Short Stories

By

Keith Roberts

The Inner Wheel -- first published 1965

Sub-Lim -- first published 1965

The Deeps -- first published 1966

Susan – first published 1966 (written as “Alistair Bevan”)

The Passing of Dragons – first published 1972

Weihnachtsabend – first published 1972

The Lake of Tuonela – first published 1973

The Lordly Ones – first published 1980

Kaeti's Nights – first published 1981

More details at www.solaris-books.co.uk/Roberts/

The Inner Wheel

The voices are in a void. The void has no colour. Neither is it dark.

There are formless Shapes in the void. There are soundless Noises. There are swirlings and pressures, twistings and squeezings. The voices fill the gaps between nothingness. The voices are impatient. “Where? they ask “Where . . . ?”

“I told you where . ..”

“See for us and tell again. . . . Where is he . . . ?”

“Getting on a train....”

“Tell us what you see.... Where is the train ... ?”

“In a station, where do you think ... ?”

There are hammers and whips and pincers.

“Where is the train?”

“T-Tanbridge. Please, the station is tanbridge...”

There are flickerings. “Gently,” say the voices. “Gently, tell us what you see....”

“I ... there are roses. The platforms are covered with them. The ... train is green. The sky is very bright blue. Everything is quiet, nobody moving about. The coach stands in its bay. I see the sunlight lying across it and on the platforms. It lies in s-squares on the platforms, on the footbridge. There is a breeze now. A piece of paper blows and skips, the roses sway. I hear the little thorny sound of leaves scratching together. Please, no more....”

Somewhere there might be giggling. Somewhere there might be rage. “Tell us about him....”

A lens moves, seeing but unseen, examining textures of glass and wood and leaves. The station is haunted in the hot, still afternoon.

“He is ... sitting in the train. In the front seat just behind the driver’s cab. He is... tall. He is ... dark, his hair is dark and rather long. It hangs across one eye. His face is thin, his eyes are very blue. His hands look ... strong. Well-kept, bony. Square nails, white halfmoons where the cuticle is pushed back. He uses a good aftershave...”

The giggling again. “You like him ...”

“Leave me alone...”

Jostlings. “See ... we want to see. . . .” The not-colours swirl.

“No...”

“... despatched in accordance with your order of the twenty-third....”

“I’M TRYING TO WORK...”

“Gently...”

“Leave me then. Leave me, I’ll tell you....”

“Good,” say the voices. “Good. Tell us what you see....”

“He’s ... taking out his cigarettes. Lighting one. Flicking the match in the holder. The m-motorman is coming now. He gets in, starts the engines. Puts the ... handle thing on that works the brakes....”

“No,” say the voices. “No, no.... See for us, see deep....”

“No...”

Awfulness. The un-shapes scramble and pulse. “Deep,” say the voices. “See deep....”

“I shall ... be sick....”

“Deep!”

The camera, the lens, floating close and closer. Somewhere inside the train inside the man inside the eyes are other pictures for it, closed each within each like a nest of mirages. The pictures twinkle, fade and strengthen and fade again, reduce themselves to glimmering node-points, swell. ... Someone somewhere bites lips inside until they are salt. Only the voice is calm; it speaks from the grey place the other side of terror. It husks and limps, feeling shared pain.

“I ... see the rain. It bounces on pavements, pours along gutters. I see houses. Rows of houses. Their bricks are bright with the rain. I see a church, or a chapel.... All round ... oh it’s a chapel, chapel of a c-cemetery. The ... houses all round like a high grey wall in the rain.... The ... men walking, the thing they are pushing doesn’t make a noise because the trolley has rubber tyres.... The ... people are coming now. Their shoulders are bent in the rain. They say, “It always rains on days like this....” I see the f-flowers, the rain is on the flowers, on their petals. The earth is dark because of the rain. I see the ... coffin, going down into the grave...”

“Gently,” say the voices. And “Gently, gently...”

“I see the houses again. One house. The people are inside and the great whispering cars have gone.... The rain cries against the windows like a thing shut out wanting to get in, and the people don’t know what to say to each other, what to say to him...An old lady is making tea, there are sandwiches all ready, but he can’t eat, he knows the bread is full of flesh—please don’t make me see any more...”

“Enough,” say the voices. “Gently, enough.... We know he’s coming now, he’s nearly here. It’s enough....” And the camera, the eye, withdraws itself silently, folding in, closing, shutting away....

“... to our order number cee five, oh eight six....” The voices are in a void. The void has no colour. Neither is it dark....

* * * *

“In a fiercely mourning house in a crooked year....”

Jimmy Strong lay back in the seat, blew smoke, regarded the Hush Puppies that terminated his slimly trousered legs. The rhythm of the line of poetry pattered in his mind, stressed by the carriage wheels that rang now fiercely-mourn-fiercely-mourn over the rail joints. A great artist had strung those syllables together some time before he died of ... was it eighteen Scotches, in a New York bar? Jimmy shook his head slightly, eyes vague. Before, the words had just been angry, lovely sounds; now he knew what they meant.

Ahead the branch line stretched into sunhaze. A little halt swam into sight, platforms wreathed again with roses, standards and climbers that exploded like silent fireworks against the thick blue of the sky. He saw lampstandards wreathed to their tops with the brightness, fresh paintwork on railings and trellises, glowing flower beds edged with whitewashed stones. The train brakes came on in a series of diminishing whooshes, the coach breathed to a stop and the driver turned off his engines.

Jimmy stroked ash from his cigarette into the tray, sat feeling the sun strike through glass to burn his cheek. Footsteps ticked somewhere, faded into silence. Above the carriage a wooden bridge spanned the single track; in front the rails curved slightly to the right and vanished between low mounded hills. Somewhere out there a town Jimmy had never seen existed in four o’clock drowsiness. He asked himself, will it be any good? Will it be a place I can stay in for a while? He told himself, somehow it’s crazy, but you’re a man on the run. Can you stop running there?

Running. There are times when the mind balks, hits a fact it can’t take, throws up an equation that gives a batty answer. Then maybe the deep, the thinking part of you whimpers and arches back into stasis and after a time of that any course of action seems good. So you start to run. You’re not running to anywhere, just away from where you are. You’re an electric puppet; the impossibility rides there on your shoulder while your motor nerves twitch and your body takes you away and away....

A problem like an equation is made up of elements. You can take them singly, it’s trying to fit them all together that makes your skull sing. Jimmy remembered an element. The Studio, back in Town. Light filtering through inadequate windows, littered drawing boards, filing cabinets topheavy with drifts of paper and card. The yellowing fluorescents, their tubes flyblown; flexes, Sellotaped here and there to the edges of desks, that fed tired Anglepoise lamps from a Medusa confusion. It was a place where you could work and work and see your dreams give up and curl at the edges and realize the ad game was a machine, a bloody machine that sorted the heavyweight souls from the middleweight, and the middleweight from the lightweight. ... The man who sat at your elbow, painting in the shine on endless successions of bright green lawnmowers, had been a Prix de Rome. Maybe he’d had dreams too, once.....

An element, an aspect of existence. Farther back, buried deeper in the impossible matrix of Time, were others. His father.... Only the image of him was fading, losing itself under a rippling and a hotness, the glaring hopeful hopeless time people call adolescence. Strong rubbed his face. Adolescence is the time you want freedom. You take it, snatch it, eat it maybe before the folk round you grab it back. Nobody can help you. Not then. Least of all a tired old man trying to come to terms with life....

So he’d shucked his father off and gone to London to learn how to be a Great Artist with capital letters, and maybe there’d been times over the years when he’d thought the old devil wasn’t too bad after all, one day he’d just breeze back home and say Hi.... But the day had never come. Instead there was a telegram. It told him, the thing he’d planned on doing, it wouldn’t get done now. It told him he’d run out of tomorrows....

Jimmy stubbed the cigarette and lit another. A coach cleared the line ahead; a signal dropped its smoky-amber arm, the driver pulled back jerkily on the Deadman’s. The carriage began to gather speed. Moved out into the sunlight, nosed among the hills.

Jimmy told himself, the old man had had it good in those last years. Better than he’d ever realized. He’d made the grade, in his own way; even got his name up over the gate of the yard in faded swaggering letters. “John Strong, Scrap Dealer”. And underneath, a motto, a legend. “Everything has its price.” ...

Elements in a random equation. Strong nodded to himself bitterly, in the bright train. “Yeah,” he said. ‘Yeah....”

He tried to remember the rain, visualize the sky outside, the carriage grey, the windows streaked with spots. Suddenly, the exercise was impossible. Like remembering a pain, trying to work out after it had gone why you threshed and rolled and felt like dying. But that was a defence mechanism. Maybe this was as well. Dear God protect me from the dullness and the rain....

It had rained at the funeral. And afterwards. The morning after; Jimmy sitting in a little cluttered office, the man in front of him hemming and coughing and seeming as dusty and yellowed as the shelves of files that lined the walls. Jimmy listened to the voice again scratching its way from fact to monstrous fact while the rain pattered soft against the glass. Death duties of course, he understood a large amount would be lost. The affairs were confused, some little time would be needed.... But the money that had been left for him, the money he’d known nothing about ... yes, a fairly substantial amount by any standards. ...

Jimmy licked his lips, beginning to sense the sheer size of the problem his father had left him by dying alone like that. He said, “How much ... ?” He knew his voice was unsteady, knew too that whatever he said that would be misunderstood. And the stranger had steepled his fingers, winced to drive his glasses back up his nose, looked at him with eyes that held every expression and no expression.

“Immediately.... Well I would say, Mr. Strong ... in round figures you understand, in very broad figures ... Twelve thousand pounds....”

The driver touched a control and the train hooted; a long double note full somehow with the sensation of summer evenings, like the chuckle of water, the sound of a lawn-mower. Jimmy shook his head again. His father had been what he never would be; a businessman. They’d told him, one of the strangers had told him after the funeral, they thought old Strong had gone crazy when he bought that ancient halftrack. Old Kraut job it was, streaked with rust; they’d dug it out of some rotting stockpile down in the Channel Islands. Then John had bought another and another, snapping them up where he could find them, even bringing them in from the Continent. Forty quid here, fifty there, a hundred, two.... Bren carriers, ancient beaten-up scout cars, lorries, Command trucks; German, British, American.... If it was old, and smashed, and had fought in the war, John Strong would buy. Because everything, has a price...Light tanks, sidearms, steel helmets, badges, flamethrowers...And it had paid off. Jimmy succeeded. Twelve thousand; say a big outfit wants to make a film, say they need the props and you’re the only man they can come to. You can make that in a week.... You’ve got to know the ropes of course and get to the right boys and slip tenners to odd people for not being in such and such a place at such and such a time; but these things can be arranged....

He stubbed a cigarette and caught himself lighting another almost instantly. He asked himself, angrily, could I help being born the sort of person I am with the sort of mind I’ve got? Slow to hate, slower to love, the brain forges relationships like links of a chain, slow, slow ... but when the job’s done, when the links are made, they’re good for the only part of eternity that interests me, my lifetime.... He told himself, my father was like that. He was a West country man, he might forget, but he could never forgive. Ten years of silence while he made the money he couldn’t give me when I was young and silly and wanted to cut a dash. That’s what the wallet in my pocket says. That’s what the new chequebook is telling me. The world owes you a living, my son.... So out thee can go, and live like a rich little king....

He pushed his forehead against his clenched hands. I didn’t mean it he thought. We none of us mean what we do....

The hand was shaking his sleeve gently, insistently. He looked up startled. The old lady’s eyes searched his face, changing in quick shifts of focus and direction. “Are you all right?” she said. “Are you quite all right... ?”

“Er ... yeah. Thanks....” He made his mouth smile, “just maybe a little tired. Long journey.... Thanks for asking.”

“Ahh....” She sat back across the aisle, seeming relieved. Looked out through the window then back to him quickly, birdlike. Nodded, smiled, bobbed her silver head. “Ah yes.... And are you travelling to the end of the line?”

“Yes,” he said. “Place called Warwell-on-Starr.”

Sharply, “Then you don’t know Warwell?”

“No, I’ve ... never been there. I reckoned I might stay a while,” he said, “If I liked it....”

She simpered. “Oh, you will.... You’ll love Warwell, everybody does. It’s a nice town. Such a nice little town....”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy carefully. “Er ... yeah....”

He sat back trying to think. The image that had flickered across his mind just then; the river, the trees, the flint church tower nestling.... But he’d never seen the place he was going to, he knew nothing about it. He decided, it won’t be anything like that. There’ll be brutal acres of rail sidings, scrubby pink little Developments marching in all directions. Ten to one I shall loathe the dump....

Queer though, this feeling of unreality; a detached half-awareness, a dream state in which visions and imaginings could be as real as the touchable things round him. It was as if shapes jostled at the edges of his mind, brightnesses brighter than the sky, shadows that mocked at sunlight. He shrugged. These were effects of heightened perception, of jangling nerves that now mercifully were beginning to ease. For days past, life had been like a cine film shown on some huge screen. Too big, too close, too detailed. He’d wanted to pull back, get out from under, but he couldn’t....

Warwell. Why the Devil had he run here, anyway ? His father’s accountant had talked about the place, but he knew somehow the name had been in his mind before that. When? When had it started, what had triggered it? He’d wanted somewhere quiet, somewhere he could go to and be alone and think and chew at his problem, but why had one name seemed to stand out from every map he opened? Warwell, a place on a river he’d never seen....

* * * *

For a time the rails had been winding through the low hills; round the last of the bends the way straightened and Jimmy saw how the little bridges appeared each under each like images in two opposed mirrors. Beneath the last of them the coach stopped again and there were the lamp-standards once more, hidden to their tops by creepers that rioted the length of the diminutive station. The branch line was certainly damned pretty; somehow even the waywardness of it, the curving and wriggling of the tracks, soothed like a balm. As though a world was being shut away behind each grassy shoulder of the hills; as if ahead, islanded, was all that was sweet and real. Jimmy stubbed the cigarette half smoked. There can be, he told himself, no sense of homecoming. Not to a place you’ve never seen.... He glanced sideways at the old lady, expecting another comment, but she stayed quiet. She was sitting staring in front of her, half-smile fossilized on her face as though she could already see the nice town ahead.

Jimmy told himself, it could just be.... Could be I’ve met a whole series of nice, interesting, interested people one after the other. A ticket clerk, a porter at Tanbridge where I changed on to the branch; an old lady on a train. All interested to hear I was going to Warwell; all keen to tell me, it’s a nice little town. Sometimes life’s like that, pointless coincidences get themselves strung together like beads....

The coach was moving again. There was a river, curving away broad and silver through water meadows. The train wheels boomed on a bridge. Jimmy leaned forward again, frowning, grappling at something that refused to come out into the light... and sat quite still, feeling icy cold. Ahead, the town made itself. More hills closed off a vista of black and white houses, steep wavy roofs. There was the river, swinging back to cross in front of Warwell like a moat. There were trees. There was a church, flint-built and nestling.

The station was an amber box enclosing dim areas of platform. The coach glided into coolness, wheezed, stopped where the rails stopped as suddenly and startlingly as life. Strong lifted his bags, felt the sharp rectangle of the ticket dig into his right palm. Somehow he felt out of breath and stiff, as if he was ending some huge dangerous odyssey. He passed through the barrier, turned back to see the coach bulking against the light. Beside him a girl with good legs and burning-red hair spoke suddenly. “Heard you talking on the train,” she said cheekily. “Hope you enjoy your stay. It’s such a nice little town...” Turned while Jimmy was staring, and clicked away.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.” He walked out of the station, into a sunlit square. He saw a garage, doors standing open; a taxi rank, a man lounging, reading a newspaper. A few yards away the river slid cool and green and hung with willows, filling the air with some cool suggestion of presence that was more subtle than scent. Across the street a towering ugly-pretty pile of waterside Gothic proclaimed itself the George Hotel. Jimmy walked towards it, swinging his grip, feeling the sun burn on the side of his neck. From the town beyond came a buzz of sound; cars, voices; somewhere a Wheel turned slow, unseen and unheard, its rim as big as a valley.

* * * *

Two

The voices chirrup in the deep coolness of night, while the river glides black past the houses and the church. “Wrong,” say the voices. “Wrong, all wrong.... He’s wrong for us, who brought him here ... ?”

“I ... I didn’t know....”

“Wrong,” say the voices. “Wrong, wrong....” There is anger, and a squirm of giggling. There are brightnesses like Barnes. They burn, but there is no heat. There are other things....

“PLEASE ... NO, PLEASE. ...”

Laughter. A chase, an airy game of tag. The Devil takes the hindmost. “Wrong,” shout the voices. “He is wrong, you were wrong....” There is a soundless sound of screaming. There is a writhing, a gasping, a wanting to die. There is a catching, a touching, a hating.... Then, suddenly, there is quiet. Dawn touches the river with a ghostly massiveness of light. The light has no colour. Bats hunt across the greyness like the shadows of dead leaves; island trees hang impossibly still in a world of water and air. The Starr is a mirror now a thousand miles deep, a quicksilver slash reaching to Earth’s core.

And part of Warwell sleeps. ...

* * * *

This is a nice town. Go ahead and ask anybody in the street, they’ll tell you straight out. It’s a nice town. Friendly, these people. And quiet. The town’s quiet. Nothing ever happens, not to Warwell-on-Starr. Nothing ever has. Nothing ever will.

It’s an old town. Built on a cross, so it has its North Street and its South, its West and East. East Street runs down to the river, because here that flows south and north. Bottom of East Street is the church. It looks over the traffic lights and the big curlicued lamp standard at the crossroads, towards the Town Hall. West Street runs up by the Town Hall, climbing into the hills. East and West Streets together make the shopping centre. There’s a Smiths and a Boots and a Timothy Whites on the corner and it’s all very homely. Very nice. There’s some industry here, not too much; in the main, Warwell is a Typical Market Town. There’s a little cinema that runs evenings, and they use the church hall sometimes as a theatre. And once a year the Steam Fair comes, in the meadows by the Starr. It’s a sort of local convention, the shopkeepers look forward to it. There’s a Chess Club and an Athletic Club, a Youth Club and a W.I. There’s an Archery Society (Bowmen of Starr) and a Cricket Club. They play matches summer evenings on a little ground with elm trees round it, back of the Bull Hotel on the outskirts of town, and there are stories about great bats lifting deliveries into the Starr, but nothing like that ever happens now. The traffic bypasses Warwell. There’s a little police station with a sergeant and a constable, there’s a vet and a couple of doctors and ... oh Hell, all sorts of stuff. It’s a nice town....

Jimmy lay on his back on the bed. Beside him on a chair was a saucer with ash and cigarette butts. One hand moved slowly, trailing smoke, from mouth to saucer and back. His knees were drawn up and he held a notebook resting against his legs. In the centre of the page, growing in curly lettering from a mass of doodles, was the motto: “This is a nice town.”

Jimmy sighed and shook his head very slowly, asked himself silently just what in Hell was the matter. Warwell hadn’t disappointed; quite to the contrary. He liked the place, it was a n... Go on, say it. It was a nice little town. After a while the niceness ate into the bone, decaying it maybe. He frowned. The dreams? They were nothing. Erotic symbolism, psychosomatic disorder ... maybe he’d got a complex because he’d never killed his brother. Never had a brother to kill...He shrugged, still lying prone. His state of mind must be attributable to his odd situation. Plenty of money, no ties, time to burn.... He was completely at rest; it seldom happened, and never to the young.

Maybe he’d dream again tonight. The dream was always the same. Always vague, impossible to grasp afterwards; a thing of sensation only, an affair of mounting pressures that rose and rose to wake him once nearly screaming. After that the pressures eased but he still knew of their existence the way you can know of something in a dream without seeing or hearing. The Wheel, as he thought of it, was the central part of the nightmare; and he himself was at the centre of the Wheel, on or in its hub, sensing it move, feeling the thunder of it in his long bones. The Wheel so massive that size itself seemed an indecent, foul thing. And somehow too the hub was Warwell, its houses and its church. But the Wheel was useless; it moved, it ground, but it ground nothing. Its turning was aimless, the threat of it was simply in its being....

He got off the bed. The room was small, stuck up under the decorated eaves of the George just below where a terracotta dragon glared down into Station Square. The bedsitter was all in one; at the far side in an alcove was a sink, beside it the tiny gas cooker. Facing them, the door to the toilet. A chair, a folding table; the bed took up most of the space that was left. But there had been no point in burning money, and the garret had a good view. Jimmy walked to the window, stood looking out absently. Below him was the long roof of the station, beyond it the river and the water meadows. Farther off again the hills, the distant blue cloth of trees.

He told himself, maybe you were wrong to come here and bury yourself away. Maybe you should have gone back to Town with your problem and your worry. Maybe he should have talked to Roley.

He nearly laughed. Ask Roley what to do with twelve thousand quid.... Roley would have told him. He could see him now, hear him almost. “Buy a Phantom One old boy, and half a dozen whores....” Yes, and kill yourself with an overdose of Mammon. On your father’s money.... Jimmy reached quietly for his cigarettes. Roley’s mouth would have mocked, but not his eyes, pale blue, warm-cold, watching out above a tangle of beard. Roley would have understood....

He told himself, Roley would love this town. All the niceness that’s loose here, it would be like a challenge to him. He’d get through it somehow to what really drives the place....

Drives ?

Funny idea. Nothing drives Warwell. Warwell has no drive, no reason for being. Warwell is, that’s all. It has its own inbuilt, bright sparrow-perkiness; the people come and go, sleep and wake up, eat and talk and laugh. They’re just born friendly, all of them. Why move, there’s everything here. You get bored, you can get a little job; some day you’ll have to anyway because the money will run low, any money runs low. But right here there’d be no problem. Here you’ve got friends, a lot of them. You’ve been here a month and it seems already you know half the town, it’s like you’d lived in Warwell all your life. But that’s the sort of place it is. Nice....

Jimmy stubbed the cigarette, gave in to himself angrily and lit it again. He felt like a detective trying to solve a crime that hasn’t been committed. There was everything for him in Warwell. The Wheel...

He told himself irritably, stop that for God’s sake. Your point of view comes from your strange circumstances, you feel floating, dissociated, because that’s just exactly what you are. No worries, no living to earn for a long, long while. He wondered, was he still being too selfish ? Should he form an association with somebody, anybody? Easy enough to do....

He went back and lay on the bed again, pillowing his head on one arm, watching up at the quiet blankness of the ceiling. He pulled his lip slowly with his teeth. One problem I can define, he thought. The twelve thousand. How to use it well? How make up for the years it took out of the old man’s life, the loneliness, the anger? He told himself, the answer’s here. Always here, where I am, because the problem rides with me. I tried running, wasn’t any good....

And Warwell? It’s crazy, but the town has a problem too. Maybe if I can find it, crack it, I’ll find it’s all tied up with me. So somewhere, someplace, I have to find the answer to some question, I don’t know what the question is, but when I see it I’ll recognize it, know what to do. See what? See the Wheel. The thing that drives this town....

You’re crazy, Strong. Take yourself off, let the tide surge you around some more....

A month in a strange town. Somewhere, in all the not-happenings, the men not there on all the stairs, is the key to a question I have to decode before I can even ask it. There is no wrongness here, just not-rightness. There’s a world of difference between them. There must be a question, and an answer to it. I must find question and answer before I go because somehow I know it’s important to me, to what I’ve become, to do that....

He gave himself up, angrily, to analysis. Covering ground well covered before, letting scenes and sights swim out of his subconscious, flare and drop back. Like the little bridges swimming into sight from the train, falling away behind. Calmly and quietly, the way life was lived in Warwell-on-Starr. But that goes for all life, any life. Life is a walking shadow, a poor player that flits and struts his— oh, go to Hell....

I can look up Warwell in a gazetteer, find it on a map. It’s here, it exists, it’s solid like any other town. Its buildings are stone and brick, its people are flesh and blood, they have shadows. I can read its population, six thousand. Read it’s a market town, no heavy industry, used to be a centre of the wool trade. It’s an urban district, returned a Conservative member at the last election....

But that doesn’t help me. It doesn’t stop the strangeness, doesn’t check the soundless noise of the Wheel....

Weren’t dreams symbols? Twisted maybe out of all recognition, but still shadows sprung from something heard, seen.... This was how the mind talked to itself, in imagery that clothed its own secret fears....

Then take an incident, any incident. Let’s start again.

The dog. Yes, she’d do. He was walking of an evening, following the slow course of the Starr. There’d been cabin cruisers tied up at the river bank, voices chuckling across the water. Night was coming, bluely; and it had crossed his mind that a man rambling alone like that could use a dog for company. No sooner the thought than the act; she’d come, flickering in the dusk, a long, slim hound, dark-eyed and fast. But she was no Were-thing, she’d come up close to let him touch her, she was real enough. He’d wondered about her, she was good blood and there was no name tag on her collar. She’d followed him a mile, two, circling and dancing, then she’d melted back into the dark. He hadn’t seen her before, or since....

Take the people at the Horseshoes. It was a strange pub to him; he’d gone into the bar, found the place deserted. He remembered standing and downing his pint and wishing more or less vaguely for talk, for friendliness, some conversation to stimulate. And they’d come. A dozen of them, ordinary enough blokes, but queerly fascinating, each in a different way. They’d talked; about the river and the town, about cars and dogs and the last war. The fighting in the Western Desert, and going up through Germany with the Eighth. Inconsequential stuff, but just what he needed. One of them had produced a pocket chess set later on, given him a startlingly good game. He’d turned down a couple of supper invites, with some difficulty. Who were those folk? Where were they? He’d never seen them again.

And then the Green Dragon affair. That was the best of all. Take that one through stage by stage, relive it. Because somewhere/somewhere, there just might be something you missed. Get it all, get the fine detail....

He was walking up West Street on a Saturday night. Last Saturday, just under a week ago. He’d done a round of pubs, the Horseshoes, the Bell, the Royal Sovereign. He was just a little canned, and just a little melancholy. It was nine o’clock and turning dusk; most of the shopfronts were lit and the neon signs, cars parked on the grid outside the Town Hall, people strolling, alone like himself or arm in arm. The cinema doors were open and there was a little do on at the church hall, loads of cars. Down by the Starr the lamps on the bridge were reflecting long wobbling streaks into the water and there was a smell of some blossom on the air, jasmine he thought. He got to the Green Dragon on the waterfront, there was a dance. He went in, downed a couple of Scotches, saw the g...

Steady. Get an impression of the room, might be something there.

The dance floor was low-lit, the boards shining amber. There was a shuffling of feet, just audible under the band. Mirror bowl was working, making the brown people dancing look like animals caught undersea in a jewelled net. The girl was sitting on her own. Get the picture. Colour of hair. Its brownness, the way the light caught it, Little black dress. That little black dress.... The glass of Chartreuse in front of her. Colour? Clear light green. Like her eyes.

They danced, just a little. Then drove. She had a little MG. Model TF, colour maroon. Slight blow in exhaust, get all details right.... They circled the valley, as if running on the rim of a wheel. It was a fine night, cloudless and with a high moon. They stopped up in the hills to hear things chirring in the air, the calling of owls. He remembered the girl-smell of her. Not the scent. She had no scent, but something from her still filled the car, marking the cockpit as a special place.

The woods in the valley were like moonlit hessian. He watched down at them, mouth drying. Hearing her moving, little scraping sounds of fabric. “You can have me if you want,” she said. “I’m very good, and I do like you....” One breast was uncovered already and she was wriggling, trying to work the dress farther down....

He stubbed the cigarette and got up, prowled back to the window. He said “Oh, no.... Oh, no no no...” Too easy, the schoolboy’s dream of home. She’d been so ... nice about it, everybody was so bloody nice about everything, the world was just too smooth. He pulled a face at the distant view of hills. What was her name ? Liz, Liz Baron.... Like the dog, like the chess player, she’d just edged into his life when needed and he hadn’t seen her since. She came, she made herself bare for him, she slipped quietly away. No yelling, no recriminations. There was a flow, like the bridges flowing past the train....

He rubbed his hand across his face, in the high hotel room. One day, one hour, he’d crack the smooth skin of Warwell, see a little of the brightness that lay beneath. Something would happen, some time, some where, that wasn’t nice. And then he’d have his key, the first piece of the puzzle. He said to himself, this could be important. This could matter very much. He picked his jacket up, slung it across his shoulder and went out to find a bar.

* * * *

Three

Next day he bought a car.

She was blue and low and nearly new and he fell in love with the cobby line of her, and when he’d done he had exactly eleven thousand and sixty-five quid left to his name, but it was worth it. The insurance shocked and upset him, but he could afford it; he signed forms and wrote cheques, and by lunchtime the thing was done. He drove away from the showroom and circuited the town, then over the river bridge and up the dual carriageway beyond, pushing the ton, feeling the world was a sweet place. And back to the George to park the glitter temporarily in the hotel yard. (Virginia creeper hung down from the roofs, setting off the icy car beautifully, but there was no key there.) He thought, maybe if I keep piling perfection on perfection all the blacks will turn to white and positive to negative, there’ll be one whacking big imperfection to sink my teeth in, or one that’ll sink its teeth in me....

Imperfection....

