Free Famine by John Creasey

the cloud was seen, find out if, or where, they’ve dug themselves in. The whole area must be minutely scrutinised. All right, send Mr. Campson in.”
    Kenneth Campson was not only the nation’s leading pathologist … he was an old friend of Palfrey from medical school days, and he had done a great deal for Z5. One thing was quite certain: he would not have come here to report in person unless he felt his evidence was serious enough to be brought to Palfrey’s ears alone. He came in, a rather attenuated man with veiled blue eyes, and an air of casual untidiness. In many ways he was not unlike Palfrey, and it would have been easy to take them for brothers. Now, he seemed to be labouring under some strong emotion.
    â€œHallo, Ken.” Palfrey waved a hand in brief salutation. “What will you have to drink?”
    â€œNothing, thanks – Joyce is going to bring in some coffee.”
    â€œGood. Sit down.” There was a pause. “What’s on your mind?” When Campson did not answer immediately, Palfrey went on: “Neil Anderson?”
    â€œBled to death,” the pathologist said. “But—” he caught his breath.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThere was something else I haven’t yet been able to diagnose,” said Campson.
    â€œWhat sort of thing?”
    â€œA kind of blood condition,” the pathologist answered. “Blood samples are being tested. I don’t know for sure but I suspect bleeding was much faster than usual, and the blood seemed to thin out, not coagulate, when it first came into contact with the air. I’m very puzzled by it.” Campson stretched his legs out, and went on: “I can tell you one other thing.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œThe dwarf corpses have the same human blood characteristics as Anderson’s. They are very thin-blooded. I’ve never come across anything quite like it.” Palfrey could have echoed: “Nor have I,” but he did not. “They are fully mature males as far as I can judge. Average height twelve and a half inches, and the variation is no more than half an inch. The size of arms, legs, heads, necks, chests, waists, hands, and feet hardly vary. They could almost have been turned out of the same plastic mould.”
    Palfrey didn’t speak, touched with a kind of horror which obviously affected the pathologist.
    â€œThe weight of each one is practically identical—one pound twelve ounces,” Campson went on. “Their muscles are the same size and strength as far as I can judge – their leg muscles in particular are exceptionally well developed. I’m not surprised they can jump several feet from a standing start. I get the impression of absolute physical fitness – the peak of condition. All of those I saw died of suffocation.”
    Palfrey was listening to this recital in a curious mood, almost of disbelief. His mind was not working as it should do, and he thought of Joyce, and confounded her perception.
    â€œWhat else?” he demanded.
    â€œThere isn’t much else – except this almost unbelievable uniformity. All the organs are healthy as far as I can judge – eyes, ears, nails, hair, all are perfectly normal. The bodies don’t appear to be subject to the usual human infant variations.”
    â€œBrains?” asked Palfrey.
    â€œFor their proportions, remarkable in both size and weight.”
    â€œHearts?”
    â€œThe same answer.” Campson sat upright as the door opened and Joyce came with coffee on a tray. “They’re real, Sap. There’s nothing synthetic about them. They’re real flesh and blood, even if the blood is thin.” He smiled in a strained way at Joyce: “Can’t you make sure this man gets more sleep, my dear?”
    â€œNow don’t you start,” said Palfrey. “Pour out for us, Joyce.” He went on in the same level tone of voice: