound of voices. The door on the far side of the bedroom opened, and O'Leary ducked back as the maid came in, accompanied by an old man with a mop. The girl sniffled.
"It . . . it ain't . . . the same . . ."
"Never mind that; tears won't help nothing . . ."
O'Leary ducked across the room and tried the hall door. It opened. He peeked cautiously out; the corridor was dim-lit, deserted. Strange. Usually, ceremonial—or perhaps not ceremonial—guards were posted every fifty feet along the hall. And it was a little early for Nicodaeus' fifty-volt lighting system to be turned down so far.
He went along the carpeted corridor to the wide, ornate door, white with gold carving, that separated Adoranne's private quarters from the public area. He tried the gleaming golden handle. It opened. He went through and started off toward the next room from which he could re-enter the secret passage system.
Someone was coming; low voices muttered. O'Leary ran for it, ducked down a side hallway, slid to a halt as he saw a guard posted as the next intersection. The man was yawning; he hadn't seen O'Leary.
Just ahead was a narrow door. O'Leary stepped quickly to it, opened it, ducked through. Steps led upward. He could go up or back out into the hall. He paused with a hand on the door, hearing soft footfalls just outside. That narrowed the choice down; he turned and started up the winding stairs.
Five minutes later, winded by the climb, O'Leary reached a heavy door opening from a tiny landing at the top of the stairs. He listened, then tried the latch. The door opened noiselessly. He poked his head in, wrinkling his nose at a heavy stench resembling burnt pork that accompanied a dense cloud of greenish fumes boiling from an open pan placed over a tripod. Through the smoke he saw the tall figure of Nicodaeus, bent over a workbench, absorbed, his back to the door.
O'Leary studied the narrow, granite-walled chamber, floored with vast stone slabs, lit by giant candles guttering on stands, its ceiling lost in shadows and cobwebs. There were cabinets, shelves, chests, all piled with stuffed owls, alarm clocks, old boots, bottles and jars and cans both full and empty; against the walls wooden crates were stacked, cryptic symbols stenciled on their sides in red and yellow and black. Along one side of the room ran a workbench, littered with tools, bits of wire, odd-shaped bits of metal and glass and plastic. Above it was a black crackle-finish panel, set with dozens of round glass dials against which needles trembled. Double