He took the Triumph out of town that evening, up West Street and the hill beyond. The hill she flung away behind her, away and down. He drove across Sanford Common to Gallowridge, turned off through the little village there, left a crackle of exhaust behind him, climbing again to How Beacon. Five or six miles out from Warwell, on the rim of the Whee—shut up, dammit—was a little pub, the Goat and Compasses. (God Encompasseth Us ... we hope.) Sixteenth century, so old it was nothing to look at. Stone-flagged floors, great fireplace with the ingle-nooks set each side, fireback glinting with blacking, decorated with cast shelves of corn. No bars, just white-scrubbed tables set about and they bring the beer in from the kitchen, beer comes from the woo...Girl, running...Beer from the wood...

Foot clamped to brake pedal and the TR4 swinging and throwing up gravel, lane too narrow, hedges spinning past, she was running head down to meet him and he was moving too quick he couldn’t stop. God please...

The thud, solid and hard. Then quiet. His hands holding the wheel, vibrating with shock. Then letting go the rim, having to make himself let go. Finding the catch, opening the door, no sensation of metal under the fingers. Throat dry like a sandy tube, unswallowing. Wasn’t walking, it was just his feet. He floated.

She was kneeling in front of the bonnet holding her arm. Her hair was hanging and never was there such a still silent road, and her breath was scraping in the silence like a file on wood.

The car was nosed into the bank, there were scorings, grass and clods thrown up. He’d steered into the bank. No, his hands had steered into the bank. But he hadn’t hit her. He’d stopped just... so, an arm’s breadth. The thud hadn’t been ... her. He told himself, the bank. The bank not ... her....

He was trying to lift her, turn her wrist. Expecting gravel-rash, not what he saw. The skin furrowed, curling back at the elbow from startled sheet-white flesh that grew pinpoints of red. The brightness coalesced, ran together in thickening trickles; the arm wept blood silently, fast. She pulled it away like she was ashamed of it. Her knee was hurt too, grit sticking to the graze. He put his arm down to pull her up and she was wet. Thin jumper, wet across the back. “Running,” she said. “I ... sorry....”

“Here,” he said. “Here....” (Moment of seeing and knowing he’d killed her, sitting before his lazy foot would move, they called it r-e-a-c-t-i-o-n t-i-m-e....) The car engine was ticking as it cooled.

She was leaning on the bonnet and gasping, propping herself by her behind, blood ran across her leg and somehow he knew brilliantly just how she was feeling. Sort of dumb pain in the knee and stiffness spreading up to the shoulder from where she’d torn her elbow.. He was asking where he could take her and she was shaking her head, trying to push hair back from her eyes, No, no....

“You’re wet,” he said absurdly. “Look, all wet...here....” He was opening the car door. (Imperfection.... Who runs themselves wet on a still summer night... ?)

She tried to push away, brightness splashed his shoe. Jeeze, he thought, Jeeze, there just can’t be an Awkward Pause, not now.... The thought galvanized him, he made her sit in, slide across from the wheel. Awkwardly, everything awkward.... Was a towel, he’d shopped in the afternoon, hadn’t taken the things out of the car. Couple of shirts, hand towel. God, her arm.... Put the towel in her hand, helped her wrap loosely. “For your skirt,” he said. Skirt was a pretty little denim hipster, marked already.... He got in the car, started up, pulled the bonnet out of the muck. Moment of panic, something would clank down there and he wouldn’t be able to drive.... But the Triumph was OK.

Back the way he’d come, moving fast. He had to find a place to turn then he really motored with the girl lying, looking white. The hospital sign, he remembered seeing it.... Place was off the road, stood back a hundred yards behind trees. Little old house, new low wing built on, he’d have called it a cottage hospital, but it probably wasn’t called that now, probably was some Unit or other. He swung up to the front of it, ran round to lean on the porch bell. They were very good. Accident... yes, yes, of course, take her arm.... No it’s all right now, have a seat Mr. ... er....

“Strong,” he said. Croaked. And I hope to God there isn’t dirt on my nearside front.... No, she’s with me, it’s all right.... No, it didn’t happen on the road, she fell.... Why the need to cover for myself and her? Because he told himself with terrible clarity, because of the Wheel. Because then for a moment it showed itself, just the rim filthy and shrieking, shoving up out of the soil. Until it ground back into the quiet....

Twenty yards away from him through a pair of open doors six perky men were being given supper, cheeking at the nurse with the trolley. The scene was brightly lit, a vignette set against the softly blueing dusk of the corridor. When the lights came on he saw other vignettes. A tall vase of red flowers on an occasional table. A copper jug in an alcove. A stack of magazines, Field and Lady. The whole of experience was for him now a series of glowing unconnected pictures against a dark backdrop. Like the images he had always imagined filtering through the compound eye of an insect.

When they brought her back to him she was chalk-pale. Sister was lined and bucktoothed and very lovable right now. “Best take her straight home,” she said. “Straight home....” And Jimmy agreed. Yes, of course, tetanus, of course one couldn’t be too careful, she’d had a shot, now she must be taken straight home.... The arm was bandaged, neatly and whitely, the leg they hadn’t bothered with, it was just wiped. He put his arm round her waist. She was still wet, he could smell the sweat now mixed with the otherworld tang of the dressing. Leave it a couple of days he was told, and straight to her doctor if anything goes wrong...”Yes,” he said. “Yes. I’ll see to her, she’ll be all right. And thank you, Sister, very much indeed ... Yes, yes of course....” And finally he could drive away into the night.

She said, “I’m awfully sorry....” They were on the road, her hair was moving in the breeze, he was driving back to Warwell gently, mind busy. “I must have put you about,” she said. “It was very kind....”

He was just beginning to realize again that he hadn’t killed her. “I wasn’t going anywhere,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“... Anne Nielson.” First the pause, then she didn’t ask him his.

“What were you doing, Anne? You came so quick, I couldn’t do a thing....”

“I was running.” She shuddered. “You hit the bank, if you hadn’t hit the bank..

Leave it, leave it.... “Where do you live?”

“In Warwell.’

“I’ll take you home.”

“It doesn’t matter....”

“Oh, now really,” he said. “Please...”

She’s nearly blonde. Older than she looks. Running. Warwell. Six miles, seven.... Not from Warwell, couldn’t have run from Warwell. . . .

“Please,” she said. “Something silly. I’d like a drink....”

“What?”

She said “Nice long double Scotch. That’s all....” Her hand was on his sleeve.

He whipped the TR4 on to the hard standing outside the Dog and Badger. Nice little pub, he’d been there once before. “Anne,” he said. “This is all wrong.”

“Please. That is if you d-don’t mind. I’m all right now, it was just the shock.”

So women are tougher than men. He opened the door, helped her out. She flicked her hair. “God, I’m a mess....”

Conventional remarks the order of the day. The fear had gone, she was female again. Had been a frightened child. So had he.... He ordered the Scotch, with misgivings. Waited for her. She’d excused herself to get tidy. He thought, she’s tall. Taller than I realized. The saloon was empty, he stood looking at the sporting prints on the walls. The pub was quiet; once a car passed, moving fast, then there was silence again while she didn’t come and didn’t come and didn’t come.

He went to the side door, looked out. Lamp in the road showed him a wicket gate swinging. He walked back into the bar, closing the door behind him. Waited half an hour before he admitted he’d been taken for a sucker. He realized then the true direction of the misgivings and felt nearly happy. Obscurely, he seemed to be back on familiar ground. “Ah,” Roley used to say, “The thrust and parry of Sex; the feint, the quick riposte ... the posturings, the lunges. . . .” Jimmy knew all about sex. (He was seventeen and feeling the cold, she was all of twenty and the more she took off the fatter she got, get stripped she said, and he said I am stripped and she giggled and did something that made him screech, sex, pshaw....) He poured the Scotch into a potted palm. He simply wasn’t inventive enough; Dali once cut his finger on a glass and filled the glass with the blood and put in one real and one imitation cherry, set the apparatus on a table and asked everybody to watch it then stole quietly away, but all he could do with his Scotch was pour it into a potted palm. Jimmy recognized the fact that he was becoming too cynical, finished the beer, got into the TR4 and drove home.

He paced the little hotel room, from sink to bed and back. An hour, two, telling himself of all things she’s just twelve months too old to wear a hipster, but isn’t she sweet; then he became aware, oddly, of the quietness in the town, the one oblong of light showing from under the tall eaves. He put the light off, pulled collar and tie und...

Down in the square a car engine started, wound up high in second. He ran back to the window, saw the bulk of the motor and the white fan of headlights swinging out the top of Station Road. Listened to the noise fade in the night.

No connection, he told himself. None. He pulled collar and tie undone, lay on the bed, lit a cigarette. Watched the pink reflection of it on the ceiling. All problems were soluble, including the present one. And he had a name to work on, presuming the name was correct.

Don’t presume though. Not a thing. Work from the facts. Anne, running. Wet through. She hadn’t seen the car. Damn it to Hell, she hadn’t seen the road.... She was running or staggering along the road, head down. Where had she come from ? No way of telling. What was she running from? From nothing. Empty fields, sunlight.

He imagined himself lacing up and projecting a mental film. The last few seconds when he already thought he’d killed her, the action recorded dispassionately by the camera of eyes and brain. He saw himself straining to hold the car, the girl stumbling at the bonnet....

Two images melted. He’d been to a coursing meet, just once. Seen the hare hit the wire and bounce back squalling, right under the dogs. He remembered its movements. Disorganized, spastic almost. Anne, running. Yeah, something had been there. Something that could hurt her worse than her poor scraped arm....

Queer to be thinking like this, in terms of Anne. Her pain, her fright. Everything in terms of Anne. It was like she fitted into a gap already there in his consciousness. But that was crazy, he’d only seen her a few minutes, she’d been sweating, scared half to death. Scared of him, he told himself. Why?

Find her again then.

How? Population of Warwell was six thousand, nearer seven with the new estates. And she didn’t live in Warwell, something told him she’d lied there, the answer had come too pat. Work in Warwell then maybe? What as, clerk, typist, shopgirl? Get a classified, start ringing the firms. “Excuse me, but do you have a Miss Nielson working for you?” Oh, go to Hell, and pick a few needles from haystacks on the way.... His mind turned slowly, tiring itself with thinking. The car that had passed the Dog and Badger. He knew it had picked her up, a hundred yards or so down the road. Just how in Hell had she fixed that runout? No answer. Never would be, till he found her again. The Wheel, the thing that ran this town. It wasn’t going to give itself away. It was too big, it was too subtle.... Above all look how it covered itself, it was too scared....

He found he was sweating in the dark. He wondered if he was going crazy. He’d always been a little mad, it was the artist in him. All artists were mad, everybody knew that. So most of them went mad quietly to fit the image, at heart they were conformists.

The car that had taken Anne away. The same car had circled back, mysterious and quiet, sat humped in Station Square watching up at his light...

Strong, you’re rambling. There’s no proof of that, not even a basis for assumption. Your nerves are shot, you’re getting the jumps. All this talk of a Wheel. Hallucination, vision ... more like simple nuttiness. He told himself nobody has robbed a bank, nobody has done a murder, gunned their pal down in the street. All they’ve done is run a clean, quiet, friendly little town. And maybe make a girl bolt across a field....

They? Who were they? The people who’d hunted Anne maybe, the people in the car....

It was no use. They were there and the Wheel, grinding in his subconscious. He could feel it, it was almost like the building shook with it. What would it do, now he’d seen it move ? The Wheel was for grinding, grinding....

Anne....

He slept; and the dream came.

Not like any dream he’d ever had. Not like the dreams of the Wheel. Their horror lay in their vagueness; this one was clear and bright and pitilessly precise. He was standing on a station platform. He looked round slowly, recognized Tanbridge. The little wooden footway over the tracks, the banks of roses. But the tracks were rusty now, they gleamed in the stark light orange-pink and shocking as dissected veins; and the roses were dying, they thrust out from their trellises like black spiky skeletons. The sun was shining, but it held no warmth, it was like the pale orb of a half eclipse. And the light was fading slowly from the sky.

He became aware by degrees of a huge sense of desolation. It swamped him, bore down till it felt like a weight across his back. He could barely force his feet to move. He dragged himself across the platform, over the bridge. Wood broke and crumbled under his heels. He touched the flowers and they crumbled too, dropped into flakes that a wind picked up, tossed into the sky like black snow. There was a railbus waiting, and a ... sort of motorman. He made himself get aboard, fighting revulsion at every step; and the car was so old, the seats of it were blackened and brittle, its wood was dull, splotched over with mildew. Even the mirrors had grown continents of green and ginger spots. He heard the buzzer and the answer from the cab; he thought the coach would never move, but it did, creaking and moaning. Out past a dead signalbox, into the hopeless light.

On the road the little bridges had fallen, they shoved up stumps like decayed teeth. The train cried, but there was nothing pleasant in the sound, the hoarseness of it whirled up and away like the last noise on a dying planet. There were people by the track, first ones and twos then more than a great dim crowd of them pushing forward, jostling, holding out their arms. He saw folk he knew. His parents, people from Town, old Roley; but the faces were transformed, the skulls seemed to glow and smirk through the flesh. They shouted and mouthed, but the carriage couldn’t stop; and it seemed that as it moved darkness followed it, pulled like a skirt to swallow the throng. The coach reached Warwell with a final bang and groan; Jimmy touched the door, it crumbled sickeningly in his hands. He walked through what was left of the barrier. Dust blew in swirls, and ancient brown leaves of paper. He looked back, but it seemed already centuries had passed, the train had rotted on the rails, spread rust round it and out along the tracks like the stain of a haemorrhage. A glower of light showed behind it, horizon burning silver, zenith of the sky dark, dark...

He tried to hurry into the square. Roofs and houses had fallen, trees stood stark, the river had gone, left the bare cracked mud of its bed. He thought he was the only living creature on earth, but he was wrong, there was Anne. She stood on the steps of the George Hotel, in her jumper and denim skirt. The wind gusted round her, lifted her hair; when it blew from the building the old dying stench of the place came with it, like Victorian sweat. He was walking, pushing with feet made of lead, but now the square was a mile across and there was no sense of progress. She cried to him, high and piping, a gull-noise shredded by the wind. Tried to move, stumbled and fell on the path. And his car was there, the bright TR4, standing by the kerb. As he stared the rust ran along her like a wave, a dark shadow visible to the eye. Burst through the bright skin in patches that joined and spread like fingers. She sagged, tyres wheezing; her axles broke, she came down on her sump and sagged again. Gear clusters rolled, the box walls no longer able to hold them; the little wheels ran flashing, browning as they went, fizzing away to dust, to nothingness, to blow along the wind. He gasped, fighting for breath. Three steps more, another yard.... He could nearly reach Anne, he was on his knees stretching his arms. Their fingers met, gripped ... and the Change, the huge Age that was romping through the world, caught her. He saw her shrinking, fullness sagging, clothes loosening round old limbs that were withering, twisting.... He was screaming, but there was no sound. Crying, feeling the tears on his face burned by the desiccating wind. She was a rag, a hank of hair.... Then cloth and flesh fell away, bone showed, browned, blackened, crumbled.... He scrambled forward madly, clutching, tatters flew in the sky, the wind yowled and mooed; skeletons of hounds coursed the brown wound of the river, their bone-voices boomed into dark and there was nothing, the buildings empty shells, no Anne, just dust, dust, dust, dust....

He sat up on the bed wet and shivering with shock. His throat was full; he staggered to the basin, retched. Then again and again till there was nothing left to come, but still his stomach churned and the stink was in his nose, sweet like old flesh, ancient bone. His vision sparked in darkness, he slipped, landed on his knees, weaved his head from side to side. The sickness passed enough to let him get up, sprawl across the bed. Then the bed moved. There was a roaring in his ears; it was the Wheel, churning ... he tried to scream again and there was no sound, just Power, Power, more Power than he could have dreamed...

The noise faded and he was still. A last thought stirred in his mind. This was why she ran. . . .

* * * *

Four

The lorries woke him, clattering in Station Square in the early dawn. He mumbled and rolled over, lay for a time trying not to remember. Then he got up and padded to the window, stared down, rubbing his face. The drags stood rattling, cab doors ajar; there was shouting, blue diesel fumes jetted from the exhaust stacks. Each vehicle was pulling a road train of trailers, their loads bulky under lashed-down tarpaulins. It took Jimmy a minute or longer to realize what was happening. The steam fair was arriving.

He leaned on the sill. He’d been looking forward to the fair. He’d intended buying some sketching gear, turning back into an artist for a few days before he moved out of Warwell. But the night before had changed all that. The flavour of the dream persisted; images came in front of his eyes, he saw skeletons riding Gallopers and Switchbacks, swaying on the cakewalks, jiggling to the noise of a calliope. He rubbed his face again violently and the pictures faded. The lorries moved off, but he couldn’t sleep any more.

He sat on the edge of the bed and smoked till he’d finished the packet. Then he shaved, changed out of his rumpled clothes. Spent a couple of hours walking by the river where he could see the town in the distance, the clustering of the houses. His head throbbed, his eyes felt heavy. The air was clear and keen, but didn’t it carry some faint tang ? Just a hint, an evanescent suggestion, but it was enough. To Jimmy it seemed the very wind blew from some place of corruption and oldness.

He ate no breakfast. The black mood persisted; he found himself hating Warwell and its inhabitants, everything about the place. He went to the car, meaning to drive out somewhere, clear his head with speed. He couldn’t touch her; some part of his mind knew if he lifted the bonnet the rust would be there, a red well of it, waiting to strike through and burn.... On the front seat was a smudge of dried blood. He set his face and turned away, walking aimlessly.

Watching the skeletons. Talking and laughing, shopping, eating. Drinking coffee in the Tudor Room and the Buttery, cleaning windows, driving cars, sitting in buses, pushing prams. Other skeletons lay in the perambulators, little gristly things that mewed and writhed.... He sat on a seat outside the Town Hall, wiped his forehead, saw sweat on his hand. He clenched his fists; he was trembling, he asked himself what’s the matter with me, have I flipped my lid, gone crazy ... ? It was all he could do to stop himself yelling, telling the people didn’t they realize, didn’t they know they were all bone and slime, they were getting older, they were dying.... He put his face in his hands, tried to stop the shaking. Feeling the traffic grind and grind like one great Wheel, seeing the fish eyes roll, hearing the bird-gabble of skulls, tongues clacking inside the bone.... He felt he was going to pass out again, or vomit on the path.

God, he’d never felt like this, not since ... when? His mind groped for a parallel, looking for a reason in a swirl of insanity. Warwell, the river and the valley, church spire and Town Hall cupola thrust up from a writhing of goblins and demons, a mediaeval maggot-heap.... Away from the Starr he knew the world was good, there were grass and trees and high quiet roads. He had to get away.... He was halfway to his hotel, scurrying to pack his bags and pay his bill, when he realized. Knew suddenly and with complete sureness that he wasn’t going crazy.

He leaned on a wall, gasping. Shoppers stared, edged past. He wasn’t conscious of them. Nature imitates art, he thought. Subject for a college thesis. Nature imitates art....

SEE THE FILM OF MOULIN ROUGE. THEN RIDE BACK TO YOUR DIGS ON A LONDON TRANSPORT BUS. SEE THE WOMEN AND MEN, THE TURN OF A WRIST, TILT OF A NOSE JUST SO. . . . LAUTREC FOLK, ALL OF THEM. YOU’RE SOAKED IN A WAY OF SEEING, YOU LOOK THROUGH SOMEBODY ELSE’S EYES. . . .

Quick now, think. For God’s sake, think.... The skulls, the bones, the flaring light.... Something Germanic, Die Brücker, the Blue Riders? No, older than that, farther back.... Holbein? No, not Holbein at all, Bosch....

By God, that is it. Old Hieronymus, the Adamite. The Millennium. Incarnation of all evil, writhing and pallid ... he’d studied it once for a holiday task, reached the stage where he could look through the painter’s eyes, see the world and its people as the master had seen it all those years ago. Now he was seeing it again....

A chain of logic had completed itself without his direction. The fantasies that had swamped him, rose bowers that had glowed, sweet organic nestling of river against town; these things he had been shown, as now he was seeing their obverse. Somebody, something, had tried to lull him with women and talk and drink and beauty, bright canvases all of them dangled in front of his face; and it hadn’t worked, he’d gone on searching and prodding and peering as maybe an artist will, as Roley would have done, and he’d touched the makers of the dreams and they were frightened. He’d touched them through Anne.

Crazy, his brain yelled at him, crazy, crazy.... But it was too late. He could feel now the strange will pushing, insisting, making a living canvas out of Warwell. And the rage came, dulling his mind to impressed thought. He told himself, they were doing this. The people who’d taken Anne away, the people who ran this town, made horror and impossible beauty and used them like weapons. Whoever they were, they’d half killed him last night.- And worse; they’d destroyed Anne, stripped her to the bone, rotted every cell and tendon of her. Shown him, mercilessly, the things no man should see. And now, they’d given themselves away....

The noise that had swamped him receded. He straightened up with an effort, stared round the bright town. Saw the shops, sunlight, the four crossing roads. Valley cupping streets and houses like a grassy hand. The town was finite; so was the enemy within. And it was a child he told himself, that fears a painted devil....

He started to walk. It was like wading against a hot river that pressed relentlessly. Suddenly he was very tired; there were weights on his back, on his legs and arms, he couldn’t drag himself another yard, not another step.... He countered the fresh attack with the image of Anne. Anne alive, full of blood and electricity, with a woman’s body that could make sweat and tears and milk. He told himself, Anne was not dead. Convinced himself somehow that if ... they could drive him out then she would die, in his mind, and that death would be final. He moved against the pressure, holding the thought and the picture of Anne, wanting Anne and holding the rage. Peering into shops, offices, into garages, through walls that seemed half transparent. Not feeling the sun, not hearing the gabbling. Somewhere was the enemy, impossible but real. Keep sending, he thought. Keep sending till I come...They responded, stepping up their force.

If you’re real, if you’re human, pray for yourself. Because when I find you I’ll break your bones, I’ll pull you joint from joint....

Laughter echoing, the little town ringing with it, the noise vaunting up like cracked bells in the sky....

SHOW YOURSELVES. ...

Searching and circling endlessly. Every house, every street. Walking, staring, feeling. No sense of time; in dreams time ceases to matter. Find them, he told himself. Because they’re here.... Odd times he thought what he was hunting had stopped bothering to hide itself; it made a shape ahead of him in the air, it was a pressure, a noise, a hotness and coldness joined. He saw the Town Hall through a golden haze, and the river and the church. He said to the sky, show yourselves ... but it was hopeless. They were in the town, owning it and exulting, but they had no focus. Never would have, until they chose. He asked himself. How many of the people here, the vacant faces playing chess and making love, felt what I felt and were drawn and then lulled and fed like cows? Lunchtime came and passed, offices emptied and refilled. Vacant and harmless, he told himself. Like cows. And the sun moved. The wind played in the trees. The river flowed.

How long can you keep a rage in concert tune? Not for ever, the effort would kill. And they know that. I’m burning, bleeding off strength, but I have to keep on now. If I give in the skeletons will come back and all the rest and I’ll forget I’m watching somebody else’s pictures and then God help me, God help me indeed....

They were laughing again now, tickling and prodding, squeezing out the last of the anger. He stood blinking and seeing the Town Hall clock. The hands marked a quarter after five. He knew suddenly he was through. His legs ached, his feet felt like they were blistered raw and he’d found nothing, no Anne; the ghosts still babbled, the skeletons walked mantled with flesh as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.... But no praying please, there is nothing to listen. Move ghost, ghost yourself, in our little shadow world of the river and the town here in old Warwell. Soon, you’ll leave....

He turned away, helplessly; and they were with him again, skipping and taunting. Why give up so soon? Here, along this street here ... or that one over there, perhaps what you’re looking for is there....

He moved dumbly, mind blocked with fatigue, not able now to raise even the image of Anne. He’d forgotten what she looked like. The Pied Piper drew him gently, away from town centre where the offices were emptying at the end of the day, the buses pulling in and drawing off....

He turned back into Hell and noise. Dragons burned on rooftops, streets shone bright with blood. He was swearing at himself for a fool. He’d been led round and about all day long, they had let him use himself up. Now for just a little while he had to swim against the tide, go where they didn’t want him to be, he’d forgotten why.

He saw her through fire and din, glimpsed the white scut of the bandage. She was boarding a bus outside the Town Hall. He started to run back to the George to get his car. The car was rust, would fall to bits under his hands.... Yes, he said impatiently, he knew that. He got in the Triumph still knowing it, started up and gunned her across the yard and under the arch. She didn’t come apart.

He caught the bus as it slowed for the brow of West Hill. Steady now he told himself, steady. Hang back, stay in sight, sooner or later she has to get off.... The air round the car seemed nearly thick with rage, but they couldn’t touch him now.

The lane opened on the left, there were houses set back a couple of hundred yards. He saw her leave the bus and slammed the Triumph forward, terrified now of losing her. Must take her by speed, he knew she’d run.... He raised dust skidding into the lane. She was fifty yards away, looking back already. He accelerated, hit the anchors, came over the top of the door. She was scampering now and he was running head down, the houses were close and he’d never moved so fast, but the gap wasn’t narrowing. He was back in nightmare; the enemy were throwing everything they had, he felt his flesh pierce in holes and boil away, the wind bite among his bones. And every step was a century long and he’d touch her and she’d shrivel like in the dream and he couldn’t take that again, not again....

She was down on the verge, he nearly fell across her. Shoe in her hand swinging, spike heel coming at his face; he ducked and got her wrist and she was strong, she rolled over and back and arched her body, hissing like a cat. He banged her arm at the bank and again harder, her fingers uncurled, the shoe rolled in the ditch. Then he was kneeling, still holding her wrist, breath coming harsh and her hair across his face, she was panting and the wind and terror had gone. He wanted to tell her she hadn’t shrivelled, hadn’t died, that she had blood and sweat, but there were no words. “In the dream,” he said thickly. “Dream....”

She stared and he saw the tears coming, then, “I know.... It’s all right....” and impossibly she was in his arms, he was holding her and she was holding him back and moving against him, texture of wool and hair and smell of being close, he was rubbing her hair and damn it to Hell she wasn’t even pretty, lines across her cheeks from not getting enough sleep and the hair over ears nearly starting to be grey. “Anne,” he said, “Anne....” Damn it to Hell and gone, he’d thought he was chasing a bit of tinsel, but that wasn’t Anne....

He pushed away. He said, “Your shoe went in the ditch....” And “Here....” Finding a handkerchief. “You’ve got a snotty nose....”

Trying to laugh. “I . . . sorry,” she said. “Thank . . .”

“Keep still. . ..” He’d reached the shoe out of the ditch, she was standing, he was holding her ankle. Just the start of her, at the foot, was wonderful. “They gave up,” he said. “Went away....”

“No....” She was shaking her head, she nearly wasn’t wearing any makeup, her eyes were grey and sea-wet. “They’re waiting,” she said. “It’s you that has to go.”

His hand was holding her waist, steering her. Not to lose her again.... He listened to his voice make words. “They sent me a girl Elizabeth. But I didn’t want her....”

“You mustn’t s...”

“When you’re an artist,” he said. “Crossgrained by nature, just can’t take what’s ... given. Mind.... Have to make your own shapes from what you see. ...”

“You’re not making sense I don’t know what you mean....”

But you’re walking. Towards the car, I’m making you do that, I’m stronger than they are.... He’d done a hundred hours thinking in the last few minutes. He said, “I know about them, you see. Isn’t secret, not any more.”

“You’re a ... liar....”

“Anne,” he said. “Anne, I know....” Firmly, nearly believing it himself. Knowing if he frightened her now she’d run again and this time he wouldn’t catch her. “I know about them. And you. Anne, don’t you want to break out of this stinking town, don’t you want a life of your own any more?”

“The shoe,” she said. “It wasn’t... I didn’t mean ...”

Keep pushing. The fragments come, and they make a sort of sense. He hugged her gently, trying to stop her wanting to run away. He said, “I’ll show you how much I know. They ... heard me. A long way away. They wanted me here. But afterwards ... I wasn’t right. They sent the girl and the dog and the man who played chess. Maybe they made everything, they ... made the car be where I should see it. But it wasn’t any good. So they sent ... last night...”

“No...”

He went way out on a crazy limb. “I lost a father,” he said. “I thought my mind was going to explode. What happened to you, Anne, how did they hear you...”

She started to panic again. She was trying to fight him. “Go away,” she said. “Go away go away go away...”

He shook her, having to shout. “I can’t. I’m in too deep...”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she said. “Oh, God,” she said, she was crying badly, trying to hide her face. “Oh, God...”

He was sitting with her in the car, his arm was round her shoulders. He gave her a cigarette, “Listen,” he said, dry-mouthed. “I found you again, didn’t I ? When they didn’t want me to?”

She nodded dumbly. He took her hand, rubbed the knuckles. “Then trust me. I know what I want, I’m crazy, have a wonderful life....”

“They’ll kill you...”

“Then I’ll rise on the third day, Anne, I believe. People, us ... I believe in ... oh, Hell, everything, they can’t stop us. Don’t you want to get free again, not even try?”

“Can’t.” She banged the car dash miserably. “Can’t, can’t...”

