Free The Unbegotten by John Creasey

Superintendent.
    â€˜Do you have an opinion, Dr. Maddern?’ asked Palfrey, mildly.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Maddern. ‘Release the story, but—’
    â€˜You must all be mad !’ screeched Simister.
    â€˜If anyone here is mad, it’s you,’ barked Maddern.
    Simister, staring at him, lips working, hands clenched tightly by his side, made a sudden movement towards him. Before Palfrey had time to realise what he was doing, the Superintendent shot out a huge arm. The force of his movement sent Simister back a pace, and as he recovered the policeman said, ‘Try not to get too excited, doctor, if you please.’ He shifted his massive body until it was between Simister and Maddern.
    There was something like contempt in Maddern’s eyes.
    â€˜I should release the story, if it were my responsibility, but present it simply as a natural phenomenon. I wouldn’t suggest that it was caused by either outer space or human agency. There will be plenty of newspapermen and television and radio experts who will theorise about those possibilities. But I agree with Dale—you can’t keep such a situation secret.’
    Dale turned to Palfrey, ‘What’s your decision, sir?’
    â€˜As a newspaperman, what is your opinion?’
    â€˜I’m with Dr. Maddern. I would release the story very carefully.’
    â€˜But it will do terrible harm!’ cried Simister.
    â€˜Not so much as if it’s spread by rumour,’ retorted Dale. ‘And when Dr. Palfrey knows who’s behind it, the whole truth can be told.’
    Palfrey said mildly, ‘I’m sure you’re right. I’m going to London for consultations now, and I think the authorities will also say “release it”.’
    â€˜Supposing they don’t?’ asked Maddern.
    â€˜We’ll jump that fence when we reach it,’ replied Palfrey, looking at Dale. ‘If I can give you a head start of the national Press, I will,’ he promised. ‘You publish in the evening, don’t you?’
    â€˜Four o’clock,’ Dale told him, with a wintry smile. ‘Giving me and the Echo a scoop isn’t important, Dr. Palfrey, but it’s nice of you to think of it. I would like to do a piece on you, though, and about the attacks on you and your men, and if I could break that with the London newspapers—’
    â€˜Go ahead.’
    â€˜Thank you!’ Dale positively crowed. ‘I appreciate that very much.’
    â€˜For God’s sake stop talking like a lot of morons !’ cried Simister. ‘To hear you anyone would think this was just some everyday event which belonged to newspaper headlines!’
    â€˜For the time being, that’s exactly what we want,’ replied Palfrey, ‘to keep the dearth of pregnancies in the background and concentrate on the attacks on me. No reason why you shouldn’t speculate about the reasons, Mr. Dale. I can tell you that there have been three direct attacks on my life—’
    He gave Dale all the details he could, talked of the girl Susan and the attacks in the orchard, described what he called ‘some unidentifiable, invisible force’, and then, with Simister almost writhing, made a simple statement.
    â€˜You can say that I am in Middlecombe as the head of the international organisation known as Z5. Enough?’ he asked.
    â€˜Plenty, sir!’
    â€˜I must register a formal protest,’ said Simister, the vigour of his protest sapped. ‘And if the consequences are disastrous you will only have yourselves to blame.’ He turned and stalked out.
    King ran the back of his hand over his nose, like a small boy without a handkerchief, and there was a glimmer of a smile in his eyes when he turned to Palfrey.
    â€˜The meeting’s due for eight o’clock, sir. Are you going to eat first? Very welcome to have a meal in our canteen, or a snack for you and Dr. Maddern sent up here. Or at your