The Pigeon Project by Irving Wallace Read Free Book Online Page A

Professor, there are no guarantees.”
    “There is one I can make,” said MacDonald. “Whatever becomes of me, you are not going to get the formula from me—not now and not later.”
    Veksler shrugged. “We shall see.”
    He had started for the door when it opened and Pashal came through with the warmed-over lunch.
    Veksler stopped him to inspect the contents of the tray. “Uh, bean soup,” he murmured, “a half spring chicken, mixed salad, fresh white bread, butter. Not bad, considering.” He looked at MacDonald. “I am sorry to say your fare on the freighter that is coming for you a day earlier than expected will not be quite as good. Yes, I meant to alert you, our freighter will be here, near San Lazzaro, the day after tomorrow.” He watched the monk set down the tray, adding, “Still time enough for you to reconsider how you wish us to treat you.”
    “If I write down the formula,” MacDonald said on impulse, “will you call off the freighter and let me go on to Paris?”
    “You are in no position to bargain,” said Veksler.
    “Neither are you,” said MacDonald.
    “You are not merely foolish,” said Veksler, “you are stupid.”
    With that, he turned on his heel and followed Pashal out the door.
    MacDonald heard the door close, heard the key turn, and at last walked glumly to his lunch tray and sat heavily before it. He tore a piece of bread in half, dipped it into the soup, and chewed on it. He spooned the thick bean soup, reluctantly consumed a portion of it, and decided he’d had enough. He had no stomach for food while his poor exhausted mind conjured up fantasies—perhaps realities—of what might await him in the Soviet Union. Again, as it had almost ceaselessly for nearly three days, his mind turned to escape, countless unworkable schemes locked in his brain, as he was locked in this room.
    He glanced at the grilled window where the noisy familiar pigeons were waddling about on the ledge outside. As he held on them, it struck him as ironic that those idiotic birds were free as the air, while he, with all his brilliance, was confined to a cage.
    If there were only some way to be as free as those pigeons, some way to fly out of here to freedom. If there were only some way to get word of his captivity to the outside world. If there were someone, some way, to carry his cry for help out of here. To carry news of his plight, carry it… carrier… carrier pigeon.
    Carrier pigeon!
    My God.
    He had cultivated the friendship of those damn pigeons on the window ledge, faithfully fed them twice a day, and now they owed him something.
    It was perhaps a futile and impractical idea, a ridiculous and hopeless idea, but it was an idea where there had been none before. The odds were a thousand—more likely ten thousand—to one against its working. Were these pigeons from Venice itself? Did they commute daily from their home in the Piazza San Marco to nearby islands like San Lazzaro? And even if they did, would anyone in Venice recognize his desperate cry for help? It was a pitifully romantic idea. But it was an idea, an action. It was something.
    He glanced off at the pigeons. There were four of them, waddling or perched on the ledge, waiting for his crumbs. He realized he had better make haste while they were still there.
    He eased the rubber band off the sheaf of paper that Veksler had left him. He placed the rubber band on the table, took the top sheet of blank paper, carefully tore a half-inch strip from the bottom of the page. It would be too long to fit, he decided, and he ripped it in half.
    Setting the strip of paper on the table, he prepared to write his SOS.
    What to say that made sense and could be squeezed into three or four microscopic lines?
    He thought about it for a number of seconds. He must identify himself. He must state his situation. As well as the time factor. He must ask for help and beg the finder to contact Dr. Edwards in Paris.
    Could he manage all this legibly and clearly in four