“Not by running,” he said. Still the crazy pattern, fitting. ... He said, “You can’t run from them. That’s what they like, isn’t it ? For you to try to run. You were running last night...”

“No...”

“Anne,” he said. “I’ve got to meet them.”

“No!” She choked on the word that time, made a noise like a bad gearchange. Puffed at the cigarette, hand shaking. “It’ll be Paul,” she said. “Next time, it’ll be Paul...Last night was only Albert, he has the sort of ... Gothic sense....”

“What does Paul do?”

Shuddering. “He makes ... things....”

“Were they why you were running?”

She nodded mutely. Cat had got her tongue.

“They can’t hurt you.”

The nodding again, furiously.

“What can they do to you ?”

“Things,” she said. “Things . . .”

Don’t let the rage start, not again. A man in a rage can’t think. And you need to think, by God how you need to think.... Two names, he told himself. Paul, Albert. He nearly knew what he was fighting. “Anne,” he said. “Can you shut them out?”

“S-sometimes. ...”

“Tonight’s a special time,” he said. “Please, Anne, be ordinary. I want to take you out, I’ve got a lot of talking to do....” This was the only way, soon he could draw them into the open. Then he would ... see what he had to do. He said, “It’s about this pub....”

“Pub....”

“Down in the West Country,” he said. “Long way off from here.”

Crazy how a problem can drag on for years then unsnarl itself in an instant of time. He’d said to himself once, I find an answer to Warwell I find an answer to everything else. He’d been right. He asked himself, what if my father didn’t hate at all? Then all the long years would be an act of faith, a blessing, not a curse. “To thine own self be true....” Aloud he said, “Anne, if you’re the ... person I think you are, you’ll understand this. There was an old man once, wanted his son in business with him. Wanted to put ‘and Son’ over the gate, was all. I said something that ... cut him apart. Afterwards, the money, I ... didn’t understand. I’d turned into a smart little Townie, I didn’t understand. ...”

“I never stood up to anything,” he said. “Not till today. Just ducked out and thought I was being smart. Dad knew that. Just wanted me to wake up, that was all....” A pause; then, “He’d have liked you,” he said. “Very much....”

“Jimmy, the pub...”

“Oh,” he said. “That.... It all worked itself out, sort of came clear. But you have to be married or they won’t give you a li...”

“What?”

“Married,” he said. “Oh, I am being patient. For a start I kept thinking it was crazy, love at first sight and all that mush, but it isn’t love of course, you live through that pretty early on. Need’s a different thing, rotten business, can’t do much about it. I’m sorry for your friends, they don’t stand much of a chance...”

“What?” she said, “What?” and he thought, Christ, it’ll be the shoe again, but that won’t be too bad this time because it’ll only be her rage driving it. “I can see you now,” he said. “Standing back of the bar cheeking the locals....”

“Jimmy....”

It sank in, second time. “Oh,” he said, “She knows the fellow’s name all along. Nice little espionage service they have down here, not bad for the sticks. Congratulations, my dear, now it’s a hard life but very rewarding...”

“What...”

“The pub, gosh, I shall have to spell it out for you. Up with the lark and all that and scrubbing the loos before you can have your supper, but it’s very rewarding, human contact you know, invaluable to the artist, write a book about it. Seven days a week, but you get the afternoons free and we’ll have a glass roof in the snug for the pigeons to land on...”

“Jimmy, please...”

“Geraniums,” he said. “Now my maternal G-Granny was a great one for geraniums, you keep the soil loosened round the roots or you have to be careful not to loosen the soil round the roots or something like that, but they’re great for outside the pub. Windowboxes, very fetching, snap up the tourist trade. And there’s Roley of course, did I tell you about Roley?”

“A...”

“Guy I used to work with,” he said. “Prix de Rome. We had a pact. First one to get a pub gives the other a month’s free beer. Now Roley can smell free beer from about a hundred and fifty miles, so that’ll be OK, but I can send him a letter poste restante just in case. You’ll like him, he’s great, he’ll turn up in something twenty feet long with rivets down the bonnet and the first thing he’ll do is ask you to go to bed with him, but not to worry, he says that to all the g...”

“You’re ... mad,” she said, struggling. He kissed her on the mouth; he nearly couldn’t help it, she was whipping her head about, turned straight into it. Then he couldn’t stop, he had to kiss her eyes, her hair ...

She lay still, like a toy with a busted spring. Eyes shut in pain, tears still squeezing out under the lids. The tears were salt, he could taste them. “Anne,” he said, “I know I’m mad. But not as mad ... as this town.” He lifted the hem of her skirt, gently. Her legs were straight and smooth and there was no mark, no sign of a graze. “They saved you from the car,” he said. “But they threw you too hard, they had to do it hard.....” He touched the bandage on her arm. He asked, “Did you have to keep wearing it? Was there somebody might have noticed?”

No answer.

“Why did they mend you?” he said. “Were you bothering them?” He shook her suddenly, trying to make her react. “Don’t you see I can’t stop now ... ?” He swallowed. “Anne, will you trust me?”

Again the silence. “I can’t leave you here,” he said. “For ... them to perform ... indignities ... on your body.” Then very quietly, “Do I make myself clear?”

She spoke bitterly, not opening her eyes. “Dignity, indignity. ... Do you understand about dignity, Jimmy? Do you think you do?”

He tidied her skirt. “Darling,” he said. “Last night they ... opened your grave, I don’t know how else to say it. I ... didn’t know about them, Anne. Like you said, I was lying. But I know this. For what they did ... I’ll choke them....”

Her voice sounded suddenly remote. “I had a twin sister,” she said. “The thing that killed her, they could cure it now.” She licked her mouth. “I guess,” she said, “I guess I shouted pretty loud. Afterwards ... I couldn’t get away. My parents don’t know where I am. I changed my name.”

“We’ll go see them,” he said. “Soon, now....”

She looked at him, finally. Deep tiredness in her eyes. She said “I’ll take that drink I missed out on. Were you very mad... ?”

He drove her home. A whole hundred yards.

* * * *

Five

They weren’t by the river. They weren’t out on the roads. They weren’t anywhere, no place he drove. Anne sat beside him tensed up and waiting, he hadn’t fooled her, she knew what he was doing. There was something in this town, something he loathed, and she was his key to it. He felt crazy, now. He’d driven up the hill that afternoon, come back down with a wife; it was a prodigy, against the natural ordering of things. He waited for other miracles. They didn’t come.

There was a temptation to run, just turn the nose of the car at the open road and shove the throttle. But it was no good; whatever this thing was, it was too big to hide from. He knew that instinctively. He looked across at Anne. How much did he know about her, truly? Everything, he told himself. Everything and nothing. She’d come to Warwell, settled in a shared room over a country pub, got herself a job as secretary to a firm that marketed radio spares. That was all she’d told him and he knew she’d say no more. She couldn’t, because she was involved more deeply than he. She was part of the thing that had hounded him.

She was sitting stiffly, hair blowing out. She was wearing a sweet summer dress. She held the bandaged arm blatantly somehow, like a badge. They had done that to her, and worse. Run her wet, ridden her like a horse. Jimmy gripped the wheel, tried to squeeze the impression of his hate into metal.

They were waiting at the Dog and Badger.

He saw the lights of the pub showing ahead against the evening blue of the sky, felt Anne tense as soon as the place came in sight. A car was parked in the little pull-in; he drove alongside, sat and looked it over. Jaguar, XK150. Saloon, black. He remembered the howl of an engine the night before. And the car that had wound up passing the George. The big car. XK? Could be....

He set the brake, turned his engine off, walked to the passenger door. Anne got out, stood pressing herself against him and vibrating. He didn’t need to ask. They were inside.

He walked towards the saloon door, stopped. Said quietly, “All of them?”

“No....” Shivering. “Two. ..”

He smiled. “Let’s go in then. We came for a drink, remember ?”

“Jimmy, listen....”

“It’s OK, Anne,” he said. His fingers found her damp ones, curled round them. “It’s OK....”

“The Little One,” she said. “Mind the Little One, she throws things...”

“Interesting. Got a temper on her, has she?”

“No!” Violently. “No, she throws things....”

The bar was quiet, just like the night before. The sporting prints hung on the walls, the counter glassware shone. He stopped just inside the door, and stared. They stared back. The two of them. She was small and cute. Little skirt pulled far too high, curly short hair, eyes of baby blue. Red horseshoe of mouth, smiling. He was dark, hair black and wavy, oiled till it glinted. Wide-set strange eyes, flat, hot-brown. No expression there at all.

Anne walked in behind Strong, hesitated. A pause; then the Little One lifted her arm. Snapped her fingers.

The girl moved past Jimmy like a sleepwalker. Stopped beside them, stood and turned. The three faces watched and somehow they were the same. God, they were the same....

He got her wrist roughly, pulled. Anything to break that trilogy.... She came to him and he could hear her panting in the quiet room. He rang the bar bell for service, someone came. He didn’t see who. He opened his mouth, but it was the Little One who spoke. “A large beer,” she said sweetly. “And a Scotch. Double. The one the lady didn’t have last night.”

He paid for the drinks. He couldn’t take his eyes off them. “Anne,” he said. “Who are your friends?”

“Hazel...” She was swaying, he was scared she was going to fall. “Hazel, Johnny....”

“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding. “Hazel, Johnny....” He made himself look back to her. “Drink your drink, poppet. Then go sit in the car. My car....”

She didn’t move.

There was danger here, he could feel it shift and coil and raise his back hair. He could fight what he could see, but he wanted her out again first. “Anne,” he said sharply. “Do as you’re told....” She picked the glass up, lips pale. Swallowed jerkily, coughed, touched her mouth, looked at him in pain, walked out. He heard the door close behind her then the click of the latch on the Triumph. His ears seemed preternaturally sharp. He took a breath. “Hazel,” he said quietly. “It’s rude to snap fingers. Nobody ever told you ?

No answer. Just the staring, innocent and intense. And the smile curving, curving, it would touch her ears. The cat was looking at the cream....

He drank his beer, eyes watching over the rim of the tankard. What would they do, pull a knife, a gun ...? Nothing, you fool, nothing like that. Nothing you could understand.... He finished the pint, walked forward, stepping carefully on his toes. His body felt light, balanced. He leaned on the table in front of them, resting his knuckles. And still there was the smile, same smile now on two heads. The rage was back, furring his throat; he made himself be calm. “We came in,” he said. “We had our drinks, nobody stopped us. Nobody did a thing. Now we’re leaving. Anybody going to object?”

Silence. The smiling silence.

“Don’t click fingers,” he said. “Not at Anne. I don’t like it.” He picked the Little One’s hand up from where it lay on bright Formica. Was an ordinary little hand, nails bitten down. He twined his fingers and twisted, slowly closed his grip. He’d always had powerful wrists. Hazel rose slightly in the chair, arcing her body, smiling still. “Do you want to be broken?” he said. “Or you Johnny, do you want to be pulled apart? No? Then get off my back. Get right, right off. As of now....” He stepped away, sidled to the door. “That was a promise,” he said. “Not a threat. I don’t threaten.” He closed the door on the smiles. Got into the TR4 and found he was shaking. He reached across, took Anne’s wrist, pressed. “It was all right,” he said. “Don’t worry, it was all right....”

* * * *

It was late that night before he dropped the girl at her lodgings. He drove back down to Warwell feeling better than he had in weeks, stopped in the carpark in the middle of town. It was past midnight, the yard gates at the George would be shut; he’d been with his Anne a long time, talking and dreaming and watching the moon. He got out of the car. He’d leave her where she was, she’d come to no harm. He pulled the cover across the cockpit, clicked the studs in place, fastened the zip. Then he straightened up, looked round. The town was utterly quiet; the moon was still high, riding a clear sky. The central area of the carpark was brightly lit, round it the pointed shadows of buildings were inky black. He started to walk across the open space, heading for the gates.

He stopped. The noise.... It had sounded loud in the silence. A shuffling, scraping. Not a footstep. He looked behind him and to each side. Nothing. He felt the hair prickle again on his neck. Wished he’d brought his car torch with him, but it was back at the George. The sound came again.

Very deliberately, he took his handkerchief from his pocket. He wound it into a ball, gripped it in his fist. In the mob the boys had used pullthrough weights, but the hankie would have to serve. He pushed pennies between the knuckles, wadding them against the cloth. He looked round him again, slowly.... And there was the noise, in front and to his right.

He turned back and stared. About twenty yards away, lying in the moonlight, was a plank. Three or four feet long, six inches broad by a couple thick. A moment before, it hadn’t been there.

He extended one foot carefully. Felt the toes touch the ground, took a step. As he moved so did the plank. It rose on end, hung swaying slightly. It was between him and the gate.

“Uh-huh,” said Strong. “Yeah....” And started to walk.

A long time back when he was a tiny kid there was a dog he had to pass on the way from school. He remembered now how he’d edge by the place where the thing lived, walking on the opposite side of the road. Sometimes the dog would come, with a pattering rush. Sometimes not. But always as he walked he could sense without looking the open garden gate. Feel the presence of it like a hot breeze against the skin. The sensation was there now. He kept his eyes ahead, stepped past where the plank hung and rocked in moonlight.

He felt it move. Saw the quick flash of it from the tail of his eye, ducked. The wind from it lifted his hair. It spun back; he jinked, started to run. Wasn’t quick enough. The end of the wood thudded into his chest, it felt like the blow had stopped his heart.

The Little One.... The Little One throws things....

He doubled again knowing he couldn’t win. Couldn’t fight ... this. A blow across the back fetched him to his knees. It came again, over the base of the spine. And again, bang, into his ribs.

Bang....

Bang, bang....

His breath was sobbing. There was a huge sickness, there were stars, flashings, Anne, please.... Car was close now, he was fumbling at the cockpit cover. Something sailed past. A clang on metal; he grabbed, there was a wrenching, his palm tore agonizingly. He was in the car fighting with the ignition, key wouldn’t fit, wouldn’t turn, wrong key. ... He saw the missile swooping end-on, jerked his head back behind the screen, flung his hands up ... the last blow blotted out the carpark and the moon.

* * * *

A paleness, filtering between his eyelids. He opened them fractionally, felt how his brain, photo-sensitive, reacted to light with pain. He lay still while the throbbing eased. Then he sat up. The pain came back, exploding downward into his body. Ribs, hips.... He groaned, put a hand to his face. A scraping, and more pain. He saw dimly the flesh on the palm was ragged, splinters were showing. He shut his eyes again, squeezed, opened them, waited while gliding images fused. The roofs of buildings showed in dawn light, the tall hogs-back of the cinema. White ice glitter in front of him was the broken edge of the windshield, glass was strewn across the bonnet of the car, in her cockpit. He swore uselessly and looked round. No sign of the plank.

His jaw felt nearly broken. He fumbled with the rear view mirror, turned it till he could see. Cheek and chin were grazed; the plank would have smashed his face, it had missed when he jerked his head. Blood had run down his neck in an untidy stripe, spread a brown finger-shaped stain into the collar of his shirt. He put his head in his hands, sat still awhile. Felt a little steadier, groped for his cigarettes.

The man was standing beside him before he realized. He felt the aura, half turned, saw the dark blue of the uniform, froze, still holding the match. He tried to speak. His mouth felt like it was full of felt. “I...” he said. “I ... a stone. Afterwards ... didn’t feel so good....”

“I see, sir....” The policeman had his thumbs hooked in his pocket flaps, he was rocking gently on his heels. “This your car, sir?”

“I ... yes....”

“Made a bit of a mess of it haven’t you? Got your licence with you by any chance?”

He stared up, trapped, and saw the eyes. Long somehow, like the eyes of a cat. Almond-shaped and hazel. His throat worked as he swallowed. The eyes, and the face.... He’d seen the face before. Three times. He licked his mouth. “I’ll ... go,” he said. “Go. I ... had enough, officer. Don’t want any more....”

He’d done the right thing. The man stepped away, strange eyes dancing. “Yes, sir, I should if I were you. I’m just walking round the block now. When I get back ... don’t be here, will you ?” He turned on his heel and moved off.

The cigarette smoke tasted bitter. Jimmy threw the cigarette away, switched on the ignition. His hand shook when he touched the key. He revved the engine, brushed remnants of glass from the windscreen edge, drove out of the park. His mind was blank.

The town was still sleeping and quiet. He turned left at the traffic lights, crossed the Starr. Saw the fairground way off, rides jacketed with green tarpaulins. He reached the dual carriageway and opened up a little, heading for Midhampton ten miles away.

The airblast from the broken screen cleared his head; when he reached the town he could think again. He found a carpark with toilets open, washed his face, picked the worst of the splinters from his hand. There was a sweater in the car, he put it on. It had a polo neck that hid the marks on his shirt. He went back to the washroom mirror. His face was pale and the grazes showed brightly, but it was the best he could do. He went looking for a garage.

He’d been anticipating trouble of some sort, he was carrying fifty quid in his wallet for emergencies. He found a Standard-Triumph agency, hung round till they opened, told them a tale and left them working on the TR4. He got himself breakfast; he didn’t feel like food, but he thought he ought to eat. They had trouble locating a spare screen, it was mid-afternoon before they were through. He filled his tank, paid them and took the car out on to the road. Turned the bonnet north for Warwell.

It was like the dream repeating again. Same lane, winding between tall hedges; the same girl moving along it. She was walking listlessly, head down, jacket over her shoulder and handbag swinging. He’d pulled the car out of sight in a gateway, she was abreast of it before she saw him. She stopped and put a hand to her throat. Her mouth opened and shut but right then she was bad at making noises.

“Yeah,” he said. “And on the third day, he rose again. Only I couldn’t wait. Sorry, Anne....”

She tried to run then, but he was too quick, he’d been expecting that. He caught her wrist, spun; she thumped on the grass bank, her hair flew across her face. “You know,” he said, “I must like this sort of life. Great when the pain goes off....”

She was wriggling. “Please, Jimmy ... hurting ...”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know....”

“They let you ... let you g-get away....”

“But now they want me. They know, don’t they, they know I’m back, you just told them....”

“Jimmy....”

“Didn’t you?” He was bending her wrist. “Didn’t you tell them, Anne?”

“Hurting,” she said “Please.... Hurting, please....” She was trying to squirm round her arm.

“I’ll break it...”

“I can’t stop them....” She was nearly screaming. “They’re ... inside, all the time ... they ... make me walk, talk, do ... things ... can’t ... hold them out, I can’t....”

“Who are they:...”

She started to whimper.

“It’s OK,” he said. “Anne don’t, it’s OK, please don’t, it’s OK....” He let her go and she rolled away from him, lay curled up with her shoulders working. “They ... want you,” she said. “I’ve got to tell you.”

He lifted her, gently. “Anne,” he said. “Who are they?”

She hung her head and panted. “They’re ... everybody. Paul, and John T-Taverner from the Bull ... And David, Johnny, the Round Table ... Hazel, Maureen, they’re in the Inner Wheel...” She looked up, eyes tear-bright. “You were best with the women,” she said. “You knew about them all the time....”

He stayed quiet, letting the words sink in. The imagery of the dreams, the thing his brain had tried to tell him. Phrases heard or seen, cast back as monstrous parables.... He swore, very softly. “God,” he said. “Isn’t there a thing in this town that’s clean ... ?” Then he picked her up the rest of the way and started leading her towards the car. “Anne, I think you’d better tell me now. Everything you know....”

* * * *

Six

The house looked upstream from the tip of a little wooded island; he’d seen it many times on evening walks, a bone face peering along the Starr. The sun was setting now in a blaze of orange, sheets of colour flooding across the river. The house was silhouetted; lights burned in some of the windows, they shone pale against the glow. On the far bank the steam fair rumbled, organ sounds drifted across the river and the scents of electricity and crushed grass. A metalled drive wound to the bank. There was an open space, cars were parked. Among them a black XK.

There was a spidery bridge. He walked across it holding Anne by the wrist. Their footsteps sounded loud in the quiet. The door of the house was unlatched; the girl opened it and stepped inside. He followed her into a cool hall. White and blue tiles covered the floor, there was a carved Swiss umbrella stand, a bowl of flowers. A faint lavender scent pervaded the place.

He felt hollow now, somewhere inside him anger and fear were mixed. He climbed a stairway; a stag’s head watched down mournfully from the landing. Anne stopped outside a door. From inside Strong heard a hum of voices; and there was something else, a tenseness, a strangeness that touched him like a warm breeze prickling his scalp. The questing power of their minds....

The girl was swallowing, twisting her hands. He squeezed her elbow and opened the door. She walked through and he followed her, stood while the door closed itself behind him. He saw a white room, tall windows burning with the sunset light. Grouped chairs, a polished table. Faces watched him; and there was quiet.

These were no Rotarians. He saw Johnny at the back there and the Little One, next to them a man who’d served him petrol at the Central. The landlord of the Bull, the policeman who had checked him that morning. A porter, a little old lady; a girl with good legs and burning-red hair....

He knew them all from what she’d told him. In the timeless time while he stared and they watched back he heard her voice again, hurt and stumbling, as she sat in the car.

“Paul’s the ... leader, if there is a leader. Paul owns the house, the big house on the island. It’s Paul that makes the ... the things, the things that run. ...”

“It’s all right,” he had said. “Go on.”

“He’s an ... accountant, he’s quite well off. They’re all ... different, they all do different things. Don’s a policeman and there’s Albert, he’s Albrecht really, he’s half German, he works in a b-bank, he’s the one who can make things ... rot, die, he makes the dreams.... And Gerry sends them, Gerry and Maureen. Gerry’s an electrician, Maureen works in the t-telephone exchange....”

“Then you’re all telepaths,” he said.

“We’re all ... different.” She was still crying, not wiping at the tears. They fell steadily, splashing her wrists, running down her throat. Somehow it was like watching somebody bleed. “Different?” he said.

“Yes.... The Little One, Hazel, she’s the ... hands....”

“She hates me.”

“No....”

“Tried to kill me. She wants me dead....”

“No,” she said. “She ... doesn’t care what happens to you, Jimmy. As long as it’s funny....”

“Johnny runs a television shop, he helps her....” She started to pant again. “Jimmy, I was ... seeing for them. In the carpark. I couldn’t help it, they’d got hold of me, all of them...”

“In the carpark,” he said. “It’s all right now, stop....”

“I’m their ... eyes,” she said. “Oh, can’t you see how useless it is Jimmy, they won’t let me go. They can’t....”

“Softly,” he said. “Anne, how did they all come here? How could it have happened?”

“I ... don’t know. I know about you and me, but the others.... It’s a sort of drift, one comes and another and ... we can just tell....”

“You thought I was one, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “No...oh, I don’t know . .. Paul said to ... give you things, anything. Make you happy. Afterwards, when we couldn’t ... speak to you. He said it was best. But it didn’t work....”

“Paul’s a smart cookie,” he said. “Give a man everything, that’s the way to stop him thinking. It rots him ... I’m just too crossgrained, old Roley would have been the same. Still a few of us about.”

“It knew you knew about it,” she said. “It was watching you, all the time....”

“It?”

“There aren’t any words,” she said desperately. “Not to ... say what it’s like. It, us, the whole thing....”

“The Gestalt,” he said. “The Wheel. I was dreaming about a Wheel.”

“Yes....” Biting her lip, hands fluttering. “Like a ... person, eyes and brain and ... legs and arms, the whole lot sort of adding up like an Indian statue.... You could feel it, Jimmy, I knew you could, I knew it wouldn’t work when they tried to ... make you like everybody else, I t-tried to say ... Jimmy that’s what’s so important, it’s like ... well an animal somehow, I mean it isn’t people, not just us....”

“I know,” he said softly. “It’s all right Anne, don’t cry any more. I know. It’s the Wheel....”

He walked forward across the carpet. It seemed it was time for an extravagant gesture, something crazy. This was a thing you read about, laughed over, a thing that could never happen. It was the impossible, walking and talking. It had happened, here.

He smiled and clicked his heels, bowed stiffly from the waist. He said “Homo Superior, I presume....”

The river glided, the sky turned from orange to summer night blue. Bats moved over the island, a heron came in to land, stood for a while by the bank like an old stone imitation of a bird. Jimmy Strong talked. He described his life, and the chain of events that had brought him to Warwell. They listened, and watched. They fetched him whisky, a bottle of smooth Glen Grant, and a glass, and everything was very civilized. “Go on,” said the man called Paul time and again. “Go on....”

Paul. Lined pink tortoise-face below wavy silver hair, well-cut suit in a brown pinstripe. Paul had dignity. When Jimmy finally ended he leaned back and pulled at his chin, nodding. “I see,” he said. “Yes, I see....”

A long wait. Then the accountant started to speak again, musingly. “There have been others like you,” he said. “Sometimes I think our ... skills are latent in every thinking brain.” He smiled thinly, not in humour. “A few have managed to integrate themselves with us. As you can see. The rest.... We have managed to make them content.”

“Great,” said Strong brutally. “Keep a man on the nest till his knees start to bend, feed him beer till it comes out of his ears.... I just love,” he said, “your public spirit....”

From somewhere, a giggle.

Jimmy felt the quick choking rise of rage, kept his eyes from the corner where the Little One sat watching him blue and rapturous. Fought the impulse he had to take her by the throat and squeeze and watch the eyes change at last with the knowledge of death.

Paul shook his head. “No,” he said carefully. “That has not been our way. It mustn’t be yours.” On the table in front of him was a bone paperknife; he picked it up and toyed with it, turning it in his fingers. “Mr. Strong,” he said, “you will not be appeased. Yet you are not one of us. What are we to do with you?”

Jimmy looked across to where Anne was sitting mute, hands gripped between her knees and eyes on the carpet. He said coldly, “You’ll do nothing with me. You have nothing to do with me.” He reached his proposition. “Miss Nielson. She’s had enough. I want to buy her out.”

A silence that deepened. Then, “I see,” said Paul again blandly. He steepled his finger and peered at Jimmy. There was no reading his eyes. “Mr. Strong, your ... manner has at least the virtue of honesty. I must try to match your forthrightness.” For an instant his tongue touched and moistened his lips. “How much is she worth to you?”

Useless to barter. Jimmy knew in this room his brain was clear glass; the answer that had formed there had already been read. He listened to his own voice speaking steadily. It said, “All I’ve got.”

Still the charade. “How much is that?”

Sharp intake of breath from Anne. Jimmy swallowed. “Eleven thousand,” he said. “And the car. Call it eleven five.” He asked himself, Pop, have I done it right? Is this a good way to spend your life? The quietness inside him was its own answer. The words were out now, and he still didn’t care....

The snigger came again. Paul glanced behind him and the noise stopped. He turned back to Jimmy. He said vaguely, “How payable?”

“Any charity you care to name. Come gentlemen, you own the bloody town. These things can be arranged....”

“Eleven thousand pounds,” said Paul. His eyes focused, he shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She belongs with us.”

“But she hates your guts....”

“An over-dramatization, I think,” said the accountant mildly. “Anne?”

No answer.

“Anne!”

She jumped like she’d been stung. “Paul I... yes....”

Jimmy was on his feet and glaring. “Whatever you did,” he said gently, “Don’t do it again. . . .”

Silence.

Anne said miserably “I can’t be b-bargained for Jimmy. I’m not a horse.”

“What were you doing to her?” asked Strong. “The night I nearly killed her?” The Little One spoke up chirpily. “We wanted to do a little job,” she said. “Johnny and me. But she was naughty....”

The rage in Jimmy was misting his sight. “So you sicked Big Brother on her,” he said. “Because she wouldn’t help you stir dirt.” He rounded on Paul. “Call that belonging?”

“Mr. Strong....”

“Paul,” he said. “You’re an intelligent man. So ask yourself, to keep an ... organism alive, does a grown man have to crawl? To that. . .?” He pointed. His voice rose, riding the other down. “There’s something you haven’t realized,” he said. “Any of you. Something I’ll tell you right now. You’re sick, you know that ?” He stared round the circle of faces. “The brain is sick. Sick with this ... rubbish jolting into it. You’re divided against yourselves. And you know what that means to a mind? They call it schizophrenia. Yeah, that’s what you’ve got. The first Gestalt brain in the history of the world is going round the bloody twist...”

Surging. The rage, the roar of the Wheel, threats, of oldness and death and things worse. He closed his eyes, rocked. Anne had her face in her hands. “That’s enough,” said Paul sharply. “All of you, that’s enough....”

Silence, through all dimensions.

The older man got up and walked round to Jimmy. Put a hand on his shoulder, steered him away from the table and across the room. “Listen,” he said, “and try to understand. In what we do, we have no choice. Mr. Strong, if I laid a pocket knife on the table there and put eleven thousand pounds in your hand, would you allow me to pick out your eyes?”

Jimmy was silent.

“We have done nothing wrong,” said the accountant. “Understand that. We do nothing but exist. Now think what that means. Try to imagine yourself the only one of your species. Perhaps there has never been another unit like ours, or ever will be again. Mr. Strong, we did not ask to be born. Yet we ... came into being, in an environment that was never meant for us. A hostile world.”

“Don’t chop logic,” said Jimmy viciously. “You own this town. You drive it, you shape it...”

Paul shook his head, and he was sweating. “We own nothing. We ... direct certain aspects of life in Warwell. We have to. And believe me, for us it is very simple. We could do much more. Warwell is our ... home, our shell if you can think of it in that way. And I swear to you, nothing but good has come from that domination....”

