Edge of Destruction Read Online Free PDF

hope you realize that computer data banks are making you obsolete." "Speaking of data banks, I read - " "Forget it," said Joe. "Time to get back to business."
    They had reached the bottom of the stairs and found themselves in a corridor. The air was thick and musty. They guessed that no one had breathed it for years. But when their flashlight beams moved over the floor, they could see foot prints in the dust.
    Instinctively they put their fingers to their lips and grinned at each other, nodding. Then, in dead silence, they moved down the corridor.
    There was a glimmer of light ahead. As they came closer, they saw that the light came from around the edge of a door that was slightly ajar.
    Joe looked at Frank. Frank looked at Joe. Joe motioned for Frank to stay back to provide backup support. Then he slowly pushed the door open.
    Putting his pen flashlight back in his pocket, Joe stepped into the room.
    "What the - ?" he said. "Frank, take a look at this."
    Frank followed him in. "It's like a hospital ward," he said. "Complete with a patient," said Joe.
    The room they were in contained four hospital type beds. In one of them lay an old man with his eyes closed, completely still.
    "He's alive," said Frank, anxiously checking for a pulse. "But barely. The pulse is very slow, very weak."
    Joe was staring grimly at the far wall - or, rather, at the coffin leaning there. "Are you thinking the same thing I am?" he asked.
    Frank looked up from the sick man. "That videotape. Dad lying there just like this, in that coffin."
    "Hey, these aren't ordinary hospital beds," said Joe, examining one more closely. "Look at this."
    Each of the beds, including the one that the comatose man was lying in, was equipped with straps to bind hands and feet.
    Frank's face twisted. "It's like some kind of torture chamber." He looked at the other beds. Three of them were made up, their sheets and pillows unwrinkled. But the sheets on the remaining bed were in disarray, the pillow still revealing the imprint of a head.
    Frank put his hand palm-down on it. "It's still warm," he said. "They must have grabbed whoever was lying here and carried him away. And I have a good hunch who that person was." "Dad," said Joe, staring at the straps. "Keep your cool," Frank cautioned him. "We can't help Dad by getting mad. What we have to get are clues about what's going on." He looked around the room. "There's one. Look." He pointed to a small hole high in one of the walls. In the hole a lens glinted. Frank made a closer inspection. "A camera lens. I have a hunch it's the same camera that took those pictures of Dad."
    Joe pressed his ear to the wall. "I can hear it whirring. It must be shooting us right now." He picked up a scalpel that was lying on a bedside table and drove the scalpel into the hole. But the lens didn't shatter. Instead, the force of the blow pushed the camera backward, away from the opening.
    "The camera must be in an adjoining room," said Frank. "Let's check it out." In the corridor again, they cautiously approached the next room and entered. Snapping on a light switch, they saw that the room was deserted. The video camera lay on the floor, pointing upward and still whirring. Frank clicked it off and removed the film."
    "Kajimaki," he said. "This is the camera they used to tape Dad, all right. And now they're using it as a security system, to check out anyone who enters the room."
    "How do we keep them from knowing we got in here?" Joe asked. "As long as the kidnappers think that the guy we chased gave us the slip, they won't feel pressured into giving up a bargaining chip like Dad."
    "That camera store is just about to make an other sale of Kajimaki film. We put the film in the camera, put the camera back on its mounting, and start it up again. When the kidnappers check it, all they'll see is a videotape of an empty room." Frank started for the door. "Let's go before they come back."
    The boys left the room and hurried up the stairs. "The only trouble