The Radiant Shell | Page 5

the Arvanian Embassy. The
place was a three-storied stone trap in which, if the slightest slip
revealed him to its tenants, he would surely meet his death. But,
anyway, he was inside! And the threatening Ziegler plans waited
somewhere near at hand for him to find and take!
Even had Thorn not known in advance that trouble was brewing, he
could have surmised that something sinister was being hatched in the
Arvanian Embassy. For, in this big sunny kitchen five men lounged
about in addition to the white-coated chef and his beardless stripling of
an assistant. And each of the five had a holster strapped openly over his
coat with the butt of an automatic protruding in plain sight.
Thorn looked about. Across from the great range, beside which he was
standing and holding his breath for fear some one of the seven men
should become aware of his presence, was the door leading to the front
part of the house. He started toward that door, walking on tiptoe. A
shudder crept up his spine as he tiptoed across the floor directly in front
of the armed guards who would have shot him down without
compunction could they have seen him. He was not yet used to his
invisibility; knowing himself to be substantial, feeling his feet descend
solidly on the floor, he still could hardly credit the fact that human eyes

could not observe him.
* * * * *
He got to the door. He put out his hand to open it, then realized just in
time that he could not do that. A door stealthily opening and closing
again, with no apparent hand to manipulate it? Such a spectacle would
start a riot!
In a frenzy of impatience, he stood beside the door, waiting till
someone else should swing it open. And in a moment it chanced that
the stripling assistant chef came toward him with a tray. The boy
pushed the swinging door with his foot, and walked into the butler's
pantry. After him, treading almost on the lad's heels, came Thorn.
The boy sat the tray down, and turned to reach into an upper shelf. The
space in the pantry was constricted, and he turned abruptly. The result
was that he suddenly drew back as though a hot iron had seared him,
and went white as chalk. Then he dashed back into the kitchen.
"A hand!" Thorn heard him gibbering in Arvanian. "A hand! I touched
it with mine! Something horrible is in there!"
With his heart pounding in his throat, Thorn leaned close to the
swing-door to hear what happened next. Would there be a rush for the
butler's pantry? An investigation? He eyed the farther door--the dining
room door. But he dared not flee through that save as a last resort. In
the dining room sounded voices; and again the sight of a door opening
and closing of itself would lead to uproar.
"A hand?" he heard one of the guards say in the kitchen. "An unseen
hand? Thou art empty in the head, young Gova."
There followed some jeering sentences in colloquial Arvanian that were
too idiomatic for Thorn's knowledge of the language to let him
understand. A general guffaw came from the rest; and, as no move was
made toward the pantry, Thorn decided he was saved for another few
moments.

Gasping, he raised his hand to wipe the perspiration off his forehead,
then realized there was no perspiration there. His film-clogged pores
could exude nothing; he had only the sensation of perspiring.
* * * * *
Now the problem was to get through the next door. Thoughtfully,
Thorn gazed at it. He saw that this, too, was a swing-door. Further, he
saw that now and then it creaked open a few inches, and swung
sluggishly back. Beyond it somewhere a window was open, and
spasmodic gusts moved the swinging slab of wood.
The next time the door moved with the wind, Thorn caught it and
augmented the movement a bit. Twice he did that, each time swinging
it back a trifle further. Next time, he figured, he could open it enough to
slide into the room.
Two glimpses he had had, with the openings of the door, into the room
beyond. These glimpses had showed him a great oval table on which
was set the debris of afternoon tea, and around which were grouped
tense, eager men. Dark of hair and complexion were these men, with
the arrogant hawk noses and ruthless small eyes of the typical Arvanian.
Several of them were garbed in military uniforms and armed with
swords. They were talking in tones too low for Thorn to distinguish
words through the film over his ears. He would have to get in there to
hear them.
For the third