Jimmy was staring out the window, seeing and not seeing the distant lights of the fair. The noise of the rides reached the house thinly. He said tonelessly “There’s blood on your hands.”

“No, Mr. Strong. Not yet...”

He brushed the man’s arm away, turned to stare into the faded blue eyes. “Paul,” he said. “This I believe. You’re a good man. Or maybe you were once before this ... thing got hold of you. I’m sorry for you, because you’re in deadly trouble.” He raised his voice to include the others in the room. “Give in,” he said. “Get to a ... hospital, somewhere they could understand you, help you. You’re needed; there’s no power like yours in the world.”

He read their answer in the silence.

“OK,” he said. “Now I’ll tell you this. I don’t hate easily; but I hate for a long, long time. And I’m defying you. Get off my back. Go to Hell where you belong, get out of my way...” He shoved past Paul, went to Anne. Said simply, “You coming?”

She lifted a ravaged face. Shook her head wordlessly.

“Uh-huh,” said Strong. “OK....” He walked across the room, opened the door, looked back at Paul. “You know what you’re doing,” he said. “I don’t have to spell it out for you. And I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m taking that girl out of this. I don’t know how. I don’t care. But I’m taking her if I have to break all these bastards down one by one. You’re not a corrupt man,” he said. “Not yet. But you will be. Because evil is a stain that spreads.” He turned away. “I’ll talk to you when you’ve cleaned your house....”

The doorhandle was snatched out of his hand. The door smashed shut; he pulled at it briefly and knew no force he could raise would open it.

Across the room, Paul’s face looked grey. Behind him the Little One smiled a blue china smile. Anne had turned away, she was covering her face again. Suddenly his body needed her, but he couldn’t move. A barrier seemed to have built itself in front of him; he could feel the heat and nearness of it, though there was nothing he could see.

Paul walked back to the table, stood leaning on his knuckles. “I don’t think you fully understand your position,” he said. His voice shook slightly; he moistened his lips again with the tip of his tongue. “As I said, we exist; and Warwell is the ... fortress we have built for ourselves. What our true function may be we don’t know. Perhaps we are a random particle in a random universe, and have no purpose. But we wait, and we hope. Sometimes, we pray.

“Mr. Strong, we are a living organism. Like any other breathing creature we defend ourselves if attacked. We fear mutilation, we fear death. You must not threaten us....

“There is no blood on our hands. Your somewhat theatrical phrase can have no meaning for us. We are neither good nor evil. We exist, we endure. If you force us, we shall kill....”

Silence in the room, total and absolute. The light, the bright threat spreading from face to face now the thing was finally said. In the quiet, a ride at the fairground hooted. Whup ... whup-whup-whup....

“You cannot fight us,” said the accountant. “We could break your bones where you stand, we could burst your heart. You cannot warn others of our existence; to try would be to fail, and we should know.” He looked back towards the window. His lips were set; he was the judge pronouncing sentence. “You must not stay,” he said finally. “You have till the fair leaves at the end of the week. You will not be molested. Should you remain beyond that time you will be destroyed.”

Jimmy tried to make his brain work. “Anne,” he said. “Anne. . . .”

She quivered but she wouldn’t look at him.

“No,” said Paul. “No more. Leave now, please. I’m sorry....”

The door opened for him. He stepped through and down the darkened stairs. He carried with him one last impression. A pair of bright blue eyes, the smiling red horseshoe of a mouth.

* * * *

Seven

Strong wiped his face, felt the sweat on his forehead mingle with the rain. Looked up at the blind grey sky. He was unshaven, eyes dark rimmed from lack of sleep. The drizzle soaked the shoulders of his mac, ran down inside the collar. He didn’t notice it.

Round him were the massive rides of the fair. Water beaded painted woods, spread dark fingers across tight-stretched sheets of tarpaulin. He reached the Switchback, leaned his hands on the curved wall of the machine. Above him, over the chin-high tarps, gargoyle faces peered. Golden cats and cockerels, motionless in the dead light, eyes bright and painted, blue like the eyes of china dolls. The rain made a faint hissing, nearly inaudible; and it was Saturday morning.

He hung his head. Paul, he thought for the thousandth time, Paul.... Can you ask a man to gouge his eyes out, cut off his hands ? Can you expect him to do it ... ? Now they’ll punish Anne, he thought. As they punished her before. ... They’ll hunt her again, send unspeakable things to hop across the fields, snuggle in her bed.... Paul doesn’t understand, he thought. Paul’s detached, remote. And then, Paul does understand. But how can you ask a man to cut off his hands....

Saturday morning. He groaned, hanging his head, wanting Anne, the warmth of her, her young-old face. His time was nearly out. At midnight, with the chiming of the church clock, the fair lights would snap off, the rides run down in darkness. Then they would come for him. Not Paul; but Johnny and the Little One, they’d come. And afterwards, they’d make his Anne dance to a tune. Afterwards? No, before. They’d start tonight, they’d show him what they could do.

He saw Paul’s face again in his mind, old tortoise eyes wary, mouth pursed saying no, no.... The Gestalt was not evil, but it was sick. Sick of a pair of china eyes, a horseshoe smile....

“Gestalt,” he said, and banged his fists on wood. “Gestalt, Gestalt....” His life was tied now to Anne, the brain was his enemy. Unbreakable, undefeatable. How to fight it.... For every perfection a fault, he told himself. For every strength, a weakness. Find the flaw. Use Gestalt against itself, somehow there’s a way. Kill the brain, poison it maybe. Poison it ? How, with what....

He lifted his head, wet hair dangling. Round the sides of the great ride, baroque cowboys galloped; under his hands, an Indian was plunging from his horse. The head was thrown back impossibly, a round hole in the forehead spewed a thin stream of blood. The face was contorted, mouth stretched with pain....

Jimmy’s eyes widened, slowly. He stood and stared a very long time, hands now slack at his sides. Then he turned and walked rapidly away, purposive now that he knew what he had to do.

* * * *

East Street, on a fine June night. The rain cleared away, the air warm. Turquoise streaks still showing in the western sky, silhouetting the church. Solitary balloon floating a quarter mile up, somebody stabbing at it with the silver finger of a searchlight. Shopfronts blazing in town, crowds jostling down and back from the river. Noise of the fair coming across the water, hootings and the music of the rides.

Strong pushed along crowded paths seeing the traffic, saloons balked and bad-tempered, open cars moving with their toploads of youngsters or cruising slow, hunting for pickups. Seeing the endless people, kids with faces candyfloss-sticky cradling coconuts and dolls, girls in blouses and skirts and tight jeans and summer frocks, faces laughing, kiss-me-quick hats perched on their heads and papier-mâché sombreros, the boyos with their plaid shirts and jeans, leather jackets, Norton and Matchless studded across the shoulders and crossed bones and skulls, the ton-up Joes....

Searching all the time, hunting till he saw her. Boyo on either side of her and she arm in arm, the pickups laughing and burly, sporting black cock-combs of hair, she in step, body wriggling and being a whore’s body, only the eyes desperate, bolting like the eyes of the hare.... She saw him and there was pain, but she couldn’t stop. She passed on down the street, throwing her head back, laughter peeling from her, heigh-ho come to the fair....

He huddled in the doorway of a shop, brain spinning. Watching the crowd that seemed now to surge forward and back dizzyingly, faces like foam flecks on a sea. They were close, he knew they were close. They were in her body controlling it, pulling the wires that made the marionette step and prance. The punishment, the fun, had started....

He saw them. Johnny cutting a dash in fawn tapered slacks, white shirt framing Gigolo-darkness. Turning and laughing now, showing his teeth and braying. The Little One in a froth of summer dress, hanging on his arm and smiling, always she must smile.... He stepped into the crush behind her praying she wouldn’t turn then knowing she wouldn’t turn. Knowing incredulously that she’d nearly forgotten him already. She doesn’t care what happens to you, Jimmy ... as long as it’s funny....

His hands made themselves into balls of bone. He said through his teeth, “It’ll be funny....”

The Green Dragon was nearly deserted, the serious drinking hadn’t started yet. The river terrace nestling by the bridge arch was empty. Water chuckled against stone piers, the noise of the fair came loud across the Starr. Jimmy edged forward, keeping to shadows. They were standing together by the steps down to the landing stage. She holding his arm and looking out across the river, smiling he knew, smiling....

He said quietly, “Johnny....”

He whirled, and Strong hit him. All the rage, all the hate exploding from a point and that point in his fist, at the end of an arm that swung, cracked....

Perfect timing. No sense of impact, but the body flung itself back, thudded against the bridge. Then the rock spun at Jimmy’s head, missed, half numbed his shoulder. Iron chair rose from the terrace and whirled at him, he knocked it aside and ducked knowing others would come and stones and bricks, converging on him as a centre. Watch the Little One, she throws things....

He reached her in two strides and she tried to bolt, but she wasn’t quick enough, it was one ... two ... for himself, for the beating, for Anne. Her body wrapped itself round the blows, “Ip,” she said, “Ip....” And he’d got Johnny’s arm, he was twisting it high behind his back, hauling him up by the wrist. “Where is she... ?” said Strong. “Where is she ... ?”

“Eeehh . . . Yeehh. ...”

“C’mon boy, where ... ?”

Raspberry dribble on the chin and spilling down the shirt, teeth bared, thin high noise coming between them. Strong twisted again and the Little One started to scream.

“Fair . . .” said Johnny. Gritted. “Fair. . . .”

“Where, in the fair ... ?”

“Bastard....”

Twist, and feel the bones flex.... “Where ...?”

“Gallopers.... The b-big ride....”

“Good boy, what’s she doing ... ?”

“With the ... boys...”

“What happens, Johnny? What happens now?”

“Fun....” He was wheezing. “Then afterwards ... the real fun....”

It was possible to see red, everything in bright flat sheets of colour. “Johnny,” said Strong, “You’re going to have a very bad night....” He heaved his victim at the flight of steps. And as he shoved, pulled ...

Sharp high cracking of bones and the body crashing, arm flying out loose. Then there were two of them down there both holding an arm, both rolling and shrieking. Gestalt...

Jimmy ran across the bridge, flung himself into the traffic. A skidding, close noise of a hooter.... He fended off a bonnet with his hands and there was a crash, a grinding. Good, he thought good, confuse the issue.... Then the fair was ahead, the brightness and noise. Floating haze of faces orange-lit, jostling and shoving, hands grabbing. Thunder from the Switchback and the Scenics, rich din of organs, smack and clang of shooting galleries, shrieks of Laughing Sailors. Somebody yelled at Jimmy, punched his back. He ducked, swerved, saw Anne. She was reeling, holding her arm. He reached her and clung. People were staring, he shoved his way through them. She was gritting her teeth and moaning. “Jimmy, what... what’d you d-do... ?”

“Broke all your good right arms,” he said. His breath was sobbing, the lights were spinning in front of his eyes. “I ... sorry,” she said. “Pass out....” He yelled at her, “You can’t....” Then, “Just a little way.... Just a little way Anne, come on....”

They were clear of the fair. He had the car parked close, he bundled her into it, started up, bucked his way across rough grass. Out back of the fair was a lane, he burst the paling by it and the hedge, wallowed, got away. Anne was clinging to the dash one-handed, the other arm lay in her lap uselessly. Halfway to Midhampton she was still whimpering. God, he thought, what range does this thing have.... He was in the outskirts of town and swinging round the first rotary when she sat up and yelped with relief. He shouted to her, “What happened ... ?”

“They put him out....” Her eyes were wide now, terrified. “Jimmy, they’ll take us. You can’t get away. . . .”

“Great,” he said. “Hold them out, Anne, you must...”

“Trying ...” She was rocking in the seat again, there was sweat on her face. “The car,” she said. “Don.... The police will stop the car, he’ll make them....”

“Damn the bloody car....” There was the main line station ahead, he swung across the forecourt, braked with a squeal, jumped the door.

“Jimmy...”

He slapped her bottom. “Move, Anne, run....”

“You can’t...”

He yelled at her. “I know. I can’t win. I can never bloody win, I’m used to it....” He grabbed her wrist. He was panting again. “Knew it would happen.... They’d send you to the fair....”

“How... ?”

“Heard them make their minds up,” he said. “It was starting, after all that. It was in me, it grows....”

“But you c-could ... be a part. Jimmy, you could...”

“Of that... ?” He bellowed at her. “That... ?”

She was shuddering. “You hurt the Little One. She’ll kill you....”

“Paul won’t let her. Anne, we’ve got to try....” Hammering on the ticket office window. “West Coast Pullman,” he said. “Got it all worked out. Ten minutes....” But this was British Railways, the train would be late. The trains were always late. It was part of a pattern of craziness.

Anne was stamping like a hound. “Hurry,” she said. “Please....”

“Been rung in,” he said. “Six minutes.... Anne, it’s OK, we’ll make our own Gestalt.” They’d told him platform ten; there was a tunnel, he took the steps at a run still holding her arm. The suitcases in his hand were bumping his knee, “Jimmy,” she said. “What...”

“What?”

“Cases....”

He gasped. “Luggage. For the hotel. Keep your hand in your pocket, you haven’t got a ring....”

“Jimmy....”

“No more. Hurry....”

Cool here, under the tracks. The tunnel stretching ahead, their footsteps clattering. Long lines of lamps glowing yellow, looms of dirty cable on the painted brick walls. She was running, trusting him, eyes screwed shut. They’d make it, they’d ma...

She wrenched away. He clutched at her, she swerved. Moving fast, throwing her legs out, running the way women don’t run. She passed the last flight of platform steps. He followed her but she was too quick. There was a barrier, waist high. He took it on the run and the top bar cocked up as he jumped, caught his foot, sent him smashing down, rolling over and over. Contact, he thought, contact. Anne....

The Little One raging, using Anne’s eyes at last, holding her body, making it run. He staggered up. He was in a loading area, dim-lit. Goods lifts to one side, piles of parcels. A flight of steps. He leaped up them into the open air.

A siding. Acres of rail, shining. Ahead he saw a white moth still running. He forced his legs to move again, heart hammering. Across the tracks skidding and slipping, barking his shins on steel.

Station buildings were behind him now, he could see the lit face of the clock tower. He staggered on again seeing signal eyes glaring miles off, reflecting green and red streaks down the rails. He glimpsed Anne again and the train, the lit numberplate on the loco sailing out of the night. He heard the noise of it, the long double scream of the horns, then it was passing, blowing him back from its hugeness. Thunder-rhythm of the waggons, wrench-bang wrench-bang wrench-bang wrench-bang loud then softer, the red lamp on the guards van receding, swaying away down the line...

“Anne!”

She was lying huddled, wind moving her dress.

“Anne!”

He reached her. Her arms.... Wrists clamped to the sleepers, a foot from the steel. The wrists had hands on them....

He took his jacket off, put it round her, lifted her inside it. She was shaking, she held her hands out in front of her. “That far,” she said. “That far. Not on the rails....”

“Anne....”

She looked at him. Tear marks showed on her face. “Jimmy,” she said. “They’ve gone ...”

He started to walk back down the tracks, holding her, not letting her stumble, feeling a wonder grow inside him. The Wheel, the thing that ran a town; somehow at last it had stemmed its own sickness. It was brooding now, thinking, searching for purpose and sanity. Some day, some place, he knew it would send for him again. He felt a huge thanksgiving and a hope in the presence of the Thing that for a need had blinded itself. No, it wasn’t human, not the Gestalt brain; for in the end, when it had found itself, it had chosen mercy....

When it called, he hoped he would be ready.

Sub-Lim

Look, Doc, don’t bother with intros there isn’t time. I’m Johnny Harper, I’m a guy who makes films, that’ll do. Doc, I’m in bad trouble. I got something stuck down inside my head and I got to get it out. Can you fix that for me, Doc? Have you got a machine can reach into a guy’s brain and find a thing that shouldn’t be there and snap it out by the roots, have you got a machine can do that...

I’m not crazy, Doc, honest to God I know what I’m saying, you’ve got to help. Look, I’ll give you the whole story from when it started then you’ll know I’m not crazy, you’ll know what to do....

Have you got a girl can take shorthand? Well, get this down yourself then. Don’t argue, man, get a pad or something and get this down, it’s the most important thing you ever heard. Get a name first. Freddy Keeler. Take that down right now, he’s the guy that matters. It all started with Freddy, blast his Goddam soul...

He’s studio projectionist, shows all the rushes. Well, that’s part of his job, the rest’s secret. I’m telling you about it so you’ll know what to do with Freddy—

What? What studio? Oh God—No, Doc, I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t say. Hill Studio, the people who make the Little Andy films. You know Little Andy, everybody knows Little Andy ... you don’t see television? Then I’ll tell you, you’re the luckiest guy alive.

Doc, Hill Studio’s the biggest thing in the business. Six months ago we were broke. Bust, flat, finished. We’d fired off all our staff, and all we had left were the two partners, J. B. March and Jeff Holroyd, and little Freddy and Connie the secretary, Connie the lion I called her. And me, stooging round with a director’s ticket and nothing to direct. Just five of us and the red light was burning for everybody and I was plenty worried, the state the trade was in ex-directors were going to be a drug on the market.

We’d started up along with ten hundred other little units about the time commercial television got going and we’d outlasted most of the rest. J.B. was smart, he saw to it right from the start we’d got more than one string to our bow, we did animated cartoon, we did stop-frame and special effects and we’d got a good name for live action. When the big slump happened we carried on making films for the Far East and Germany, then we began to feel the pinch and we had to start laying people off. A year ago we’d got fifty staff, then it came down to twenty, then ten, then like I said it was just a handful of us hanging on the best way we could. I knew the axe was going to swing again soon and Connie wasn’t taking enough out the firm to make it worth firing her, and, anyway, you got to keep a smart-looking popsy in the front office because the rest of the boys expect it, so I knew it was Freddy or me that had to go.

I went along to see J.B. I didn’t get on too good with Jeff, he was a sort of emotional type, always getting worked up, but I got on fine with J.B., you knew where you were with him. Arguing with him was like playing Russian Roulette with half the chambers loaded, but if you knew how to sort of smooth him along you were O.K. I went into his office, I said, “J.B. I’m worried about old Freddy. You know he’s a great guy, but I’m sort of worried about him.”

He looked at me like he’d heard it before, he said, “So you want him out, Johnny.”

I lit a cigarette. I said, “Projectionist’s not much good with no films to show.”

J.B. got nasty. “Director’s no better off with none to direct.” I could see this was one of his bad mornings, he’d been married a few years and there weren’t any kids, and some days his wife gave him Hell, you know how it goes, Doc. I said “I’ll put it to him nice, J.B. He won’t hardly feel a thing.”

He shrugged. “O.K., Johnny, but do it nice, you know? He’s a nice little guy, I like Freddy a lot.”

I said, “I promise you my face will be wet with tears.” I made for the door and J.B. called me back. He said, “Funny thing, Johnny, he draws pictures. You ever see one of his pictures ?”

I didn’t get it. “So what, what’s that, J.B.?”

He said, “Get him to draw you one. Did one for me, they’re pretty good. I was thinking we could use them but ... that’s the way it goes.”

The idea struck me funny. “What does he draw, Snow White and the Dwarfs, or is it grown-up stuff for the lavatory wall?”

He glared at me. “Just get him to draw. And don’t push too hard, Johnny, could be he’s more use than you.”

I got out.

After that I had to play it safe, so I ran Freddy down in the pub where he got his lunch. He was standing up at the bar when I went in, he was scoffing a sandwich and a pint of beer. He’s a little guy, Doc, sort of thin on top, fiftyish, wears hornrim glasses. He’s nothing to look at. I went up and clapped him on the back, I said, “Hello, Freddy, what’s new?”

He looked at me like he was going to choke. I reckon he knew why I was there. He said, “You want to see me, Mr. Harper?”

I whistled up a beer for myself and paid for another for him. I said, “I do, Freddy, I do. I want to sort of have a quick talk. Things aren’t too good, Freddy, but believe me they could be worse, they could be a lot worse.” I got hold of his arm and steered him to a table. God, I get tired of soft-talking punks like Freddy, when a guy’s through he’s through, that’s all he needs to know. But I did it slow, the J.B. way. I said, “The boss tells me you’re a bit of an artist, Freddy boy, I didn’t know.” I figured from that I could get round to the fact that he was soon going to need a spare profession.

He shook his head. He said no he wasn’t an artist, he couldn’t draw worth a damn. He just made images.

Doc, cinema operators are a funny lot. They stand all their lives watching films through a little square of glass, after a time it gets them so they’re no good for nothing else. They’re queer, Doc, they get things on the brain. All sorts of things. Freddy had spent years watching Images flicker about and jump up and down, he’d got to think Images all day and all night long...

No don’t get me wrong, Doc, not pictures, Images. That was how he explained it to me, he said a film director, say Hitchcock, anybody you want to name, is always worrying consciously or subconsciously about Images, trying to get some shape on the screen that’ll help the actors along, make you feel what’s going on. He said that was what a good film was, not a lot of shots of actors and such, but a set of Images that made you feel what you were supposed to. He said it was done with the picture composition and the lighting and everything. And he said, for instance, if you saw every thriller ever made and studied them all over and over you could work out a shape from all the Images all the directors had ever used, and the shape would sort of represent fear, all on its own. He said if you drew it and showed it to a guy he’d get scared to death and he wouldn’t know why. He said if the Image was right it would sort of lock onto his mind and make him feel whatever it meant. He said it was possible to make an Image for every emotion, every one in the book, once you’d got the hang of drawing them.

You know I thought that was pretty smart. Coming from a guy like Freddy it was a pretty smart idea. It was crazy, but it got me interested. It even took my mind off why I was there. I said, “Freddy, I can see you’ve been doing some solid thinking.” I grinned. I said, “Just for kicks, can you draw these Images yourself, or is it still in the theory stage?”

He sort of stared at me. He said, “Oh no, Mr. Harper, I can draw them all right. It took me years to find them all out, but I can draw them now. Any sort of Image you want.”

That wasn’t what I’d expected. I stopped laughing and wondered just how nutty he was, anyway. I said, “Er ... yeah. Look these Images, Freddy, they take long to do?”

He shook his head. “It’s dead quick. Easy when you know how.”

I said, “O.K., Freddy, I’ll try you out. You make me one of them. Let’s have that fear thing to start with, you scare me to death.”

He got a pen out of his pocket and smoothed a paper napkin. He started to draw. The ink ran in blots, when he’d finished it just looked a mess. I said, “Sorry, Freddy, I must be thick-skinned. Doesn’t do a thing for me.”

He was very eager. “Give it a chance, Mr. Harper, sometimes they have to sort of grow on you. You keep looking at it, you’ll feel what it means. Honest, Mr. Harper.”

Well, what the Hell, I was humouring the guy, wasn’t I ? I picked the thing up and leaned back in my chair and held it up in front of my face. I stared at it for maybe five seconds and then-

I was on my feet and the napkin was screwed up and thrown in an ashtray, and I couldn’t remember doing it. I was trembling. I said, “Christ in Heaven ...” Then things came back into focus a bit and I saw a couple of guys staring at me and I sat down again, but I was still feeling pretty bad. I said, “O.K., Freddy, what’s the gag?”

He looked worried. He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Harper, I really am... it gets you, don’t it? I can’t see ‘em myself, they won’t work for me, but I know what they do, I should have told you.”

I lit a cigarette. I felt I needed it. I said, “I asked you, what’s the gag?”

“No gag, sir, honest. It’s the drawing. It’s a sort of trick.”

I shook my head. “You’re a liar. That’s crazy.”

He reached for the napkin. “Honest, Mr. Harper, it’s in the d—”

I knocked his hand away. I didn’t want that napkin unrolled again. I said, “All right, Freddy, so I buy it. Can you do it every time?”

He sort of smirked. Like a guy who’s spent twenty years on some damn fool model boat, showing it off and getting praised. He said, “Every time, Mr. Harper. You say what you want, I’ll make you an Image.”

I said, “Happiness, Freddy. Can you make an Image can make me laugh?”

He picked the pen up again and started to draw, and the result of that was on the way back to the studio I had to stop every twenty yards or so and wipe my eyes. People must have thought I was crazy.

In the end, of course, I didn’t fire him, I wish to God I had....

* * * *

I sat in my office all the rest of that day smoking and thinking about what I’d seen. I knew I was on to the biggest thing in showbiz, but I couldn’t see a way to use it. You couldn’t make a film just of Images, nobody would watch it. And even if they did, if they got what I’d got they wouldn’t be back for any more. Freddy’s gimmick was the smartest thing I’d seen, but it didn’t help Hill Studios out of the mire one little bit.

You know how it is when you’ve got something in the back of your mind but it just won’t form out? I kept thinking there was some way we could use this crazy talent. I got high that night because I knew unless I came up with a dilly of an idea we wouldn’t last the month, and it didn’t seem I’d got an idea in my head. I got back to my flat about midnight, I lay on the divan and kicked my shoes off and put the light out, and in time the room stopped revolving and I dozed. Next thing I knew it was dawn and I was sitting up shouting Hallelujah. I’d solved it and there wasn’t much standing between me and my first million.

I got up and hunted out a drawing-board and some instruments. I was trained as a draughtsman once, Doc, I can set an idea down on paper so it’ll work. I made myself some coffee to clear my head, then I started to draw and by mid-morning I’d got all I wanted, I fetched the car and drove down to the studio like Hell.

I walked in on J.B., he was dictating to Connie. Jeff wasn’t around. I banged my stuff on the desk. I said, “J.B., this will not wait.”

He started to get wound up. “I’ve been waiting since nine this bloody morning, where the Hell you been—and get that crap off my desk and get out, I’m busy—”

I held the door open. I said, “Connie, suddenly you remembered you just had to powder your nose.” She looked at me like she’d get a kick out of putting arsenic in my soup, but she scrammed. J.B. got up. He was real mad. He said “By Christ, Johnny, but this has to be so very good.”

“It is good. Now look at these, J.B., and knock it off, I’ve just made us a million apiece...”

“What in Hell are they?”

I said, “Drawings for God’s sake, mods to a projector. Sub-lim—”

I guess he’d got a right to blow his top because up to that time sub-lim was a dirty joke. He yelled at me, “What we going to say then, you got it scripted? How about ‘buy our films’ or ‘best British studio’, that’s a good slogan, Johnny, that’s great. Now this is just about the craziest way you ever lost a job—”

I just yelled louder. Beat him down. “We don’t say anything for Chrissake, we use Freddy’s Images....”

He stopped dead with his mouth open and his finger still waving round at me. He said, “What? Johnny, what did you say?”

I said, “I looked at his stuff like you told me. It took an hour to get it out of my system. If I’m not careful I can still remember it.”

He said, “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He sat down and pulled one of the drawings across the desk. He said, “What’s this, Johnny?”

Do you know about sub-lim, Doc? There was a big row about it four, five years back. Somebody said it was unethical. That was a joke because it never worked, anyway, they didn’t use it right.

Look, I’d better tell you about this, you’ve got to get the picture. The ad boys worked it out that if you took a word, say a product name, and flashed it on a screen too fast for the eye to pick it up, the guy on the receiving end wouldn’t know he was being pressurized, but he’d get the message, anyway, sub-liminally. The idea was great, trouble was getting a thing on the screen and off again quick enough. They tried it, tried it on television. I know because I damn well saw it. Doc, film speed through a projector gate is twenty-four frames a second, twenty-five for television to help the scanning. And that isn’t fast enough. They’d overprinted single frames and you could read them as they went through, it wasn’t sub-lim at all.

My idea got round all that. What I’d designed was a second optical system with a film gate and all that we could strap alongside the projector mute head. I hadn’t sorted all the details, but I knew what I wanted and I knew it would work. There was a second intermittent movement geared to a stop-frame assembly, cans to hold a spare film roll... and behind the gate, try to see this, Doc, behind the gate a lamp housing with an electronic flash. You know you can get those things to fire down to thousandths of a second ? Using the rig we could pump in rogue pictures whenever we wanted and nobody would be any the wiser. And we didn’t have any junky product-names to play with, we had Freddy’s Images. I wish I could draw one for you. Doc, but Freddy’s the only guy can do that. I can’t even remember what they look like, all I know is if they say laugh you laugh, and if they say cry, by God you cry...

When I’d done, J.B. just sat and looked at the drawings. Then he said, “It’s great, Johnny. The greatest thing ever. For cinema. But television?”

I was prancing round the office, I couldn’t keep still. I said, “Why not the little screens, J.B., don’t electrons move fast enough no more ? Strap a unit on the telecine gear, rig a prism behind the lens, slam the Images straight through the camera...”

He licked his lips. “They wouldn’t touch it. They wouldn’t dare.”

I walked back to him and put the palms of my hands on the desk and stared him in the eyes. I said, “We make up a pilot. We get some of the boys down to see it. We run it with sub-lim. The Images tell ‘em they love it. They tell them how much to pay. How much do we want to make apiece, J.B., got any ideas?”

And that’s how Little Andy was born...

You don’t know who Little Andy is do you, Doc? Oh yeah, I forgot, you don’t see the Lantern. But, Doc, if you did, it wouldn’t make no difference. Nobody knows who Little Andy is, Doc. They just know they love him, that’s all. Is he a puppet? They don’t know. Is he a real live actor? They don’t know. Is he a cartoon? They don’t know, Doc, but they laugh when Little Andy laughs, they cry when Little Andy cries. He’s all that matters, they know he’s real. The Images tell them, that’s sub-lim...

I started on my prototype that same day. I got in a couple of guys I needed, I had to promise them plenty. I didn’t know where the money was coming from and I didn’t care. That was J.B.’s worry, I had troubles of my own.

We only had one projector in the place then, the Kalee Twelve in the viewing theatre. I planned to use that for the experimental hookup. I scrounged a lens and we fitted a bracket to carry it just above the mute gate. The stop-frame unit wasn’t so easy, we had to rob a linetest camera and adapt the parts to fit. I’d intended to run it from the mech, but when we got down to it breaking into the geartrain was a major job, so we settled for a spare motor strapped up behind the top spoolbox and rigged a flexible link to the camera drive. The flash was no problem, one of the boys built up a unit and we made a housing out of tinplate and hitched it on behind our auxiliary head. Then we made up the cans to hold the filmstrip and it all looked a crazy mess, but mechanically it was O.K.

Freddy hung round all the time, fussing like an old hen. I told him we wanted to try out his Images just for kicks, he was pleased as Hell. I set him onto producing a range of stuff to cover every emotion I could think of, all the subtle things like worry and hope. And I got him to grade them down a bit. The thing he’d shown me, that had upset me plenty. I didn’t want to frighten people to death, just glue ‘em to the screens. He brought the work in the morning after I asked him, I looked through it and it was great. I took time out to set up one of the rostrum cameras and get the whole lot on film. I did my own processing. I didn’t want any little prying eyes seeing what we were doing till we were ready to hit the market.

When we’d got the sub-lim head built we started on the control system for it. I’d had a Hell of an idea for that. Problem was to inject the Images just where they were needed to back up the action. For a time I thought we were going to have to do it manually, then I realized I was crazy, all we needed was a split roller somewhere on the film track and metallic flashes on the master print to trigger our relays. We fixed the roller, then we rigged a solenoid on the stop-frame trigger, keyed it to a microswitch and we were home and dry. Bridge the roller with a wet finger and the spare cross turned, the flash went off behind it; each cue on the master roll would bring a new frame into the sub-lim gate, each frame would register on the screen as a split-second rogue image. All we needed now was a pilot film to cook.

J.B. had been working on that while I was playing with the mech. Don’t ask me how he talked Jeff into trebling the overdraft, but he did it somehow; when J.B. starts operating stones have haemorrhages. Hill Studios was back on its feet and we’d got a staff of nearly twenty again. He’d dreamed up Little Andy himself and written the pilot script. We got a combined print a week after the projector was fixed and I got busy on it, making a sort of trackreading of the action and marking the frames where I wanted a sub-lim pulse to help the audience get the message. The emotion sequence was pretty simple; J.B. had scripted to keep it that way. The opening of the reel was happy, there was a middle section that needed a sad treatment, then there were a series of gags, then things went happy again for the fadeout. I cued for fifty or sixty frames of each Image, trying to grade the timing so the effect would come on the audience gradually, then build up. While I was working on the print J.B. started eating carpet, the bank balance was getting redder and redder and he was scared the labs were going to clamp down on processing: if that happened, we were through. I told him there wasn’t a thing to worry about: if we wanted a bigger loan all we had to do was get the bank boys round, show them a film and load the cans to make ‘em love us, but there wasn’t time for playing games like that. J.B. wanted results on the pilot and he wanted them fast.

The cutting took a while because the system was still crude. Like I said, it was only rigged to give one flash per frame, so if I wanted fifty images to register that meant fifty frames on the sub-lim roll and fifty cues on the master. I finished in the end, and took the crazy-looking reel through to Freddy and watched him lace the cans and run a final check to see the roller was bridging O.K., then I went and told J.B. we were set to blast. We ran the first test just two months after I walked into his office with those drawings.

We jammed a couple of dozen people into the viewing theatre, cameramen, secretaries, everybody we could lay hold of. Jeff was there, he hated the whole idea, but J.B. had soft-talked him into coming along. And Connie, she was still giving me the freeze treatment every chance she got. That was a pity, because she was a great girl. Connie the cat, Connie the little lion ... that was what she reminded me of, Doc, a lion. Tawny hair and tawny eyes, and she walked like she knew what she was worth.

J.B. had decided we’d show the pilot twice. The first time it would go through straight, with no sub-lim, so we could get the normal reaction. Then we’d run it again with hot cans. That meant the test rig would be circuited, pumping Freddy’s Images at the audience. We’d developed a new slang, that was what we meant when we talked about hot cans...J.B. gave a talkdown, saying we were going to see the same thing twice, then he buzzed Freddy and the mech started and the lights went out. The main title came on the screen.

I tell you, Doc, that picture stank. It didn’t raise a grin. When the lights came on at the end even the secretaries were yawning, and J.B. was looking like thunder. Nobody ever got round to telling him when a story stank, he always had to find out for himself. Freddy rewound and laced, I gave him the thumbs-up through the port and we started over.

For a minute nothing happened. The film was just like it was before. I felt the bottom was dropping out of my stomach, I stood at the back, wondering if the flash was triggering or if I’d got a break in the roller circuit. Then slowly I realized something. I was feeling good.

Doc, I tell you, it was crazy. I just felt great. Little Andy was great, the world was great, J.B. was a great boss, Connie was a great guy, everything was fine. I wondered was I going scatty, then I got it.

This was the happy section...

I couldn’t help myself. I was in that rotten little film, following it like it was the best thing that ever hit the screen. When Little Andy was scared, I couldn’t breathe. When he came out on top of a gag, I wanted to cheer. We got to the sad sequence and one of the girls started in crying like she’d never leave off. It curled ‘em up, Doc, it laid ‘em in the aisles. There never was a film like that, not ever before.

Came the funnies, I started to giggle. Wasn’t a thing I could do. It was just ... well, the world was so crazy, you know, there was nothing to do but laugh ... I’d got my arm round Connie, and she was rolling her head on my shoulder and howling, and we couldn’t have hated each other if we’d tried. She kept pointing at the screen and trying to say something, then she’d sort of choke and start laughing all over again. Up in front, J.B. was banging the chair arms and throwing his head back and having hysterics at his own junk. There was no fighting it, you had to go. I’d never seen anything like it. Then there was the happy section at the end and the lights came up and we felt great, just great....

That was the only time I watched a Little Andy show with hot cans. Doc, it is great. It’s great for the jaybirds, but if you can sort of think, you know what I mean. Doc ... afterwards, it’s like you went down on your knees and bayed the moon...

I guess Connie was the first to come round. I was still hanging on to her, she looked up at me, she said, “Johnny, did you...” She giggled and crammed a hand over her mouth. Controlled herself. She said, “Did you ... do whatever that was?”

“I did.”

She said, “It’s ... great. Just great.” She wiped her eyes. Poor old Connie, she was in a Hell of a mess with the tears and all...She said, “You’re worth a million pounds.” I fixed a date with her that night, told her we’d paint the town. The way she was feeling she couldn’t have said no to a thing, and I don’t miss a chance like that, Doc.

I told Freddy the show had gone over fine. It was queer, the look he gave me. Like the whole world was a party and he hadn’t got an invite. You see he was the only one couldn’t get a lift from the Images, they wouldn’t work for him. I said he was a great guy, to keep right on at the job, I’d see J.B. about getting him a raise. He said, “Thanks, Mr. Harper, sir, thanks very much indeed....” You know, Doc, he sounded like he meant it...

I took Connie round the swank bars. I threw the money about. Money didn’t matter, the more I thought about sub-lim the more loot I could see rolling in. I got stinking drunk, Doc, I’ll tell you...

She got the whole story out of me. Oh, it was a question here, a touch there, I gabbled it all out because I thought it didn’t matter, she couldn’t understand what the cans were or how we hotted them. She understood enough though. She understood Hill Studios had got something nobody on God’s sweet earth could refuse to buy, that we could write our own cheques from here on in and that I was the key man in the whole shebang. The way she played up to me I felt a mile high.

I tried to be sort of modest, you know ? I told her about Freddy, I said, “Honest to God, the little guy’s the one that matters. He’s the only one can make the Images. I can use ‘em, but Freddy has to draw them...”

We were alone in a quiet bar, the lights were low. She said, “What are you doing about him, Johnny?”

I hooted. “Do? Raise him. Raise him fifty a week, a hundred. Yeah, give him a hundred a week. Worth every penny.”

She banged her cigarette in the tray and glared at me, she said, “What are you doing, Johnny, you gone crazy?”

“What? Now, honey...”

She said, “Did you tell him? Did you talk crazy money like that?”

I kind of touched her hair. I said, “What in Hell’s that scent?”

She got mad. She said, “Listen, Johnny, tell me what you said. You say a thing like that to him ?”

“Course not, but what the Hell, we got to keep him...”

She said, “So you play to lose. A hundred a week, Johnny, what’ll he do ? What would you do, go down the road and get two? You put a price on him, he knows what he’s worth...”

“Well, what the Hell—”

She crossed her long legs and there was a sort of frothing of lace. She said, “Raise him a quid. And pat his head every Friday. That way he knows he’s nothing but an op.”

It took a time to sink in because I was plenty stewed, then I started to giggle. I said, “Connie, my pet, who has the brains. . . .” She said primly, “Me, Johnny. Tell you what. Pay me the hundred a week, I’ll use them all the time.”

I looked her up and down a long, long while, and those tawny eyes, it was like they were saying things. You know, all sorts of things. I said, “Connie, I might just do that...”

We got out to the car and she sort of slid down in the seat and she didn’t care about her skirt. She said, “Johnny...”

“What?”

She found my hand in the half-dark. She said sleepily, “Going to be a big man. Going to the top.”

I said, “Could be.”

She was sort of close. She said, “Johnny, take me along. You can do it if you want....”

We stayed in the car a good while, and as far as it went it was great.

* * * *

It’s a long way to the top, Doc, a damn long way. I got Connie moved out of the main office, made her my personal secretary. I got a girl to work under her, so she’d have nothing to do but polish her nails. Then I had to fix up to manufacture the sub-lim adaptations. We wouldn’t just need units for our own gear, we’d need them to supply to anybody that bought our films. Before production could start there had to be a prototype, so we tore the test rig apart and rebuilt it in a single housing so it looked like something that might work. We had trouble ironing out all the bugs, because the end-product would have to fit half a dozen different types of mech and telecine gear. Right in the middle of things, as though we didn’t have trouble enough, we had trouble with Jeff. Like I said, he wouldn’t stand for sub-lim. J.B. tried to get me to fix a reel just for Jeff to see but he was too smart, one time with hot cans had been enough, he wouldn’t watch any more. There was a big row. I was in on it. Jeff shot his mouth off for maybe an hour, not even J.B. could get a word in. He sort of raved about morality and warping people’s minds and a lot of crap like that. J.B. tried to tell him we were in too deep, we couldn’t pull back, but that didn’t make no difference to Jeff. He was like that when he got an idea in his head. I told Connie afterwards. I was telling Connie nearly everything.

I was too mad to keep still, I sort of paced up and down the office while I was talking. I said, “It’s like he’s got a complex, you know, like the captain going down with the boat. Wants us all to pack up and go home, says he’s not putting his name on anything that’s got sub-lim mixed up in it. And you know Jeff, once he gets a thing in his head he won’t shift.”

Connie laughed at that, she thought it was pretty funny. She said, “Jeff’s a nice guy, it’s just he’s got a bit old. Sort of set in his ways. I’ll be sorry to see him out to grass, but maybe it’s time.” I asked her who was going to put Jeff out and when, she just purred and used those cat-eyes on me, and the eyes said you wait and see...

I had a call from J.B. that night. You could tell he was mad on the phone. He’d had Jeff round to his place, tried to gin him into saying yes. Sub-lim hadn’t worked neither did the gin, I could have told him he was wasting his time. He asked me what I thought, I said I didn’t know. He said he wanted to see me, said to get round there fast. I asked could I bring Connie and make it a party, he said the Hell with that, to come on my own and make it fast. I put the phone down. I’d never heard him so set, and when J.B. gets set on something, better get out of his way, brother. I got the Jag out and went over to his house, a week later I was a partner in Hill Studios.

Jeff took it bad. He resigned on the spot, and we found him his coat and told him we hoped he’d keep in touch, then I shook hands with J.B. and we were all set to go. I moved into Jeff’s office. It was about ten times bigger than mine and it had a carpet. I’d never had an office with a carpet, it was a pity I didn’t have time to admire it.

Connie spent about ten minutes showing me how pleased she was, and that bucked me up a lot, because what with the work and the trouble with Jeff I hadn’t seen much of her for weeks. Well, she’d asked for the top, and that was where we were headed. I told her to get lost for a few hours, I’d got work to do. I sent for Freddy. Next problem was to get the television boys to see things our way. I needed some more Images.

We got the circus down from Town and showed them the pilot with hot cans. There wasn’t any argument, they signed us up for a series of fifty, and that was the end of our money worries. The studio was in an old house that stood in its own grounds and we bought what extra land we needed, shoved bulldozers through everything on it and started putting up a couple of sound stages. J.B. bought a dozen writers, he knows when he’s licked, and we started vetting the first scripts and fixing production schedules. And I raised Freddy another pound; that made him the best-paid op in the business.

I passed out most of the routine work. I’d got a team building a new control system; instead of the pulses, we planned to use low frequency signals on the track itself, that way we could programme the gear to insert patterns of any number of flashes off one frame. It made life easier, and it also meant our control was better, we could play an emotion up or down, hold it at a pitch, peak it just at the right time. It all depends on the Image strength. Doc, the number of flashes a second, the duration of the pulses. We can trim it just how we like. I tell you, Little Andy is nothing. We don’t need the film, Doc, we could make you writhe just looking at an empty screen. The Video’s only the excuse for what happens to you....

Biggest headache was getting the sub-lim units installed at the transmitter end. We licked the problem eventually. We made up a film about sub-lim, what it was, how it worked, and the Images that went with it told you it was great, you had to buy it. You know how we used that film. Doc, you can work it out for yourself . . . anybody didn’t like the idea, we just got them down to the studios, showed them our movie. Every independent telecine is wearing cans now, Doc, every machine. And they can do anything you want. They’re still showing Little Andy, all they’ve done is make us a nation of saps; that’s nothing, they haven’t even started. What say we wanted a change of government, Doc, or to kick all the foreigners out of the country or set up pelota as the national game. Do you see what this thing is, Doc? We could do it, all it needs is the film and the Images that make you know it’s true.... That’s why I came to you, Doc, that’s why I want out, but now I don’t think there’s time....

After the first show was telecast J.B. went wild. The papers were full of Little Andy; the cheap dailies got it straight away, but inside the month the great nationals were giving the junk spread after spread. I guess people all over the world started wondering what the Hell had bitten us. By the time the second film was ready I’d named Connie as dialogue director and she’d had her physique splashed across every paper in the country. I guess I should have worried more, but there wasn’t time; the place was like a madhouse most of the day, with workmen tearing down walls, installing gear, units shooting scenes in every damn corner they could find. I got to my office one morning, couldn’t get in the door for cables. And somebody had got a pneumatic drill going just outside, you couldn’t think. I grabbed Connie and got out, went and found a quiet bar where we could talk. She said J.B. had got an idea for a new series, he wanted to start work on it right away.

That got me. I was the guy who should be told a thing like that, not Connie. I said, “The Hell with it, he can’t start anything else. We haven’t got the space or the time, we haven’t got the staff. We shall need the new stages for Little Andy, we can’t start something fresh.”

She sort of looked at her nails. She said, “Fact is, Johnny, we’ve got more space. We bought Orbit Films a week ago. The whole lot, stages, everything.”

I couldn’t wait to get back to Hill. We managed to stop the building boys long enough to talk. J.B. tried to calm me down. Sure we’d expanded, sure I hadn’t been told, hadn’t I got enough worries on the technical side, anyhow? Each man to his job, that was what J.B. said. He said not to worry, there was enough profit for everybody. He said within twelve months we’d have sub-lim cans on every telecine in the country, in two years we’d have the whole world. The Hell with that. I said, “Look, J.B., let’s take this slow. They find us out, they find out what we’re doing, they’ll hang us off the trees right there in the road.... Let’s make films,” I said to him. “Let’s stick at that. I’m a film man, I don’t want to own a planet. . . .” But I couldn’t get through to him. He just slapped me on the back and said not to worry, he’d look after everything. I tried Connie afterwards, she blew cold. “O.K. Johnny,” she said, “play it your way. I don’t care.”

That hurt because you know. Doc, she was a great girl, she’d got way under my skin. Wasn’t supposed to happen but it had. Somehow I’d done the lot for Connie, she didn’t care it made the whole thing sort of empty. I said to her we’d get out, go someplace and enjoy ourselves, we didn’t have to work no more. She wouldn’t answer me direct, just shrugged and said she’d see. I hadn’t had a drink for months, but I went on the beer that night. I couldn’t see my way round anything, somehow it had all got too big.

I had a call next morning from a guy I know, a newsman. It was late, about ten-thirty, but I was still shaving. I got to the phone. I said, “Hello, Eddie, what’s the trouble?”

He didn’t waste time being civil. “You bastards got something over there that’s sending the country crazy, Johnny, what the Hell you doing?”

I said, “What’s the matter, Eddie, don’t you like Little Andy?”

The phone made a noise. It said, “I don’t see Little Andy. I been wearing dark glasses for a month... what’re you doing, Johnny, what in Hell goes on?”

“Well, you know, pal, just making fi—”

He said, “J.B. was in here yesterday. Got a newsflash for us. If you don’t know, you better had ... he said he’d sold a new series, reckons it’ll make Little Andy look like feed for the chickens. And I know he hasn’t sold a thing, Johnny, he wants us to run the story, but Hell we can’t do a thing like that...”

I finished shaving fast as I could and bolted for the studio. All that soft talk, he’d been working over my head all the time. I parked the Jag and half ran to his office. I kept thinking, supposing for kicks he wanted to start World War Three. Supposing he gave out in the Press, the Russians didn’t like Little Andy. Just you think about that, Doc, just you try that for size....

I went in. I said, “What the Hell, J.B., you gone off your rocker? This crap you gave out about the new series, you can’t do that...”

He was sitting at his desk. He looked me up and down. He said, “Johnny, it’s done.”

I started to swear. I was the guy that mattered in that firm, I was the one had done all the donkeywork. I said, “You can’t do this, J.B. It’s just you and me, and I’m not having you do this...”

I hadn’t seen Connie. She was sort of behind me. She came forward purring. She said, “We can, Johnny. Sorry.”

I got it. Oh, but I got it all. And I knew I couldn’t fight the both of them. I couldn’t fight Connie. I thought of all the time she’d been playing about with me, she’d been hating my guts. I said, “Great. Just great. The new Mrs. March, I presume? Or won’t you bother...”

She said, “You’ve got to understand, Johnny, it’s just one of those things.”

I said, “Yeah, one of those things.” I put my face about six inches from hers. I said, “It’s true love at last, it always finds it’s little old way. What’s the matter, Connie, can’t you resist the smell of his breath—”

I saw the swipe on the way and ducked. I didn’t miss with my backhand. I’m like that, Doc, somebody takes a swing at me I swing right back...I felt good for about half a second, then it was like the ceiling fell on me. I didn’t know J.B. was that tough. ... He hit me again right where it hurts, and I was on my knees on the carpet and it was like I’d swallowed a ball of something red-hot, it was stuck right in my throat.... When I could see again, he was standing in front of me dialling the police.

She took the handset off him and threw it on the cradle. She said, “Forget it, J.B., he’s through.”

He hauled me up. He was still plenty mad, He said, “Throw the bastard through the door.”

She said, “No, leave him. Let him go. He don’t matter, let him stick around. You want to stick around, Johnny, see the fun?”

I got hold of the edge of the desk, that meant I could stay on my feet. I didn’t answer. She said, “Come on, Johnny, I want you to stay, you’re a useful guy. Just one thing, you may have to move your office, but stay around, we’d miss you if you went.”

I tried to talk. I was so mad the words wouldn’t come, it was like talking through felt. I said, “Anything more. Miss Connie ?”

She grinned at me. She only used one side of her mouth. Her hair had half come out the clips and the bruise was already showing on her cheek. She picked her bag off the desk, opened it, threw down a couple of coins. She said, “Get me some cigarettes, Johnny. It seems I run right out....”

So I got out of my office. I had to because J.B. was building a new place for her, and there was going to be a projection room so she could watch rushes without getting up from her desk. The box-suite cut my room in half. I moved downstairs. For what it mattered I was still a partner, I wasn’t leaving. I knew that was what they wanted, that was the way we ditched Jeff. I wasn’t going out like that.

Nobody came near me, because the whole place knew how things stood. I brought in a couple of crates of Scotch and had a sort of lost ten days. I could look out the windows, see the stages going up, all the activity, I could hear Movieolas running all over the building, the whole damn place was jumping, but I didn’t belong any more. Everybody was riding the same wagon except me, I’d been kicked over the tailboard. I heard them installing the mechs for Connie. J.B. put in a pair of new Kalees because she’d said she liked the colour of the finish...They were right over my head, when they were running they shook the walls. Freddy would come in about ten and warm them over, and they’d show rushes three, four, maybe half a dozen times a day. And I sat and soaked whisky and listened to the projectors and thought about Connie and what she’d done...

I felt pretty bad for a time, then I got over that and started getting wild. I didn’t care no more about Little Andy sending the world crazy, I could only think about Connie. Nobody tears me down like that and gets away with it, Doc, but nobody...

It took me days to think of it. If I hadn’t pickled my brains I’d have worked it out straight away.

I laid in enough money to cover the deal I was going to make. Then I waited. Five-thirty that night I heard the studio packing up and going home. I left it a few minutes, then I went and got the Jag, gunned it down the drive to the road. There was a bus stop a couple of hundred yards away from the gates, Freddy was waiting. It was raining and he looked like a little rat standing there with his collar turned up and the water running out of his hair. I did a skid stop and opened the car door. “Come on, Freddy,” I said, “you’ve got a lift.”

For a minute I thought he was going to turn me down, he sort of looked round like he might make a run for it, but there was no place to run. He got in the car. He said, “Very nice of you, Mr. Harper. Very much obliged.”

I got to his place ten minutes later. He lived in a scrappy little terrace over on the other side of town. I got out of the car. There was one streetlamp alight, the housefronts were shining with wet. Freddy tried to nip past and I got hold of his coat. I said, “Just a minute, Freddy, want a talk with you.”

He stood there looking at me. He said, “Yes, Mr. Harper, I thought you did.” I waited. The rain beat on the pavement. He said, “You better come in.”

He opened the door with a latchkey. The hall was dark, there was a sort of sour smell. Somebody called from upstairs, “Freddy, is that you? Who you got with you, Freddy?”

He put a light on. He said, “She’s bedridden, Mr. Harper. Can’t get about no more.” He shouted back. “All right, mother, only Mr. Harper from the studio. Shan’t be long.” He opened a door. “In here, Mr. Harper. Isn’t very warm, I’ll get the old fire oil in a jiff.”

I said, “The Hell with it, doesn’t matter.” I followed him into the room. There was an old table, high-backed chairs set round it. Faded floral paper. A big print on the chimney breast that showed all Wren’s buildings in one engraved heap. Freddy turned back to face me. He said, “Mustn’t be too long, Mr. Harper, she gets worried.”

I lit a cigarette. “This won’t take long, Freddy. This won’t take no time at all. You remember I helped you out once ?”

He sort of stood and pulled his lip.

I said, “You were for the chop, Freddy, I kept you on. Remember?”

“Yes, Mr. Harper, yes, I do...”

I said, “Right then, you know what they say. One good turn ... you’re going to make me an Image.”

He said, “Eh?”

I said, “Special sort of Image, Freddy. A love charm. A simple. An Image for love, can you do that, Freddy?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know, I haven’t ever tried.”

I said, “You’re going to try now. And you’re going to succeed. There’s an Image for everything, Freddy, you said so yourself.”

He said, “Mr. Harper, Mr. Harper, sir ... who’s it for?”

I started to laugh. I said, “The mechs in the new suite, Freddy, the new Kalees. They got cans on ?”

He jumped like I’d stung him. He said, “I couldn’t do it, Mr. Harper. Not for a thousand quid I couldn’t...”

I got hold of him. Like I told you, Doc, he’s a little guy...I backed him against the wall, I said, “Don’t play games, little man, I don’t have the time...”I got my free hand in my pocket, took out a wad of notes. I rammed them under his nose. I said, “A straight thousand, Freddy, no questions, no tax. You can get out, go any place you want. You’ll do it, little man.” I banged him against the wall, made his teeth rattle. I said, “A love charm. For the one and only Connie, for the little lion. Come on, Freddy, I’ll break your back...”

Some expression went across his face, like a fool I thought it was fear. He said, “All right, Mr. Harper, let go, I can’t get my breath...”

I stepped back. I said, “Attaboy, Fred.” You can buy anybody any time, Doc, you just gotta be sure you’re paying the highest ... I slung the wad down on the table. I said, “Get the stuff to me tomorrow, Freddy, I’ll love you like a son. Don’t let me down.” I went out and left him staring at the notes.

He brought me the drawing next day and I looked at it just long enough to make sure it was the real thing. I couldn’t do anything about it till the evening. When the studio had emptied I set up one of the rostrums and filmed the Image. I developed the neg and printed enough frames for both mechs. Then I went up to the new suite and laced the Kalees. I set the heads for independent running, maximum saturation. From then on, Doc, everything she saw she’d see with hot cans...

I sat in my office next day and laughed every time the mechs started up. I knew each time the crosses turned Images were stabbing into Connie’s brain like hypo shots.

It didn’t take hardly any time. I met her in the corridor and her eyes were wild and she glared at me, and I stared right back and I knew...

I took her home that night. We walked into my flat just the time the Little Andy show was starting up, all the suckers in the country crowding round their sets. She took her coat off and she was shaking. Her eyes were crazy like an animal and the tears were running down her throat, but her hands couldn’t stop unfastening her skirt. “You bastard,” she said. Over and over. “You bastard.” Doc, it was great. The little lion had an itch, and Johnny Harper was the only guy in the whole sweet world could do anything about it. I sat on the bed, then I lay on it, and laughed myself sick.

And then I made her crawl...

God, that little bastard, Freddy, he’d got it worked out right from the start. He was twenty moves in front of me all the way...

Doc, what’s the matter, I thought you were smart. Freddy, he’d got nothing. He’d go home nights, look at the picture of all Wren’s buildings, sit and watch the fire. See to his old mum, wipe her mouth, feed her meat broth...He was through, Doc, he was a little old guy nobody could use. No front-office girls for Freddy. No Connie, not ever. Until I made my move. The Images wouldn’t work for him, there was no way he could get her, I put her right in his lap. She had to get free of me, he was the only guy could fix it. He knew she’d go to him, he knew she’d pay plenty. But she wouldn’t pay in cash...

What ? How could she get free ? Wake up, Doc, do I have to spell it out for you...She couldn’t get the Image out of her head once the cans had driven it in, she was tied to me till I passed my check. That’s what she got Freddy to fix, he made me an Image as well. My Image was death...

I ... I only got it once. Up in the main theatre, I saw a print this morning, the cans were hot. Somehow I knew as soon as the mech started, I tried to look away from the screen but I wasn’t quick enough. It only needed the once, it must have been a masterpiece. I expect it was. Doc, it was a labour of love...

Doc, I’ve got an itch now, I know what it’s like...I didn’t know how I was going to do it till I bought the razor. I’m trying to keep my hands off it, Doc, I’m scared, I don’t want to go this way. Yeah, you’d better get on that phone, get the boys in with the jacket...But, Doc, don’t put me out, if you do I won’t wake up, my body’s programmed ... get moving, man, for the sake of God...

The razor. Can’t... put it down. Don’t try to take it off me, Doc, I could kill you, don’t try and come too near...Doc, don’t watch Little Andy. Find Freddy Keeler, break his back for me....

It’s ... like there was a magnet in my wrist, pulling. That’s where the itch is, Doc, it’s in my wrist right down near the bone. I can scratch it with this, I’ve got to do it, got to scratch, and scratch...

Doc, don’t, don’t be crazy, I told you—

Don’t—

God....

God, Doc, I’m ... sorry, didn’t mean to ... clout you like that, couldn’t help...Doc, look I ... done it, I had to. It was easy, going through the tendons was like cutting straw...it’s better now, Doc, the itching’s gone away...

Messing the carpet a bit. Doc, sorry...God, Doc, listen, you can hear the blood sort of whistling...I ... thought about it, what it’d be like, didn’t... think of that...

Doc, I’m scared, I want Connie...Try and listen, you gotta find her, look after her...She didn’t know what she was starting, he’ll ... do it again, sell her to somebody else, and she’ll buy off and then he’ll sell her, again and again, he’ll break her, Doc, she won’t walk proud no more...He’s the most dangerous guy in the world, we made him that way...Doc, this is sub-lim, you see what it can do....

Funny. Like I can feel all the blood I got go rushing down my arm. Is that for real, Doc, is that what happens—

Don’t feel too good. Can’t see ... shoulder’s hurting, guess I better ... sit down ...

Sort of want to cry, but maybe better make a ... gag instead...Roll credits and fade to black...Doc, this is it I don’t want to go—

Connie, darling, please, I never... never... meant...

The Deeps

It was bound to happen. For generations, the chain reaction of population explosion had been going on and on. While medical skill grew, while longevity increased nearly beyond belief, humankind everywhere bred and bred and bred. Houses, estates, factories to serve the vast new economies spread and sprawled, twitching out across good land and bad, climbing mountains, suffocating rivers. Town touched town, touched town; the pink octopus tentacles of houses grew and thickened as the machines graded and scraped and hammered. Green belts and parks vanished, fields were swallowed overnight. Here and there voices were raised; the voices of economists, scientists, philosophers, even at last theologians. But they were swamped in the great universal cry.

Give us room . . . The shout went up night and day from a hundred million throats, the slogan blared from loudspeakers, blazed from hoardings as political parties jockeyed for power. Increasingly, room was what they promised. Room for more houses, more estates, room to rear new families that cried in their turn for room and still more room ...

All over the world countrysides vanished, eaten. Wars flared as nations bit at each other’s borders, but still the Cities grew. The huge estates were searched, forced to yield their last acres, their secret gardens. And all for nothing, it seemed, because still the cry was heard for room. Skyscrapers soared, fifty stories, seventy, a hundred, and it was not enough. The Cities bulged outward, noisy with music and the sound of human life. A hundred yards thick they were and blaring with light, complex with stack on twinkling stack of avenues. Raucous, Techni-colored, sleepless. Everywhere, they reached the sea.

And they could not stop. The pressure, the need for room, pushed them out again. The houses sank like silver bells into blueness and quiet, and at last there was room enough.

* * * *

Mary Franklin sat in the living area of her bungalow, knitting quiet for once in her lap, and tried to watch the telscreen at the other side of the room. Across her line of sight Jen passed scuttling, bare feet scuffing the carpet, the straps of her lung flapping round her shoulders. Across and back, then across again, frantic now, going to a party at the Belmonts on the other side of town, and late. Mary raised her eyes to Heaven, represented temporarily by a curved steel shell. She concentrated on the screen where a demonstrator, in a vivid color, divulged to her audience the inner secrets of a varient of crawfish mayonnaise. Jen yelped something inaudible from the bedroom, thumped the wall. (Why . . . ?) She padded across again and back. Mary raised her voice suddenly.

“Jen ... ?”

Thump. Mumble.

“Jen!”

“Mummy, I can’t find my . . .” Indistinguishable.

“Jen, you’re not to be late. No more than nine, understand?”

“Yes...”

“And for land’s sake child, put something on . . .”

“Yes, Mummy . . .” That in a high voice, wearily. And almost instantly the roar of the sealock. Mary got up in quick rage, walked halfway to the radio gear, changed her mind, went back to her chair. Jen, she knew well enough, would conveniently have forgotten her phone-leads.

She kicked the channel switch irritably in passing; the picture on the wallscreen jumped and altered. The set began to disgorge a Western; Mary lay back, eyes nearly shut, half her mind on the ancient film and half on the blueness overhead. The endless blue.

Jen, defiantly bare, hung twenty feet above the hemispherical roof of her home. Bubbles from her breathing rose in a series of shimmering, dimly seen sickles to the Surface overhead. As always, the sea had made her forget her compulsion to hurry; she began to paddle slowly, feet in their long fins catching and driving back wedges of water. As she moved she looked below her, at the lines of domes with their neat, almost suburban gardens of waving weed. She saw the misty squares of their windows, the brighter greeny-blue globes of the streetlighting swung from thin wires above the ocean bed. Warnings were hung on long streamers of wires for swimmers; there were well-marked lanes, corresponding to the streets of the city complexes Jen barely remembered, but many people ignored them. And most of the children. Technically she was out of bounds now, gliding along like this only a few feet from Surface.

Visibility was good tonight; onshore winds could kick up a smother that lasted for days, but there had been nearly a week of calm. Jen could make out through the almost haze-free water the faint shimmer where the engineers, her father among them, were working on the new extension to the theater and civic center. When it was finished, the installation would be the pride of Settlement Eighty, the town its inhabitants called Oceanville. There were a dozen other Oceanvilles scattered up and down this one stretch of coast, hundreds possibly in all the seas of the world. She shivered slightly although the water was not cold.

Beyond the lights, beyond where the divers floated round the tall steel skeletons, were long sloping stretches where the town buildings petered out and the coral and sand of the inshore waters gave place to the silt of real ocean. There was a graveyard, tiny as yet, where a few bodies lay in their metal cans; beyond again, past gray dunes where the light faded imperceptibly to navy blue and black, were the Deeps. Above anything else Jen liked to go to the new buildings, sit on one of the girders, look down into the vagueness that was the proper sea, bottomless and immense. Just stare, and listen, and wait. She would go there tonight maybe, after the party.

She let herself relax, holding air in her lungs to increase buoyancy. Her body floated upward, legs and arms slack; Surface appeared above her, a faintly luminous upside-down plain. Points of light sparkled where the moon-track refracted into the depths. Jen wagged lazily with her flippers, once, twice; her body broke the Surface and she felt herself lifted by the slight action of the waves.

She looked round. The sea was flatly calm, dark at the horizon, glinting with bluish swirls of phosphorescence round her shoulders and neck. When she looked closely, she could see the organisms that made the light floating in it like grains of brightness. Way off was the orange cloud reflection over the land, where the universal Cities bawled and yammered. Jen lay still, supported by the water. Once she would have pulled her mask aside, breathed in the wet salt of ordinary air. Now she felt no desire to do so. She turned slowly, treading water, took a last look at the moon, and dived. Her heels stirred up a momentary flash of light. Once below, she moved powerfully, stroking with her arms. She arrowed down to West Terrace where the Belmonts had their dome. The party would be in full swing already; she was missing good dancing time.

* * * *

Hours later, Mary prodded one of her rare cigarettes from the wall dispenser. She frowned a little, drawing in smoke and letting it dribble from her nostrils. She lay back and watched the fumes being sucked toward the ceiling vent. The telscreen was off; the last badman had bitten the dust and she had grown tired of watching. The bungalow seemed very quiet; the buzz of the air conditioning plant sounded unusually loud, as did the recurring clink-thump of the refrigerator solenoids from the kitchen.

She stood uncertainly, fingered her throat, took a step, paused. She went to the alcove by the kitchen that housed the radio link and telephone. Beside the handset the dome metering equipment chuckled faintly. Inside the gray housings, striped discs spun, needles wavered against their dials. Force of habit made her check the readings. All normal, of course. . . She touched the phone, pulled at her lip with her teeth, made herself take her hand away. A quarter of an hour, that was nothing. When she was dancing Jen forgot the time. They all did. She would be home in a few minutes, by nine-thirty at the latest. She knew exactly how long to outstay an order. . . Mary went back to the living area, turned the telscreen on, clicked the channel switch to five. While the set was warming she walked through to David’s cubicle, peered in. He was asleep, hair tousled on the pillow.

Nine-fifty.

Mary got up again, walked to the window in the curved wall. She drew the curtains back, looked across the street at the neighboring houses visible through the faint residual haze. A little fear stirred somewhere at the back of her mind, throbbed, stilled itself again. She wondered, fear of what? Accidents maybe; they happened, even in the best-run towns. Jack—but it wasn’t that. She laughed at herself quietly, trying to shrug away her fit of nerves.

These late shifts of her husband’s were a curse but there was no help for them; the new building was going ahead fast and as engineering controller for the sector Jack had to be almost constantly on site. She told herself, physically her husband was not far away. She could ring him if she had to. How far off was the new complex, a hundred and fifty yards, two hundred? No distance, by terrestrial standards. . . But here under the sea, just how far was a hundred yards? Could be a lifetime, or an epoch. She grimaced. That was what the fear was about, what the . . . throb . . . tried to tell her maybe. That under the sea, patterns and values could change ineradicably.

She sat down, crossed her knees, laid her head against the back of the chair. After a few moments she picked up the abandoned knitting and stared at it. She was making a sweater, though there was no point in the exercise. The domes were air-conditioned and sea temperature only varied a few degrees through the year; nobody needed sweaters down here and the yarn was expensive, it came from Surface and all Surface things were dear. But it was something to do, it kept her hands busy. Above all, it was a link with the past. . .

A quarter after ten.

The face of the clock was round and sea-blue, the hands plain white needles. They moved in one-minute jerks; Mary imagined that she could see the tiny quiver that preceded each jump. She stubbed out the cigarette. The party would be long finished now, the dancers dispersed. ..

Dancers? She shook her head. She could remember the dancing in the Cities, the pulsing rhythms, frenetic jerking. That pattern, like everything else, had changed. She remembered the first time she had heard what they called sea-jazz, the shock it had given her. Jen had a player in her bedroom, it wailed and bumped half the night, but the rhythms, the melodies, were like nothing she had ever heard landside. The music howled and dragged, the beats developed timings that defied notation, had in them something of the slow surge of the tides. It was music for swimming to.

The Belmonts had a dance floor but it was outside, in the sea. Airposts surrounded it, and speaker casings; round them the kids would swirl like pale flakes among the hordes of fish that always seemed to be attracted. “But Mummy,” Jen would say if she protested. “You just don’t gel, you’re not wavy. . .” It was all part of the new phraseology; the boy down the block, Kev Hartford was not it, he gelled for Jen, he was a wave; but the lad from the airplant, Cy Scheinger who had visited once or twice, was out of favor. He was neapy, a scorp. (Scorpion fish?) The sea, and thoughts of the sea, pervaded their whole lives now even to the language they spoke. Which was natural, and as it should be. . .

Why did we call her Jennifer? Why, of all the names we could have used? The Jennifer was a sea-thing, and cursed...

It was no use. Mary killed the sound from the screen, walked back to the phone, lifted the handset and dialed. She listened to the clicking of the exchange relays, the faint purr-purr at the other end of the line. An age, and the receiver was lifted.

“Ye-es?” The slight coo in the voice, unmistakable even through the surging distortion of the sea. The Belmonts were just a little conscious of their status; Alan Belmont was fisheries manager for the area. Mary licked her lips. “Hello? Hello, Anne, this is Mary. Mary Franklin. . . What? Yes, fine thank you . . . Anne ... is Jen still at your place by any chance? I told her nine, she’s late, I wondered if. ..”

Anne Belmont sounded vaguely surprised. “My dear, I shooed them off positively hours ago. Well, an hour . . . Hold the line. . .”

Unidentifiable human sounds. Someone calling faintly. The wash ... crash ... of the sea.

“Hello?”

“Yes...”

“Just before nine,” said the phone. “We sent them all off, there’s no one here now . . . You say she’s not back?”

“No,” said Mary. “No, she’s not.” Her knuckles had whitened on the handset.

The phone clucked. “My dear, they’re all the same; ours are hopeless, time means nothing, absolutely nothing . . . But I’m quite sure you needn’t worry, she’ll be along any moment. Perhaps she’s with that Cy boy, whatever his name is...yes...”

Ice, along the spine, moving out like fingers that gripped and clutched. “Thank you,” said Mary. “No, no, of course not. Yes, I’ll let you know . . . Yes, goodbye, Anne. . .” She laid the handset on its cradle, stood looking at it, not knowing what to do. The sea pushed at the dome gently, slurringly.

A quarter after ten.

Mary stood very still in the middle of the living area, lips pursed. She had called the airworks, Cy was off duty, could not be traced. And two or three neighbors and friends. No Jen. She could not ring Jack at the construction office, not again. Down here you helped your husband, pulled your weight. You didn’t run panicking at every little thing. . . The trembling had started, in her legs; she rubbed her thighs unconsciously through her dress. She touched the hair pinned into a chignon at the nape of her neck. In front of her, on the sill of the window, a plaster foal pranced, hooves outlined against greenness. The greenness was the sea.

Decision. She pulled at her hair, shook it free round her shoulders. She unsnapped the clasp at her neck, wriggled her dress up over her head. Beneath it she wore the conventional blue leotard of a married woman. She plucked automatically at the high line of the legs, kicked her sandals off, crossed to the equipment locker. She came back with her sea gear, lung, mask and flippers. She dressed quickly, fastening the broad straps round her waist and between her legs, the lighter shoulder harness that held the meter panel across her chest. Habit again made her check the dials, valve air, slap the red cancellator-tab on her shoulder. That was another safety factor; if for any reason air stopped flowing from the pack and that tab was not touched, a built-in radio beacon would arrow town guards down to the wearer.

She looked in at David again, satisfied herself he was still sleeping. She walked to the sealock, stopped on the way to see herself in the half-length mirror. She was heavier now, her hips had broadened and there were maybe faint worry lines round her mouth. But her hair was brown and soft; landside she would still be a desirable woman.

She looked round the dome slowly, seeming to see familiar things in a new light that was bright and strange. The bungalow was double-skinned, the inner ceiling finished in octagonal plates of white and pale blue plastic. The half-round shape, dictated by considerations of pressure, had the secondary advantage of enclosing the greatest possible volume of space; deep-pile carpets covered the floors, the furniture was low and streamlined, easy to live with. The telscreen was tucked neatly into an alcove; to each side of it were wall tanks with fish and anemones. Through a half-open door she could see the kitchen. It was miniaturized but well equipped, with plenty of stainless steel like the galley of a ship.

The whole bungalow was as safe as it was functional. In the unlikely event of a fracture in the pressure shell, the second skin would hold the sea while instantaneous warnings were flashed to a central exchange, insuring help within minutes. Not that anything could or would go wrong, of course, the whole system was too carefully worked out for that. People had been living undersea for years now, and fatalities were far fewer than on the overcrowded land.

Mary grimaced, stepped through into the lock and closed the inner hatch. The ceiling lamp came on; she pressed the filler control, heard the hiss as air was expelled through the outlet valves.

She squatted in rising water to work the straps of the flippers over her heels, then straightened up. The coolness touched her hips; she brushed her hair back, spat in the mask and rinsed it, pressed the transparent visor onto her face. The plastic was self-adhesive, molded to her skull contour; it fitted from forehead to chin. She palmed the earphones into place, reached under her arm for her mike leads, flicked the tags onto the magnetic contacts in her throat. The compartment filled, water rising greenly over her head. As the pressure equalized, the outer segment of wall slid aside automatically, letting in the hazy glow of the street fighting. Mary kicked away and floated up from the dome, sensing the old lift as the sea shucked off her weight. Her hair swirled across her eyes gracefully, like fronds of black fern.

She swam slowly across the town. To each side, lines of round-topped buildings marched out of the haze. Some of the houses were still new and bright with their coated steel skins, others had grown a rich waving cover of algae. In the main street the shop windows were brightly lit; the plate-glass ports displayed seafoods set on white dishes garnished with fronds of weed; there were Aqualungs and radiophones, Surface ware of all sorts, clothes and books, records, dolls, toys. Here the ocean floor had been cleared to the rock that underlay the sand; overhead were slim arches to which were moored the sledges of out-of-towners, the fish herders and oceanographers whose work took them to lonely domes scattered over the bed of the sea. There were lights on the gantries; each globe hung glaring in greenness, surrounded by a flickering cloud of tiny fish like moths round a terrestrial lamp. Over everything was an air of peace; the dreamy peace of dusk on an ancient, unspoiled Earth.

There were few human swimmers about, but here and there, careening over the roofs of buildings, Mary caught sight of glistening shapes. Dolphins—they had been quick to discover the sea-floor communities and take advantage of them. Many families, in fact, kept one or more of them as semi-permanent pets, became very attached to them. Other creatures occasionally troubled the townships— sharks, rays, the odd squid. But the repellants carried by the swimmers in their harness had been developed to a stage where there was little to fear. The town guards could be relied on to harpoon or shoo off any of the big fellows who hung around too close or too long, though in the main there was little to attract predators.

Disposal of garbage was rigidly controlled; locking offal into the sea was about the worst crime in the book; it could result in being sent landside. The “monsters of the deep,” in so far as they existed, tended to avoid the colonies. They disliked the brightness and noise, the bustle, the thud of many vibrations criss-crossing in the water. As Jack never tired of pointing out, life down here was as safe or safer than on land.

Mary doubled back, passing the king-size domes that held the town distillation plant. The per capita consumption of fresh water was fifty percent higher for Sea People than for Terrestrials. Frequent bathing was necessary to remove ingrained salt from the skin; supplying salt-free water was one of the biggest problems of the ocean-floor settlements. Beyond the distillery was the airworks. The electrolyzers reached halfway to Surface, each mass of tubes contained in an insulating shell of helium. The current for the oxygen separation came from strategically sited tidal generating stations up and down the coast. Many domes were already on tap from the plant; eventually they would all avail themselves of the new municipal service, though they would retain their own gear as a fail-safe in case of emergency.

Mary swam round the huge stacks, peering into locked shadows, calling softly through her mask. “Jen . . . Jen. . .” The harness pack radiated the word into the water, farther than a human voice could reach in air, but there was no answer. She clung to a steel stay twenty feet above the seabed. Bubbles curled up from her in a shimmering stream as she tried to quiet her breathing. A group of children went by, out late and swimming fast; she heard their chattering, realized with a cold shock how similar it was to the noises of a fish herd in the hydrophones. She shivered. Thoughts like that had been plaguing her for months now, maybe years. She called urgently, but the child-shoal swerved aside, accelerating and vanishing in the gloom. There was quiet; beside her the great cans vibrated, the sensation more felt than heard. The stay seemed to buzz in her fingers.

She let go quickly, because electrolyzer stacks cannot make any sound. She concentrated. That deep, thudding boom . . . Was it her heart, or just fear, or was there something . . . something else. . . No, it was gone. Slipped over the edge of perception, into silence. She started to swim again, thoughts churning confusedly. She remembered a conversation she had had with her husband weeks back. They had been lying abed after his shift had done; the house had been silent, or as silent as it could get. Just the airplant, buzzing in the dark. . .

She had spoken to blackness. “Jack,” she had said, wondering at herself, “the Deeps. Have you heard what they’ve been saying about them—that they talk?”

“I’ve heard a lot of rubbish.”

She said, “They talk. That’s what the kids say. Jen . . . she says she’s heard it a . . . thing, I don’t what. A calling. Jack, be serious, listen to me. . .”

“I am serious,” he said. “Completely. Mary, there’s nothing in the Deeps except one hell of a lot of water, at one hell of a pressure. Oh, there could be a slip somewhere, volcanic activity maybe, a long way down, that would send up pressure waves, you might be able to feel them, but that’s all. I’m an engineer, I’ve been working with the sea more years than I want to think about, now take my word, I know. This . . . thing, it’s a fad with the kids. You get little gangs of them floating out there waiting for revelations, I’ve seen ‘em. I don’t know where it started but it’s just a craze, it’ll die off when something new comes along...”

She was quiet, thinking of all the towns stretching through the warm seas of the world, all along the Continental Shelves. The domes were snug and secure, automated; nothing could go wrong. But what if . . . what if there was an enemy, something more insidious than pressure? Something in people, in me she told herself, or in Jen. Something working outward from the roots of the brain. . . She said abruptly, “Jack, how can you be so damn sure you’re always right?”

The bed creaked as he moved. “You going Continental on me, Mary?”

She did not answer. His hand reached the contacts on her throat, stroked. “You know what I told you. What we agreed when they put these in. Once down, always down.” He paused. Then, softly, “What’s for us on land?”

She lay remembering the lowness of the roofed City streets, the flaring miles of fluorescent strip, the crushing sense of overcontact. Hive phobia of a crowded planet.

He could play her mind, he always could. “Listen,” he said. “You can still hear it deep down. The roaring. Escalators, pedivators. Traffic. Dancehalls. Wallscreens all yelling, fighting one against another. Buy this. Buy that. Vote for freedom. Use our toothpaste. Don’t copulate. . . Just remember it, Mary. Markets. Moviehouses. The whole heaped-up, tipped-up jumble we made for ourselves. Is that a thing to go back to? Take the kids to? Well, is it?”

No answer. He carried on, talking. The old vision. “Down here we’ve got peace. We’ve got security. Well, as much security as people can find anywhere. And more important, we’ve got a democracy. A real practical working democracy, maybe for the first time ever. Down here your neighbor’s house is always open because that’s the way it has to be. We can’t afford to fight each other, the sea takes care of that. And the sea’s forever.”

“So we’ve got unity, and drive. Right now maybe you reckon there’s a lot of us but I say we’re still villages, settlements. We’re dependent on Surface, we still buy down supplies. But it won’t always be like that. I can see whole nations and tribes of us scattered over the oceans, everywhere in the world. Right down into the Deeps. We’ll be independent. We’ll draw everything we need straight out of the sea. Gold, tin, lead, copper, uranium, you name it you’ll find it’s right here in the sea. Billions of tons of it, waiting to be used. In a small way we’ve started already. The land’s old, burned out. Let the Continentals keep it. . .” He chuckled. “Tell you what, we’ll pop up one day, in a thousand years maybe, for a little trade. Find they’ve gone. All of them. Blown each other apart, starved, lit out for the planets, anywhere. We wouldn’t know. If the whole world burned up, how should we tell? We shouldn’t care. . .”

She was making patterns in blackness, drawing on the pillow with one finger. Biting her lip. He touched her hair; his hand found the pendant warmth of a breast and she moved irritably, twisting away from him. “I was thinking,” she said, “about the kids. All the kids we’ve got down here—”

“All the kids,” he said tiredly. “Mary, all the kids have changed. Adapted to their surroundings, now that’s the most natural thing. We’d be having to worry if it wasn’t happening. This environment, after all it’s alien. Outside racial experience. In a sense this life of ours is being lived on a new planet. We must expect new skills, new adaptations, and they’ll show in the children quicker because the children have known nothing else. That’s the way it has to be, that way’s right. This has taken a long time coming out in you, Mary, can’t you see what’s happening?”

“I can,” she said bitterly. “Can you?”

“Mary, listen here a minute...”

She felt that obscurely he was still hedging. His mind maybe would automatically reject anything that could not be measured and calibrated. She wanted to scream; the confidence, the know-how, suddenly it all seemed so much smugness. The sea was infinite, from it could come an infinity of fears. She said, “We all...they say we all came from the sea. Well, couldn’t we . . . regress, you know, sort of slip back. ..”

He clicked on the bedside light. “Mary, do you have any clear idea what you’re saying?”

She nodded vigorously, trying to make him understand. “I thought it all through, Jack. I mean about birds losing their wings and seals—didn’t seals go back into the sea, degenerate somehow? And now us, the children, they . . . swim like fish, more and more like fish. . .”

“But hell,” he said, “Mary, do you know how long a thing like that takes? A biological degeneration? How many millions of. . . Oh look, Mary, look here. A million years. That’s how long we’ve been around, give or take a few thousand. And that’s nothing, nothing at all. It isn’t . . . that.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re thinking on the fine scale, the historical scale. All that time, that million years, wasn’t enough for us to lose our little toes. Look, the Earth’s a day old. Took twenty-four hours to evolve, go through all the cycles of life and get to us. You know what we are, what all our history is? The last tick of the clock. . . That’s how long evolution takes, it’s a very big thing...”

But it was no use, she had heard it all before. “Maybe it won’t be like that this time,” she said. “We . . . evolved that quick, at the end. Maybe we’ll go back now just as fast...”

“It isn’t anything to do with it,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

She said desperately, “We were so smart, Jack, getting out like this, living in the sea. Making a new world. But maybe . . . couldn’t that somehow be what the sea really wanted, all along? What we were meant to do? Oh, I know this sounds crazy but believe me when I see the kids. . . Jen slipped the other day, in the kitchen. When she tried to get up, I think she tried to turn like she was swimming—she forgot she was in air. . . And David, he swims just like a little shrimp. . . When I see things like that I think. . . Oh, I don’t know what I think sometimes—maybe we’re not . . . pioneers at all. This thing about the Deeps, they say they call, pull . . . Maybe we’re just sort of being sucked back, that’s where we belong. ..”

He was angry, finally. “All right. So this craziness is all true. We’ve got a racial memory in our brains, in our nervous systems. We remember the beginnings of life all those years back, so many years we can’t even count the thousands. Well, then, we’re home already, Mary. Right where we are, this is where life started. In the shallows, swilling in the sunlight. Not in the Deeps. It moved down there, same time some of it spread onto land. There’s nothing can call us from there. We don’t belong there, never did.”

She was quivering a little, looking at the pillow, seeing the texture of it. Every strand in the weave of the cloth. “I wanted to stay human,” she said. “That was all. Just to stay human, and the kids. . .”

He touched her. “You’re human. You’re all right.”

She wouldn’t look at him. “I think,” she said, “I think now ... I’d take the Cities. Jack. . .”

He did not answer, and she knew the expression on his face without looking. Something inside her seemed to twist and become cold. He would do anything for her maybe, except that. He would not go landside, not now. The empires, the herds and tribes of the sea, they were in his brain, they called too. The dream was too strong, he could not let it go.

He pushed the clothes back and swung his legs off the bed. She heard the little swish as he picked up a robe. “Mary,” he said, “why don’t you get a little checkup. You’re rundown, it’s my fault, I should have realized . . . Too much time on your own, you don’t get about. Not any more. Maybe you should have a trip landside. Go and see your folks. Tell you what—I’ll get a couple of days leave, we’ll have a run up to Seventy-five, take the kids, how’s that? They’ve got the new theater up there, whole pile of junk. Sound okay?”

She did not answer. “I’ll have a talk with Jen,” she said. “I’ll do it tomorrow. This is silliness, it can be stopped. . .” He walked out, turned on a light. Started tinkering in the kitchen. He brought her back coffee laced with rum. She pulled a bedjacket over her shoulders, sat drinking, hands gripped round the warmth of the cup. Feeling the trembling still deep in her body, hearing the buzz of the airplant, imagining the silly, silly meters checking and recording. Pressure, humidity, oxy-level, all the things that did not matter. While Jack sat and watched her, smoked and smiled and did not understand. ..

* * * *

Mary swam the length of the town again, moving slowly, watching to right and left at the domes nestling in shadow, their windows like square bright eyes. The sea was darker now; in the real world above, the moon was setting. Surface was just visible as a grayish sheen; tall weed fronds were silhouetted against it, leaning majestically to the current like trees bowed by an endless wind. The tide was setting out, toward the Deeps.

After that talk with her husband, her restlessness had become worse. Quite suddenly it seemed the whole furnishing of the dome was oppressive, stultifying. The curtains had come down, the glinting blue fabric with its faint interlapping tidal patterns had been put away. Mary had hung new yellow cloth, sun-yellow, printed with designs of buds and flowering trees. She had banished the spiny amber-spotted shells and the urchin lamps, Jen’s untidy collection of sea bed fossils, even the cushion covers on which she herself had once worked swirling Minoan patterns of weed and octopi. In their places were landside things, figurines of horses and kittens, panting china dogs. Creatures long vanished now but that reminded her of Earth and the way humans lived once on a time.

Every ornament, every yard of cloth, had had to be bought from Surface; the cost had been enormous but once started Mary had seemed unable to stop. Jack had raised his eyebrows but said nothing; Jen had protested more noisily.

Things had reached crisis pitch the day Mary found, in the wall tank in Jen’s room, a piece of old human skull, coral-crusted, put there as a home for crabs. She had slapped her daughter for that, a thing she had never done before, and emptied tank and contents through the lock. Jen had fled squalling, into the sea, and not to come home for hours. After that Mary spent a week scraping the whole top of the dome, polishing away the velvet coat of sea-growth till the plastic-covered panels gleamed like new; but it seemed the more she did, the more she tried to banish the presence of the sea from her home, the more the sea invaded. At night, lying quiet, she imagined she could feel the slow push of the wave force against the bungalow, tilting it this way and that, slow, slow, this way...then that. . .

She drove herself across to West Terrace, built slightly higher than the rest of town on a curving ridge of rock. Nearly to the Belmonts’ dome and back, calling all the way. Jen was not in town; or if she was, she refused to answer. Mary’s face was wet now inside the mask and her lungs were laboring. Thoughts tumbled in her mind. Nitrogen narcosis, the thing they used to call rapture of the depths ... no longer possible, the lungs delivered an oxy-helium mix. Oxygen intoxication, then; that could make you throw your mask off, breathe water and die. But it was nearly unheard-of. Low down on Mary’s back, and on Jen’s, were other contacts. They led to cells deep in the body that metered the blood itself, tasting it for oxy-content. The lungs were self-compensating. Pack failure? Crazy, the gulp-bottle on Jen’s belt would give her twenty minutes’ breathing. And the beacon, there was the beacon. But beacons could go out. . .

Mary doubled, swerving under the rigging of the street lamps. Across to where she could see the divers working on the new building complex. The bodies hung round the curving ribs, tiny with distance, silver as fish under the glare of the lamps; below, the windows of the construction office just showed in the gloom. Soon she would call Jack, she would have to. . . She felt the fear again, like a coldness round her heart. There was only one place she had not been. She began to swim purposefully away from the town and its lights, toward the Deeps.

Just beyond the domes the sea bed fell away in a series of troughs, miles long and wide. Unseen, their contours could still appal the mind. This was the frontier, the last frontier maybe on the planet. She passed over the graveyard, trying not to see the frail crosses sticking up from the silt, name tags fluttering in the current like gray leaves. Out to where the last light faded, and beyond...

She was in a void, bottomless, pit-black. Above her a vagueness that was just one shade less dark than darkness itself. Not light; some trailing ghost maybe, that light had left behind it. Mary drove deeper, hopelessly, feeling pressure begin to squeeze her body like cold hands. She was panting, though there was no sound of it in her ears; her breathing alone could not activate the throat mike. She called again; her voice was a vibrating thread, nearly lost in immensity.

And there was something, a blemish in the gulf. Tiny, nearly invisible, its shape so vague it mocked the retinas. Mary swam, hair flowing, there was a longness, a paleness, like a body caught and floating on some denser stratum of the sea. Deep down, far below. . .

“Jen!”

Mary kicked out, desperate now, her movements losing smoothness and coordination. Fighting the pressure was like butting at a wall; she imagined her whole body shrinking, condensing, becoming tiny as a fish.

“JEN!”

She’d reached the thing, she was stretching for it with her hands, when it moved. Eeled away, rolled. . . She saw the bright cloud of breathing suddenly released, the fins threshing. Heard her daughter chuckling in her earphones.

Fear turned to anger. Mary arced in the water. “Jen, get back this instant. . .” She grabbed again and the girl eluded her, quick as a fish. “Mummy, listen. . .” The voice bubbled through the sea. “It’s loud tonight, listen...”

Mary opened her mouth to yell again, and stopped. The noise . . . was there a noise?

She listened, straining. Found herself not breathing. It was impossible; no outside sound could come through her blocked ears. Nonetheless, it came. There, and again. . . A thudding, but not a thudding. Some pressure, like a concussion against the brain. Immeasurably slow and powerful and somehow ancient. . . Pulsing with her heart, fading, swelling back to touch her body. Earthquake or volcano, she had no idea. Nor did she care. Somehow it was sufficient that the sensation, the not-sound, was there. This was something immemorial, eternal. The true, dark, jet-blue voice of the sea. . .

Woman and girl hung a little apart, bodies vaguely glowing motes against a hugeness of water. Mary felt she could lie all night, not speaking, just soaking in the strangeness that seemed to fill her by rich stages from feet to head. Hearing rhythms that were not rhythms, that blended and crossed, melding each into each like the sounds of the sea-jazz. Soothing, calming, somehow warm...

She could hear Jen calling but the voice was unimportant, remote. It was only when the girl swam to her, grabbed her shoulders and pointed at the gauges between her breasts that she withdrew from the half-trance. The thing below still called and thudded; Mary turned reluctantly, found Jen’s hand in her own. She let herself float, Jen kicking slowly and laughing again delightedly, chuckling into her earphones. Their hair, swirling, touched and mingled; Mary looked back and down and knew suddenly her inner battle was over.

The sound, the thing she had heard or felt, there was no fear in it. Just a promise, weird and huge. The Sea People would go on now, pushing their domes lower and lower into night, fighting pressure and cold until all the seas of all the world were truly full; and the future, whatever it might be, would care for itself. Maybe one day the technicians would make a miracle and then they would flood the domes and the sea would be theirs to breathe. She tried to imagine Jen with the bright feathers of gills floating from her neck. She tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand and allowed herself to be towed, softly, through the darkness.

SUSAN

Summer and winter the chemmy lab had a smell all its own, a sharp half-sweet nuance like the scent of dust magnified many times. It came from the storage shelves to the left of the door where bottles of chemicals stood in rows on shelves of dark orange wood. Here were sulphates and thiosulphates, oxides and hydroxides, phosphorus coiled like Devil’s spaghetti in its thick oil, shining miniature slagheaps of iodine. There were other things too, a microscope on loan from Biology next door, a balance, its brasswork shining butter-yellow from its protective case; and a crystal of CuSO_4, meridian-bright in its tall vat. The jar in which the crystal hung stood on top of the highest shelf and seemed in itself to be a focus of light; reflections burned deep inside it like elongated turquoise suns.

Susan moved her unusual eyes from the shelves of chemicals, back to Mrs. Williams. The science mistress droned on softly, voice pitched just loud enough to carry to the farthest corners of the lab. From time to time chalk rasped on the board, the lines of symbols grew, white dust fell silently to thicken the drifts along the bottom of the varnished frame. This was the last period of the day and the lights were burning, pooling the floor with yellow, defining the edges of the benches with long waxy reflections, striking spindle-shaped gleams from the rims of beakers and flasks. Through the windows the sky was deepening toward four o’clock blue. Little noises came from the thirty girls; the rasp of a stool leg, the scuff of a foot, an occasional cough. The class was very slightly restless. Autumn term would finish in just under a fortnight; eight whole schooldays and a bit before breaking-up and all the concert-making, report-sealing, desk-tidying excitement still to come. Christmas was already in the air.

The benches ran round three sides of the lab. To the right were more shelves with masses of glassware, testtubes, gas jars, troughs, great seldom-used retorts. In the corner behind was the fume cupboard, bulky and forbidding with its tall newel posts, in the middle of the room the dais and the long blackboards. Susan sat halfway down the center bench, elbows resting on the dark wood, knees together, steepled fingers just touching her top lip. She let her eyes wander again from the face of the mistress to the batswing burner on the bench in front of her. The little flame danced in a deepening web of shadow, its base invisible, its yellow horns quivering and ducking and never quite repeating the same shape twice. Its other less-used name was butterfly burner, and like the Olympic torch it was a symbol, lit at the beginning of a lesson, never extinguished until the end. The flame hovered at the tip of the slim pipe like the bleeder of a tiny furnace where ideas, perhaps, were burned.

Mrs. Williams raised her chin slightly, questioningly. “And the composition of hydrochloric acid, someone? Quickly now.” Her glance traveled across the rows of faces, came inevitably to Susan. “Yes, Susan?” she asked.

The girl lowered her hands to her lap gently and straightened her back. If a voice can be said to have color, Susan’s voice was amber like her hair. “Thank you, Susan,” said Mrs. Williams. “Yes.” She paused, right elbow cupped in left hand, finger touching her throat. She was still for a moment, looking at nothing. Then the duster fizzed softly on the blackboard, the chalk scraped again. The lesson continued.

Ten to four, and the class starting to make their notes. Susan wrote methodically, glancing up from time to time to verify a formula that was already in her mind. As she finished the last line the bell shrilled in the corridor.

Nibs continued to scratch for another half minute; Mrs. Williams ran a very firm class. Then the mistress nodded briefly; exercise books scurried into satchels, buckles snapped shut, fountain pens were closed and rammed back into blazer pockets. There was the sort of straining silence that only comes between last bell and dismissal. Mrs. Williams eagled at the girls, compressed her lips. Then she turned and scanned the board with a vaguely resentful air, as if the end of classes had taken her completely by surprise. The corners of Susan’s mouth turned upward the smallest fraction. This was all part of the ritual.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Williams. “Stand.”

A thunder of obedience.

“Stools.”

The stools were thrust hastily beneath the benches.

“Dismiss,” said Mrs. Williams. “Quietly now.”

The class scuttered down the corridor. Susan watched them go. Through the open door came the hurrying, locker-slamming sound of the big school finishing for the day. The batswing flame vanished with a pop.

Mrs. Williams looked up sharply. “Well, Susan? Haven’t we got a home?”

Susan swung her crammed satchel onto her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Williams. I was dreaming.”

Mrs. Williams smiled. The smile looked a little strained. “Time enough for that after next June.”

“Yes, Mrs. Williams. Good night.”

“Good night, Susan.”

The mistress stood in the doorway, books under her arm, hand on the lightswitches. She watched Susan walk away. She stayed still after the tall girl had turned the corner and was out of sight. Then a scuffle of second-formers shot from somewhere, swirled momentarily round her skirt. Mrs. Williams jerked to automatic attention. “You. You, there. Yes, all of you. Come here . . .” She turned off the switches, and left the classroom to the twilight.

Susan washed her hands and face in the end sink of the first-floor cloakroom, pulled a fresh loop of towel out of the dispenser. She dried herself slowly, burying her face in the towel to catch the clean, linen smell of it that went so naturally with the scents of carbolic soap and steam. Cat-cleanliness was part of Susan’s particular mystery. She had been the same as a first-former, although first-formers are notoriously a fusty, inky-pawed crew. On one occasion the school captain of the time, catching a small girl at the un-heard-of rite of washing during break, had taken her persistence for insolence and the whole idea for cheek and attempted to expel her. But a child who buzzes her displeasure like something electric, until your hand tingles and you have to let go, is something too far outside normal experience to cope with. And the child would keep staring with those lilac eyes, and the whole incident had unnerved the prefect so badly she never got around to reporting it. . . .

Susan crossed to the mirror, flicked her corn-colored hair more or less into place, picked up her satchel again and headed for 5Q formroom, deserted now and dark. She turned on one light and packed her books for evening study, checking the subjects against the timetable pinned inside the desk lid. Then she walked back down the corridor toward the stairs.

Miss Hutton sat at her desk in the lower Sixth formroom and watched the girl pass the half-open door. Then she called softly, knowing she would hear.

“Susan?”

Susan slowed automatically and walked back to the room.

“Yes, Madam?”

Miss Hutton moistened her lip very slightly with her tongue and her fingers twined in each other restlessly. For a moment she looked undecided. She said, “You are rather late, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Hutton. I was packing my books.”

Miss Hutton frowned and looked away from Susan’s face and then back quickly as if she had come to a decision. She said, “What time does your bus leave?”

“Four-twenty-five, Madam.”

Miss Hutton set her jaw. “Susan, do you think you could spare me a few minutes?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Come in,” said Miss Hutton. “Close the door. Sit anywhere . . . Don’t worry, you are not in trouble.”

Susan smiled.

She took a seat in front of the mistress, eased her long legs a little awkwardly under the desk. She slid the satchel from her shoulder and waited with her eyes on Miss Hutton’s face. The school was very quiet now, nearly all the pupils gone.

Miss Hutton rose, folded her arms, walked quickly across the dais to the window, looked down into the corner of the quad. She said, “Over the years I have come to have a special feeling about the sound the school makes as it empties. To me it seems that the building becomes a great conduit full of very fresh clear water; and the footsteps and the voices tinkle and splash along the corridors and down stairs until the last one is gone. Do you understand me, Susan?”

“Yes, Madam.”

Miss Hutton smiled awkwardly, fingered her unpainted lip. In class she was very much of a martinet, but there was little to suggest that now. She was a small, neat, elderly woman, just a little bowed, and tiredness had sagged down the corners of her mouth and made fine lines round her eyes. She walked back to her desk, stood leaning her hands on its polished surface and looking down at Susan. She said, “As you know, Susan, I am retiring at the end of the present term. I had hoped to continue to the end of the school year in July but various considerations, among them my health, prompted an earlier decision. So in a fortnight’s time I shall be gone. School life being what it is, one day tends to slip very rapidly into the next, more particularly as one becomes older.” She cleared her throat. “This may very possibly be the last opportunity I have to talk to you like this, privately. And I want very particularly to ask you a question.”

“Yes, Madam.” There was no interrogation in Susan’s voice. She spoke calmly, as if she had always known this conversation would take place and had already guessed its outcome.

Miss Hutton leaned forward a little. She inhaled slowly and held the breath, let it go again with a tiny sound. Her eyes were intent on the girl’s face. “Susan,” she said gently, “Who are you?”

A pause. Then, slowly, “I’m sorry, Madam. I don’t know what you mean.”

Miss Hutton shook her head slightly. She continued to watch Susan and the girl looked back calmly. They both remembered something that had happened just a week ago.

A classroom. Pale sunlight slanting across the desks, the tall windows bright with winter sky. Form 5Q had been reading Romeo and Juliet. Miss Hutton had cast round for a Juliet and her eyes had stopped on Susan and she had asked her to speak the part. And when they had come to the impossible scene where Juliet imagines waking inside a tomb thirty prone-to-giggle fifth formers had been held by words that for the first time seemed to have a great singing meaning. In the quietness Miss Hutton had paced up between the desks and taken Susan’s neglected book and walked back to the front of the form. Susan carried on for half a dozen lines then slowed and stopped, and the enchantment was broken. “I’m sorry, Madam,” Susan said. “I can’t remember any more.”

Miss Hutton looked down at the book in her hand and frowned. “Susan, do you have this play by heart?”

“No, Madam. Only a few lines here and there. We did some of it in the lower school.”

Someone whispered briefly and Miss Hutton silenced the offender with a look. She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it and nodded briskly as if the subject was closed. Then she had returned the book to Susan, still open, and Susan looked at it as it lay on the desk and at the top of the page were the words “Persons Represented.”

Miss Hutton laughed, not unmusically. She said, “You slipped up there, Susan. The best of us do occasionally.” She became intent again. “You do have that play by heart, don’t you?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“And everything else you ever read for me?”

“Yes, Madam.”

Miss Hutton nodded. “Yes, I know that. Everything, at one reading. But you’re clever, my dear. You veil your mind, as you veil those eyes of yours. ... I don’t know how you do it but that is what you do. . . . Why, Susan? Why? I ask you again, who are you? Or what . . .”

Silence. Then Susan said evenly, “I have a very retentive mind, Miss Hutton.”

The teacher turned away abruptly and seemed to stare at the blackboard. Then she sat down in her chair, rested her elbows on the desk, laid her chin on her laced fingers. She said slowly, “Susan, when I started to teach, many years ago, I had certain ideals. I do not think I had any illusions, I realized that for each little success there would be many, many frustrations and failures and disappointments, but I had ideals. I don’t think I altogether lost them. In fact I know I did not. Within my limitations I have been a good teacher. But now, right at the end, I cannot help a certain feeling of . . . unfulfilment. It seems that I am able to see nothing but the failures, all the children who showed promise who did not realize that promise for one reason or another. And of course for someone like myself who tries to teach from within the pupil rather than applying the arbitrary requirements of syllabus in a process of verbal tarring and feathering, there must be with each child the ultimate disappointment of seeing her, or him, pass beyond your reach into what is generally termed adult life. You are left to guess what sort of person your little half-made creature finally becomes.” She smiled slightly. “In my younger days, of course, things were not quite so hectic. Classes were smaller; we were not fighting the Battle of the Bulge as we do today. All you small people had more room to spread and grow; schools were not manufactories in quite the same sense as they are now. Or perhaps I am already assuming the rosy glasses of the elderly. For I am old.” The smile flicked off, then returned. “I know most of you think of me as already decrepit,” said Miss Hutton. The stock line would have raised a giggle from any fifth-former. This girl did not smile.

Miss Hutton picked up an ebony ruler from the desk and turned it slowly, watching the reflections run along its smooth darkness. She said, “I have realized something about myself at last, Susan. I am a very selfish person.”

Susan did not blink.

The mistress laid the ruler down. She said, “In two weeks’ time, after our little concert and the customary speeches for end of term, there will be a presentation. I shall be given a reading lamp or a Life of Johnson, and I shall make a short parting address wishing you all luck in the years to come and hoping you have a Merry Christmas. There will be three cheers for Miss Hutton. I can hear them now, very penetrating and shrill with the school captain leading them. Then I shall leave.

“I have bought a little cottage, not very far from here. It has a garden, not large and rather wild at the moment. I hope to spend quite a lot of time working on it. I shall dig, and plant, and after a year or so I shall have quite an attractive display of flowers. I shall come back to the school, of course, for Speech Days. For a little while there will be faces amongst you that I know. The little new people may notice me and ask, ‘Who is that?’ and somebody a little older and very scornful will say, “That’s Miss Hutton, who used to teach English.’ But that will pass, and afterwards I will be just another old lady for whom the monitors will have to find a seat. No one will remember.”

Susan reached up and pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes.

“I went to my cottage last weekend,” said Miss Hutton. “I stood in what will be the living room, and looked round the bareness, and planned where I should place this and that piece of furniture. And an odd thought came to me. It seemed that this little room, so still and cold, had been waiting for me for over sixty years. Do you understand how I felt?”

Susan stirred slightly. She said, “Yes Miss Hutton, I do.”

Miss Hutton nodded to herself vaguely. “Of course. Now, Susan, for a senior member of staff to seek counsel of a fifteen-year-old pupil is an act that I consider gross, and that I can only describe as an obscene privilege. But of course you are not a normal child. In fact, as we understand the term, you are not a child at all, are you?”

Very quietly. “No, Madam.”

A shadow seemed to touch the old woman’s face. A muscle twitched in her jaw. She said, “Not a child . . . and there is something at the back of your eyes that should make me afraid. I don’t know why it does not.”

Susan said softly, “How can I help you, Miss Hutton?”

The teacher made shapes in the air with her hands, as if symbols might be better than words to express what she wanted to say. “Susan, perhaps my need is very simple. I should have married. I should have liked children of my own; I could have watched them grow and ripen and marry perhaps, in their own time. But somehow I never got round to marriage. There was always too much to do at school. In a sense, although this will sound very stupid to you, you were all my children. And now you have gone into time, and I am left with my flowers and my little silent room. As I told you, I am selfish. These things should be enough. These and the knowledge that I did my best. But they are not.”

Susan’s eyes were lowered modestly. Her wrist was touching the wood of the desk; she wore a slim watch, and the desk top was acting as a sounding board for the tiny thing so that its ticking seemed to ring in the room.

“Susan,” said Miss Hutton, and her voice whispered and creaked, “I remember you when you came to this school, a little smidgin of a thing, all plaits and eyes. Now you are taller than I. I’ve watched you grow, over the years, and I know, I know, that you have more understanding than I, and more compassion than any of us ... I was tempted to say, than any of us poor humans. And yet by our standards you are a half-grown child.” She shook her head again. “And like any child you are a die, a matrix. But the shape you will stamp out, when you are grown, is past my imagining.”

The girl was silent. Her quietness had a penetrating quality; the gray walls of the rooms, the rows of empty desks seemed in themselves to be listening and waiting.

“I think,” said the mistress, “that what I am asking you to do is to take the place of all my other vanished children. Be my child, Susan. Tell me what you intend to do with yourself. Will you be a doctor, a dancer? An artist perhaps, a scientist? Tell me and I shall be able to follow you, in my mind at least. Perhaps I might even hear of you or see you again one day. By doing this, I think you would make up for all the rest.”

Silence lengthened; the ticking of the watch became louder until it was the noise of a little frenzied machine clacking off irretrievable seconds. Then Susan raised her head. “I’m sorry,” she said simply. “I don’t know what I shall be. So I can’t tell anyone, Miss Hutton. Not even you.”

Miss Hutton stared at the desk and her hands clenched until the knuckles showed white with strain. The sound of the watch clattered in her mind and the little cottage room seemed suddenly to grow out of darkness, chilling her as if its very walls harbored an unearthly cold. Miss Hutton shuddered and gasped; then something seemed almost to shoulder past her into that room, something young and golden and intensely alive, something that brushed away fears and ghosts and oldness and snapped open windows to let in sunlight and warmth. Miss Hutton laughed uncertainly, seeing the little room before her with the vividness of hallucination. There was no darkness now; its windows were open and through them she could see June flowers, a brightness of grass, cumulus ships sailing the intense sky. This was a place to which she could come in dignity, and in peace. She could rest here, and she would not be alone ...

Miss Hutton looked up and blinked. Susan was leaning over her and it seemed to the mistress that even while she watched a light was dying away from the girl’s eyes. She stared fascinated while a lilac brightness snapped and glittered and ebbed; then Susan was only a gentle-faced blond girl in a dark blue school uniform and blazer. On her shoulder, a satchel of books.

“I’m sorry, Miss Hutton,” said Susan. “I must catch my bus now.”

Miss Hutton blinked again and realized the fear was gone, replaced by an unassailable feeling of lightness, as if a question had indeed been asked and answered but not with words. She took a breath and when she spoke her voice was quite different; it had regained its old briskness. “Yes,” she said. “On you go. I’m glad we had our little chat. And Susan . . .”

“Madam?”

“Thank you,” said Miss Hutton.

Susan watched her a moment longer. Then she did an impossible thing. She reached forward and gripped the old woman’s shoulder briefly with one hand.

Miss Hutton sat at the desk for a full minute after Susan had gone. Then her hand moved up to the sleeve of her cardigan and touched it and it seemed a warmth came from the place and suffused through her body.

Susan paused in the locker rooms to retie her house sash; then she took her coat from the peg and shrugged herself into it. She tightened the belt, smoothed the collar, ran her finger round inside it to free her hair. She flicked her head, hefted the satchel and walked out to the bus queue as the vehicle ground to a halt outside the school gates. She boarded it and sat on her own, leaning back on the seat with her eyes closed. The chugging of the engine, the noise from the load of children, sounded faintly. She felt tired, as if for the moment she was drained of all energy. A Grammar School fourth-former ogled at her and she grinned without opening her eyes; another, greatly daring, tweaked the end of her sash but she did not react. Her ears told her of the vehicle’s progress; here the driver changed down for a corner, here he accelerated on a slope. She listened to the town being left behind. The bus halted four times and juddered away again. When it reached Susan’s stop she climbed down and stood and watched the tail lights move round a bend of the road and out of sight. The engine sound faded away; a little wind came from somewhere, chilling with a promise of snow and ice. Susan started to walk.

A hundred yards or so along the main road she turned off into a lane. The estate where she lived was new and as yet there were no streetlights. In front and far off she could see the yellow rectangles of house windows and porches. She entered the darkest part of the road, moving slowly beneath the bare branches of trees.

Beneath the hedge, inside Harold Sanderson, a red angel and a white fought for mastery. Harold panted; sweat started out on his face and slid down his cheeks, his hands gripped convulsively, the fingers crumbling twigs and earth. And the red angel conquered, and waved its sword and shouted an awful truth, and Harold growled and slid forward, small now only in stature. His fingers were crooked, wanting to squeeze and twist.

The tall girl walked unconcernedly, scuffing dead leaves with her shoes. Out on the main road headlights flashed; a beam of light flicked her hair for a second and the hair was yellow and soft. Harold shuddered and began to make a moaning noise like an animal. Another five steps, four, three, two, one ... He sprang, reaching with his claws.

The satchel, loaded solid with books, caught him squarely under the jaw. He fell back and another blow seemed to explode across his ear, sending him sprawling. He saw a great flash of light and when it was gone the angel had vanished. He rolled over, feeling wet earth beneath him, and his hands came up to protect his face. “No,” muttered Harold. “No more . . .”

Susan bent over him, close enough to see the alien thing that sprawled in his brain like a cancer. Her eyes shone and she wrenched at the thing with disgust; unwanted neural links swelled and popped like worms. There is blood on your hands, raged Susan silently. Why didn’t you come to me before ...

Harold sat up dazedly, unable to remember. “Sorry,” he wheezed. “Must have fallen . . . sorry if I gave you a turn.” He looked up blinking in the dark, only able to see her silhouette. His face was not quite the same. In the center of his mind now was a little vacancy, harmless as a sunny meadow.

“That’s all right,” said Susan quietly. “Let me help.” Her hand found his arm and half hoisted him to his feet.

He trotted beside her, chattering, till they reached the first of the houses. “Really obliged,” said Harold, “very much obliged. I think I must have knocked my head when I went over. Might’ve laid there all night. Dark under them trees there, you could lay all night easy and not get found. ... I was a bit funny but I’m all right now, it’s going off. Can’t think what I was doing right out here, that I can’t. I’ve heard of these lapses of memory, I reckon I had one of them. ... No thanks, I shall be fine, got a car down the lane, see. . . . Can’t think what I was doing, wandering about like that.” He stopped at Susan’s gate. “Thanks again miss, thanks very much indeed . . . goodnight miss, and thanks ... yes ....”

Susan watched him go. “Be careful,” she called softly. “It’s very dark. Don’t slip again.” She waited until he was out of sight, then she walked up the path to the house.

She hung her coat and satchel in the hall and walked through to the lounge. The curtains were drawn, a fire crackling in the hearth. In the corner the television set was working quietly. Melanie sat rather grumpily on the mat, feet apart, hands spread each side of her. “Susan,” she complained, before her sister was halfway through the door, “I can’t find my big animal book. And I wanted it tonight for Brownies. Do you know where it is?”

Susan thought for a moment and saw the book quite clearly, wedged down behind the back of the sideboard. She retrieved it and dropped it in Melanie’s lap. “You always know where everything is,” said the little girl. “I wish I did.” She began to leaf through the book. “Anne Ryder’s brother is in India and he wrote to say he’d got a mongoose and there’s a picture of one in the book and I wanted to take it to show her. Thanks, Susan...”

Susan smiled.

Her mother came through from the kitchen, hands full of plates. She said, “You’re late, love. Did something happen?”

“No, nothing, mother. I’m sorry. ... I stopped to help someone who was lost.”

The older woman frowned and started arranging cork mats on the table. “Who was it?”

“A man called Mr. Sanderson. He had a car, and he couldn’t find the way. It was all right, I knew him.”

Her mother paused with a dinner mat in her hand. “There’s no Sandersons on the estate. Not that I can think of. Susan . . .”

“Yes?”

“You know what I’ve told you about things like that,” said her mother for Melanie’s benefit. “It isn’t always a good idea to talk to people you don’t know, even if they seem nice. Especially after dark. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Don’t do it again, then.”

Susan shook her head slowly. “It was all right. He was ill but he’s better now.”

Her mother bit her lip and turned away and Susan sensed the worry churning in her mind. She smiled.

Back turned to her, her mother jerked. “Susan,” she snapped, “stop it. . . .”

Susan followed her to the kitchen.

Out of sight of Melanie her mother turned to face her, gripped the girl’s arms above the elbows and tried to see down into her eyes. But the eyes were veiled. She said, “Susan . . .” Then she stopped and the frown came again, deeply. Her tongue stumbled, not seeming able to find the right words. “Your father and I,” she said. “We’re very worried. We were talking . . . we’re both very worried about you. You will take care, won’t you? Be so very careful. . .

Susan nodded quietly. “I shall be careful.”

Her mother reached up and stroked the hair from Susan’s forehead. Her eyes were flicking from side to side across the girl’s face as though she was trying hard to understand something. “Susan,” she said, and the words seemed to be squeezed out against her will, “Susan, dear . . . who are you?”

A long wait. The television played softly in the lounge. A car passed in the lane and the sound vanished in the distance. Then Susan shook her head. “I’m sorry, mother,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean....”

She picked up the teacups and carried them into the other room.

The Passing of the Dragons

There’s no real reason for an Epsilon Dragon to die. Nonetheless, they do.

By ‘real reasons’ I don’t of course include atmosphere, soil and plant pollution, direct and indirect blast effects and ultrasonic fracture of the inner ear. Most of the things that will do for a human being will do for a Dragon. They are, or were, more than humanly affected by high frequencies; the tympani were numerous and large, situated in a row down each side of the body an inch or so above the lateral line. Which you can see for yourself if you can get off your butt long enough to get down to the museum of the Institute of Alien Biology.

The other things that can kill a Dragon are more interesting, as I explained to Pilot (First Class) Scott-Braithwaite a few weeks after our arrival on (or coincidence with) Epsilon Cygnus VI. The specimen under consideration flowed and clattered into the clearing by the lab about thirteen hundred hours, Planetary Time. I was checking the daily meter readings, I didn’t pay too much attention till I saw the three sets of whips a Dragon carries on its back flatten out and immobilise. It made the thing look like a little green and gold helicopter squatting there on the grass.

I picked up the stethoscope and the Rontgen viewer and walked outside. A Dragon has eight hearts, situated in two rows of four between the eighth and twelfth body segments. I attached the stethoscope sensors, studied the display. As I’d expected, the first cardiac pair had become inoperative. Pairs two and four seemed to be showing reduced activity; pair three, presumably, were sustaining residual body functions. Since breathing is by spiracles and tracheae, body function isn’t all that easy to confirm. I used the viewer and stood up, leaned my hands on the knobbly back-armour. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘our friend here is headed for the Happy Chewing Grounds. Or wherever they go.’

The Pilot (First Class) frowned. He said, ‘How can you tell?’

I shrugged and walked round the Dragon. There was a slight injury, in the soft membrane between two body segments; a little fluid had wept across the armour, but it didn’t seem critical. If Dragons were arthropods, as their appearance suggests, collapse from a minor abrasion would be understandable; but the body is no fluid-sac, they have a blood-vascular system as well defined as that of a mammal. On the other hand the possibility of infection couldn’t be ruled out. I fetched a hypodermic from the lab, drew off a fluid sample. Later I’d take tissue cuttings. They’d be clean, of course. They always are.

I’d brought the surgical kit out with me. I rigged a pair of pacemakers, set the collars on the probes to the standard twenty five centimetre penetration. I measured a handspan from the median lines, pushed the needles down through the joint membrane, used the stethoscope again. The trace bounced around a bit, and steadied.

He leaned over me. I suppose one might say ‘keen face intent’. He said, ‘Working?’

I shrugged. I said, ‘Any fool can make a heart pump. It isn’t much of a trick.’

He said, ‘Then it’ll be OK.’

I shook my head. I said, ‘It’ll die.’

He said, ‘When?’

I lifted one of the whips, let it droop back. I said, ‘In thirty hours, twenty-eight minutes Terrestrial.’

He raised his eyebrows.

I said kindly, ‘Planetary revolution.’

I walked back to the lab. I’d decided to run a cardiograph. Not that it would tell us any more than the thousand or two already in file at IAB. But it’s one of the things one does. It’s called Making an Effort. Or Showing the Flag.

He was still standing where I’d left him. He said, ‘I can’t understand these damn things.’

Most of his conversation was like that. Incisive. Really kept you on your toes.

I started attaching the sensors of the cardiogram. You should listen to a Dragon’s hearts sometime. It’s like the pulse of a star. Or maybe you’re a fan of the Hottentots. They based their style on IAB recordings, so I’m told; so the Dragons, you see, have been of service to mankind.

He said, ‘Why planetary revolution?’

I smiled at him. ‘Do you know, Pilot, First Class,’ I said, ‘I have no idea.’

He frowned. He said, ‘I thought you scientists had all the answers.’

His repartee certainly was a joy to the ear.

I said, ‘I’m not a scientist. Just a Behaviourist.’ I smiled again. ‘Technician,’ I said. ‘Second Class.’

He didn’t answer that one. They don’t encourage morbid self-analysis at Space School.

I walked back through the specimen lock. I’d had it rigged some time now. I’d been asked to take a living Dragon back to Earth. Not that it would survive phaseout. They never do. But that’s what science is all about for most of us; a lot of little people doing what’s been done before, and not succeeding either.

He followed me. He had that trick. He said, ‘Can I help?’

I said, ‘No, thanks.’ I was thinking how difficult it must be for him, lumbered with a type like me. My teeth are less than pearly, my body is less than sylphlike; I don’t play pelota, I drink my ale by the pint, and what I say sometimes has some relation to what I think. It must have been hell.

He lit a cigarette. At least he had one insanitary habit. Maybe there were more. You can never tell, by appearances.

I switched the recorder on. The traces started zipping along the display. I turned the replay volume up. The sound thudded at us. He winced. He said, ‘Do we have to have that?’

I said, ‘It soothes me.’ I gave the volume another notch. I said, ‘You must have heard the Hottentots.’

He said, ‘That’s different.’

Man, was his conversation up tight. This was being a great tour.

I listened to the heartbeats. The rhythms phased in and out of each other like drums; or bells underground, ringing a Change that was endless.

He said, ‘And that thing’s going to die?’

I didn’t answer. I was thinking about the Dragon. Difficult to dissociate the notion of purpose from things that take exactly a day to die. Neither a second more nor less. But it’s difficult to dissociate the notion of purpose from anything a Dragon does. Or did. For instance, they built cities. Or we thought they were cities. We were never too sure, one way or the other.

I ejected the sample into a centrifuge, locked the case and switched on. He watched me for a bit. Then he yawned. He said, ‘I’m going to have a kip till contact time. Call me if you need me.’

I kept my back turned till the door had shut. With the din I’d set up he was going to be lucky. But some people can sleep through anything. Probably to do with leading a healthy life.

* * * *

He started on the subject again at supper time. He’d got a radio running; music was playing, from the room next door. The room we call Earth. My Dragon’s jazz was still thumping in the lab. I changed channels, got the Hottentots. It made an interesting counterpoint. He changed back. He said, ‘How many of those things do you reckon there are out there?’

‘What things? Pop groups?’

He said, ‘Dragons.’

I let a can of soup preheat, picked it up, burned my fingers and opened it. I said, ‘A hundred, hundred and fifty. That was at the last count. Probably halved by now.’

He frowned. He said, ‘What’s killing them?’

I did rather take that as a silly question. Epsilon Cygnus VI just happens to have a mineral-rich crust containing about everything Homo Sapiens has ever found a use for, from gold to lithium. My species had blown in ten years back; now the rest of the planet was an automated slagtip.

I started ticking points on my fingers. I said, ‘Ecological imbalance triggered by water-borne effluent. Toxic concentration of broad-spectrum herbicides------’

He waved a hand, irritably. He said, ‘They’ve got a whole damn subcontinent to live in. There’s no mining here.’

I said, ‘So they die from minor abrasions. Maybe they’re making a gesture.’

He looked at me narrowly. He said, ‘You’ve got some damn queer ideas.’

I said, ‘I’m an observer. I’m not paid to have ideas.’

‘But you said------’

‘I pointed out psychological factors may exist. Or there again, they may not. Either way, we shall never know. Hence my engrossment.’

He frowned again. He said, ‘I don’t follow you.’

‘There’s not much to follow. I’m fascinated by failure. It runs in the family.’

He shook his head. I think he was grappling with a concept. He said, ‘You mean------’

‘I didn’t mean anything. I was just making light conversation. As per handbook.’

He flushed. He said, ‘You don’t have to be so bloody rude about it.’

I slung the can at the disposal unit. For once, I hit it. I said, ‘I’m sorry, Space Pilot.’ I smiled. I said, ‘Us civvies, you know. Nerves wear a bit thin. Don’t have your cast-iron constitutions.’

I don’t have the stoicism of the upper bourgeoisie either. If I cut my finger, I usually whimper.

He flashed me a white grin. That’s the most offensive sentence I can think of, so I’ll leave it in. It describes what he did so well. He said, ‘Forget it, Researcher. I’m a bit on edge myself.’

Oh, those lines! I was starting to wonder whether he had an inexhaustible stockpile of them. There must be an end somewhere, even to aphorisms.

I walked to the blinds, lifted the slats. Night on Epsilon VI is greenish, like the days. Like a thick pea soup, with turquoise overtones. The heartbeat thudded, in the next room.

I picked up a handlamp. I said, ‘I’m going out to check the patient.’ The comic opera habit was evidently catching.

He said, ‘I’ll come with you.’

I think his nerves were getting bad. He had an automatic strapped to his hip; on the way through the lab he collected a rocket pistol as well. There are no dangerous fauna on Epsilon VI; in fact at the time of writing I’m predisposed to believe there are no fauna at all. There used to be some pretty big lepidoptera though. I said, ‘You should have brought a scattergun. They’re difficult to hit with ball.’

He said, ‘What?’

I said, ‘The moths.’

He didn’t deign to answer.

The Dragon squatted where we had left it. I turned the lamp on. The halogen-quartz cut a white cone through the murk. Furry flying things blundered across the light. I swung the beam round. The jungle was empty.

He was standing with his hands on his hips, the holster flap tucked back. He said, ‘What are you looking for?’

I said, ‘The mourners should be arriving pretty soon.’

‘The what?’

I said, ‘Mourners. But again, I’m theorising without data.’

‘What do they do?’

I said, ‘Nothing. Stand around. Generally they eat the corpse.’

He made a disgusted noise.

I said, ‘Autre temps, autre mondes...’ I switched the light off. I said, ‘I like these field jobs you know. They broaden one.’

He walked back ahead of me to the lab. I closed the door and bolted it, for his peace of mind.

I don’t sleep too well these days. Like the poet says, old bones are hard to please. I lay and read awhile. Afterwards I drank whisky. The site storeroom had a cellar like nobody’s business. It should have had; IAB observer teams had been stocking it surreptitiously for a decade. I poured myself another good slug. No point leaving the stuff to rot; there wouldn’t be any more folk coming this way. They’d cleaned up all the easy deposits on Epsilon VI; the archipelago on which we’d landed, a big curve of islands stretching into the southern ocean, was about the only land surface left unraped. It was also the last stronghold of the Dragons.

I put the glass down, sat staring at the dural wall. IAB had had assurances of course, from Trade Control; but once assurances start arriving three times a year you know the end isn’t far off. The principle of the thing’s simple, as simple as all truly great ideas; while a single rumpled little Earthman with spiky yellow shoes can make a single rumpled little spiky yellow dollar, the killing goes on. Any killing. Next season they’d open-caste the islands; the Dragons had had their chance.

The Pilot (First Class) kept his light on well into the night. Maybe he was reading. I wondered vaguely whether he masturbated. I wasn’t too concerned, one way or the other; but a Behaviourist gets into the way of collecting odd facts.

I’d turned the playback volume down but left it running. The Dragon’s hearts thumped steadily through the thin metal wall. Towards the middle of the night the rhythm altered. I got up, pulled a jacket on and went outside.

There’s no moon on Epsilon; but there is a massive aurora belt. The green sky flashed and flickered; it was like the brewing of a perpetual storm. The Dragon’s whips vibrated faintly; the golden eye-clusters watched without interest. I used the stethoscope. The second and fourth heart pairs were dead. I applied a second and third set of pacemakers. Pair two picked up; pair four wouldn’t kick over. I decided a stimulant couldn’t do any harm. I went back to the lab, checked the chart, filled a syringe. I shot enough strychnine into the heart walls to kill a terrestrial horse. I saw the trace pick up and steady. Interesting. I thought vaguely I should have taken encephalographs as well.

The idea of stimulants was a good one. I went back, drank some more whisky. Then I dozed.

The mourners began to arrive at first light.

I heard the rustling and clattering and got up. I pulled on slacks and a shirt, stared through the lab port. The dawn was as green as the rest of the day; smoky emerald, fading to clear high lemon where Epsilon Cygnus struggled with the mist. A Dragon passed a yard or so away, jerking and lumbering like a thing at the bottom of an ocean. It was a big one, I judged a potential male. Dragons are parthenogenetic most of the time; over the years they sometimes develop sexual characteristics and mate conventionally. The analysis people had an idea it was to do with sunspot activity; but if there’s a correlation we didn’t give the computers enough hard facts to pinpoint it. The whole thing just made phylum classification a bit more entertaining.

The newcomer stopped a yard or more from the immobilised Dragon, and waved its whips. They were ten or twelve feet long, banded in green, orange and black. Ball and socket joints several inches across joined them to the body armour; round the base of each were tufts or stiff, iridescent hair.

The yellow eyes watched; the whips moved and stroked, touching the body of the dying creature from end to end. The head of the Dragon rotated, the jawparts clicked; then the thing reared its forepart into the air, lapsed into immobility. I’d seen the stance before. So had a lot of folk.

I opened the lab door, stepped outside. The morning air was cool and sweet. I walked up to the new arrival. The eye-clusters stared, like blank jewels. I wondered if it was seeing me.

I heard footsteps behind me. The Pilot (First Class) looked concerned. He said, ‘Jupiter, is this the first?’

I nodded. I said, ‘Good one, isn’t he?’

He rubbed his face. He was wearing a white shirt, open to the waist. On his chest hung a heavy silver cross. Very fashionable.

There was a crackling, in the jungle. Number two advanced slowly, through the moving coils of mist. It looked like a brilliant little armoured vehicle. The flowing of the clasper legs was invisible; you could have imagined readily enough that it was running on tracks.

It moved to the bunch of cables I’d stretched from the patient, and checked. The whips shook, stooped; rose again vertically above its back. It didn’t seem to object to the cables overmuch; neither did it cross them. It turned, followed their line to the dying Dragon. The same ritual was observed. The whips rustled; then the creature arched itself, lapsed like its fellow into stillness.

The Pilot (First Class) had his hand on the butt of the automatic. I shook my head. Dragons are harmless. Their mouthparts could take your arm off; but if you put your fingers between the mandibles they just stop working. I’d told him often enough but it seemed he wasn’t convinced.

He trailed after me back to the lab. He said, ‘How many of these things do you expect to arrive?’

I said, ‘Ten. Or a dozen.’

‘What’ll they do?’

I said, ‘Like I told you. Stand around.’

He said. They’re waiting for it to die.’

I set water on to boil. I said, ‘Could be.’

He frowned. He said, ‘They’re obviously waiting.’

I laid out plates and cups. I said, ‘It’s by no means obvious. “Wait” as a concept depends on human-based time awareness. They may lack that awareness. In which case, they are not waiting.’

He said, ‘It’s a bit of a quibble though.’

I shook my head. ‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘Consider a proposition. ‘The rocks of the valley waited.” That’s more than a quibble. It’s a howling pathetic fallacy.’

He glared at me. He said, ‘If they’re living, they have time awareness.’

I shrugged. I said, ‘Try telling a tree.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘Then trees aren’t living. Interesting.’

He said, ‘You are the most argumentative bastard I ever met.’

I said, ‘Hard words, Captain. In any case it’s not true. For argumentative read definitive.’

He swallowed his temper, like a good skipper. My word, these boys have self-control. They’re pretty fine male specimens of course, all the way round.

By midmorning nine of the creatures had arrived. I set up the encephalogram, fixed the probes. A Dragon has a massive brain, situated behind and below the eyes. Capacity betters the human cranium by an average of twenty-five per cent. Nearly the same was once true of terrestrial dolphins. But they never learned to talk.

I watched the pens record. Something like an alpha rhythm was emerging. By thirteen hundred Planetary Time the wave forms were altering, developing greater valleys and peaks. The crisis was approaching; but it was nothing new. I lit a pipe, walked outside. The heartbeats thundered, from the open lab door. At thirteen-forty the first pair shut down. The pairs two and three. I counted the beats on pair four. Then the glade was silent. I said, ‘That’s it then.’ I logged the time; Earth Standard and Planetary, hours and minutes from sunup. I pulled the probes out, disconnected them, started coiling the cables.

He stood staring. He said, ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’

I said, ‘Like what?’

He said, ‘Try it with a shot. Something like that.’

I said, ‘You can if you like. Speaking from my human-based awareness, I’d say it was a waste of time.’

Dead, the thing looked just as it had when living; but the gold was fading slowly from the eyes.

He sat on the metal step of the lab and lit a cigarette. He looked shaken up.

The jade-green ring of Dragons made no move. They stood poised through the afternoon, like so many cumbersome statues. Occasionally one or other of the pairs of whips would rise, tremble, sink again; but that was all. I cut tissue specimens for autopsy, stripped the pacemakers, autoclaved the probes. Then I scrubbed up and went through to the living quarters. He was sitting reading a glossy somebody had left about. It had a full frontal stereograph on the cover. She looked pretty good. I walked back to the lab, ran the tapes and started up. The heartbeat of the dead Dragon filled the air.

I heard him fling the book down. He stood in the doorway, staring. He said, ‘Do we have to have that again?’

I said, ‘We do. There might be a clue.’

‘A what?’

I said, ‘Think of it as a sort of Cosmic Code. It may help.’

We ate. The Dragons stayed in their circle. Afterwards he walked out. He didn’t say where he was going, which is against the rules if you’re going strictly by the book. There was a little vertol flier in one of the hangar sheds. I heard it start up, drone away towards the west.

I turned the replay volume up. The heartbeats thudded in the clearing. I got a heavy speaker housing from the lab, set it out on the grass, blasted the noise at the Dragons. It had been tried before of course. They hadn’t reacted then. They didn’t react now. I dismantled the rig, put the gear away and shut down. The glade was very still, the veiled sun dropping towards the west.

I got my jacket, and a pair of prismatics. I walked due south, away from the lab. About a mile off, a rocky bluff thrust up through a mustard-green tide of trees. The front of the cliff, golden now in the slanting light, was riddled with holes. I used the glasses. A dozen were occupied; I could see the yellow masks staring down. The rest were empty and blank.

At the foot of the cliff was a roughly circular clearing. In it stood a dozen or more massive structures. The quartz chunks of which they were mainly composed flashed and glittered, throwing back the brilliant light. They formed columns, arcades, porticoes. At intervals openwork platforms pierced the towers; it made them look a little like gigantic rose trellises. Sprays of viridian creeper twined from level to level, enhancing the illusion. It was presumed the Dragons built them; though the proposition had never been proved. IAB had been interested in them for years, off and on. A docket went round whenever somebody had a bright idea. I’d seen nests, temples and freeform sculpture all put up as propositions. You paid your money and you took your choice.

The city was the main reason for the siting of the lab. We’d put it a mile away initially in case the Dragons reacted to our presence. The hope had been wild and wilful; nobody had yet seen them react to anything.

I walked back to the lab. There was no sign of the Pilot (First Class). I set the coffee on again, picked up the girlie book, skimmed the pages. I was pleased to see they were letting a few white strippers back in on the act. Emancipation, like everything else, can go too far.

Towards nightfall I checked the port. The ring of Dragons had closed in; one of them was stretching its neck segments, nuzzling forward and back along the corpse like a cat skimming cream from a saucer. After a time the mouthparts settled to a steady motion. I logged the event.

The flier landed. A wait; and I heard the Pilot’s footsteps in the clearing. He barged in through the lab door. He said, ‘They’re eating it. It’s bloody horrible.’

I put the mag down. I said, ‘The fact has been noted.’

He said, ‘It’s bloody horrible. And you reckoned those things were intelligent.’

‘I can’t remember reckoning anything. In any case it doesn’t preclude the possibility.’

‘You must be joking!’

I said, ‘Perhaps it’s a religious observance. Which would make it highly sophisticated.’

‘A what?’

I remembered the cross round his neck. He was a neo-Catholic of course. He had to be. I said, ‘It has all the distinguishing characteristics.’

He sat down heavily and lit a cigarette. He said, ‘You’re mad.’

‘I wish I was. I’d get more fun out of life. Remember the Dream of the Rood?’

‘No.’

I clucked at him. ‘Dear me. And part of your course was the Humanities.’

He glowered. I smiled at him. I said. ‘Teatime, skipper. Your turn to undo the cans.’

He said, ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not hungry.’

I said, ‘Pity. I am. Force of habit of course. But powerful. Rule One of the Behaviourist.’ I got up, started banging pots and pans round in the galley. I said, ‘Blood sacrifice. Eat, for this is my flesh. Also see Tennessee Williams. Mid twentieth century. American.’

He stood. He said, ‘I’m going to get cleaned up.’

I said, ‘They probably have. It’s a very old sofa.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Daddy has some timeslip trouble. Bear with an old man.’

He walked out. He’d started slamming doors.

I kicked the girlie stereo under the side table. Not so much from frustration as pique. One dislikes being constantly offered what isn’t for sale.

He started singing in the shower. He always sang in the shower. His voice was very good. Light tenor. I expected he used a good aftershave too. I wondered just what the hell a Dragon would make of him anyway, Pink for skin, brown for hair, white for teeth. You could analyse the picture till it fragmented. Then you had a monster of your own.

The bath put him into a better humour. He emerged from his labours at seventeen hundred, Planetary. He was wearing a white uniform jacket, with the braids and brassard of his Order. He capered up to me, spun me round, slapped me on the back. Then he sat in a chair, legs asprawl, grinned and lit a cigarette. He said, ‘Judy’s coming through. On the Link.’

I said, ‘I bet she’s your fiancée.’

He looked hurt. He said, ‘You know she is. You met her before lift off. She’s a model.’

I said, ‘Ah, yes.’ It was the Little Girl Look this year, Earthside. Which meant candid blue eyes, golden curls, tits like stoplights. I said, ‘Thoughtless of me. I remember her well. A charming person, I thought.’

He looked at the chronometer on the lab bulkhead. He said, ‘We’re getting married. Straight after this tour.’

I said, ‘I expect you are.’

He gave me a dirty look. He said, ‘I suppose that fits a behaviour pattern too.’

I said, ‘It very well might.’

He said viciously, ‘Why don’t you run a programme on it? You might come up with some new facts.’

I yawned. I said, ‘Fortunately, I don’t have to. I read tealeaves. Saves a lot of computer time.’

The buzzer sounded. He started the Richardsons. Earth Control exchanged the time of day; then Judy came on. She was as I remembered her. Love through the Loop; she had the sort of voice that can squeeze sex out of duralumin. He said, ‘Hello, darling,’ and she said, ‘Hello, Drew.’ Drew, yet ... I tried the full effect. Drew Scott-Middleton. I got up, went looking for the whisky. I needed something to take the taste away.

She said, ‘How are you?’ He said, ‘Fine, love, just fine.’ I poured three fingers.

She said, ‘How’s the project?’

He said, ‘Fine.’

I walked out to the lab, started labelling and packing the heart tapes. She said, ‘Who’s that with you? I can’t see, he’s not in camera.’

He said, ‘Researcher Fredericks. You met him at lift off.’

She said, ‘Are you looking after him ?’

He said, ‘He’s fine.’

The speaker said, ‘Give him my love.’

Drew said, ‘She sends you her love.’

I said, ‘That’s fine.’

The Richardson operator said, ‘Epsilon, you are in overtime.’

Judy said, ‘Gosh, your poor bank balance. Darling, I must go. See you soon.’

He said,’ ‘Bye, bunny. Take care now’. I heard the crackle as the link broke. The generators cut, whined down to silence.

He walked to the lab door. He said, ‘That was bloody uncivil.’

‘What was uncivil?’

He said, ‘Walking out like that.’

I said, ‘It was your call, not mine.’

‘As if that mattered!’

‘It mattered to me. Anyway I had some work to do.’

His face darkened. He said, ‘You might as well know, I don’t like your attitude.’

I said, ‘The fact is noted.’

He took a step into the lab. He said, ‘I’m also very well aware you don’t like me.’

I said, ‘On the contrary. I don’t give a damn. Now, if you please. You do your thing. I’ll do mine. OK?’ I pushed past him, got myself another drink.

He stood and stared for a bit, breathing down his nose. He said, ‘What would you do if I belted you between the eyes?’

I said, ‘Lose consciousness. Later in all probability, sue you.’ I turned with a whisky in my hand. I said, ‘For Christ’s sake have a drink, man. And let it go.’

He took the glass, shakily. His moods were starting to switch about a bit. Too much for my taste. Anyway he cooled down in time. Sat and told me about the place they were buying in the Rockies, his old man having weighed in with a few thousand dollars to help the mortgage; and the Chrysler automat he’d picked up on his last Earth furlough and all the rest. He didn’t quite get round to how many kids they were planning for but he sailed pretty close. He even gave me a standing invite to view the establishment after they got settled in; which would have been great if I could have afforded the fare. It was all great, life was great. I rejoiced for him. I couldn’t help though having a momentary picture of the wedding night. You lie this way and I lie that, on sterilised polar sheets; while we devour, ritually, each other’s bodies.

I walked out to the Dragons. Chitinous plates lay about; but the corpse had gone. The air was full of a sweet, heavy musk. One of the monsters was still in sight, moving away purposefully to the south.

Purposefully? I was getting as bad as Pilot (First Class) Scott-Braithwaite.

I walked the few yards to the landing vehicle. It stood canted on its fragile-looking legs, heat shields scorched by atmospheric entry. We still use conventional feeders of course, even with the Richardson Loop; the Loop vehicle was parked somewhere out in orbit. We could probably slice it fine enough these days to make direct planetary landings; fact is, nobody’s all that keen to be the guinea pig. Get the Richardson axes a milli-degree or so out of true and your atoms could just get rammed cheek by jowl, so to speak, with the atoms of a mountain top. Nobody’s quite too sure whether that would represent a paradox or not. The consensus of opinion is that it would and there’d be a bloody great bang.

Travelling by Loop isn’t too bad; no worse, I suppose, than allowing yourself to be wheeled in for a major operation. But somebody still has to make planetfall the other end, which is a process as primitive as firing a thirty-eight. That’s why even middle-aged IAB researchers need Pilots; though it’s true to say we need them more than they need us. Still it’s nice to have some Clean-Limbed Young Men about the place. Restores your faith in the world.

* * * *

I woke with a thick head in the morning. I lay in the bunk for a while wondering whether a touch of whisky would scorch the taste out of my throat. I heard the Pilot moving around outside. He called me a couple of times. I swore eventually and answered. I dressed, walked blearily to the lab door. He said, ‘We’ve got a visitor.’

He was squatting on his haunches a yard or two away in the clearing. Beside him was a Dragon. It was one of the smallest I’d seen. The whips, longer in proportion than the whips of an adult, were folded across its back. He was feeding it leaves off one of the palms; it was twisting its golden-eyed head and munching steadily. He looked up, grinning. He said, ‘It’s friendly.’

I said, ‘It’s eating.’

He frowned. He said, ‘It’s the same thing.’

I said, ‘One statement is an observation. The other is a surmise.’

He said, ‘Maybe it’s thirsty. Does it want a drink?’

I said, ‘They get all they need from vegetable fibres. You’re wasting your time.’

He got a dish from the lab anyway, filled it with water and set it down under the thing’s forelegs. He really thought he’d got some sort of green and gold, kingsize puppy dog there. The Dragon, of course, ignored it. He said, ‘I’ve christened him. His name’s Oscar. Do you know, I think he answers to it?’ He crooned the name in a variety of voices, snapping his fingers and waving his arms. The Dragon twisted its head, keeping his hands in sight. He said, ‘There, what about that?’

I said, ‘Try throwing it a stick. Also, its ears aren’t in its head. You’d be better off shouting at its arse.’

I put the coffee on to boil, and shaved. He played around with the thing half an hour or more longer. Finally he came inside. The Dragon stood where he had left it, motionless in the clearing. He watched it anxiously through the port while he was eating. He said, ‘How old is he? I hope he stays around.’

I really think he was starting to get lonely.

We had a trip planned for the day. I strapped myself into the flier; he climbed in beside me, jetted up a couple of thousand feet and flew south. I sat with the instrument box on my knees and watched the treetops sidle underneath. The sea became visible after a few minutes; a greenish shawl, fringed with an edging of paler lace. Farther out, a maroon stain spread across the horizon. A few biggish fish were floating belly-up. There were no other signs of life.

He turned west, following the coastline of the island. I waved to him to take the machine lower. Half a dozen clearings passed beneath, each with the curious towers of wood and stone. From above they looked vaguely oriental, like outlandish pagodas. Nowhere was there movement; the sites lay open and deserted.

We crossed the sea again, flew over the northerly islands. Half an hour later I touched his arm. I’d seen a clearing bigger than the rest, glimpsed something bronze-green moving in the jungle. I said, ‘Set down.’

He said, ‘Here? You must be joking.’ He took the machine in all the same, skimmed to a perfect landing between two of the glittering towers. He killed the motors. I sat while the miniature dust storm we had created subsided, then opened the cab door.

The air struck warm. A Dragon surveyed me indifferently from the edge of the jungle. Another, the one I had seen, was lumbering a hundred yards or so away. I walked towards it. It turned, whips waving, headed back into the trees. I let it go.

Clustering on the edge of the clearing were a series of curious six-sided structures, like pale green organ pipes a few sizes too large. The Pilot stood beside them, dusting his immaculate slacks. He said, ‘What are these?’

I said, ‘Were.’

‘Well. What were they?’

I said, ‘Nests. Moonstone termites. They were rather a pretty species. But they produced a formic acid variant that upset the chronometers at Transhipment Base. Earth lost a couple of freighters; they’re still out somewhere in the Loop. So we cooked up a little systemic. It was pretty good; did the job in a couple of years.’

He fingered one of the mortared columms, and frowned.

I said, ‘Never mind, old son. Can’t stand in the way of Progress.’

Beyond the clearing a low earth bank was covered by sprays of dense viridian creeper. Regularly-spaced holes showed blackly. All but one were deserted; in the nearest showed a familiar green and gold mask.

He said, ‘Are these places where they live?’

‘What?’

‘The Dragons.’

I said carefully, ‘These are where they are usually to be found.’

He nodded up at one of the quartz structures. ‘They build those?’

I said, ‘It seems probable. Nobody’s seen them at it yet.’

He said, ‘What the hell are they? What are they for?’

I said, ‘We have no idea.’

He said, ‘There’s got to be a reason.’

‘That’s a comforting philosophy.’

He glared at me. I was starting to get under his skin again. For a Pilot (First Class) he was pretty touchy. He said, ‘Everything has a reason.’

I said mildly, ‘Most things have explanations. But if we could explain why these things were built, it might not strike us as a reason. Since we’re hardly likely to explain them anyway, speculation is pointless.’

I walked forward. All the caves were tenanted; and all but a handful of the Dragons were dead. The bodies were flabby with decay, giving off the same sweet odour I’d smelled in the clearing. I counted forty seven corpses. None of them showed any signs of damage. He frowned finally, pushed his cap back on his head. He said, ‘Anyway, these weren’t eaten.’

I said, ‘Maybe there wasn’t time. They all went together.’

‘Do you think so?’

I said, ‘It’s possible.’

I sat on a rock and filled my pipe. He wandered off. A few minutes later I heard him call. I got up and walked in his direction.

There was a tower lower than the rest. On the timber staging were piled a dozen or more Dragons. I didn’t care to approach too closely. The bodies were pretty far gone.

He said, ‘That settles one thing anyway.’

’What?’

He gestured irritably. He said, ‘They’re burial platforms. It’s obvious.’

I said, ‘Or they climbed up there of their own accord. They were shuffling solemnly around, worshipping the sun, when they were struck with the same idea at precisely the same time.’

‘What idea?’

I said, ‘The idea our friend had in the clearing.’

‘Which was?’

I said, ‘You work it out.’

He said slowly, ‘You think they’re suiciding.’

I said, ‘One possibility among many.’

He said angrily, ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

I said. ‘Try not looking for the answers. You’ll sleep easier.’

It was as if I’d challenged his Faith. He said, ‘Everything makes sense.’

‘Haciendas in the Rockies make sense. Laying women makes sense. Of a sort. Dragons don’t.’

He shook his head. He said, ‘I just don’t understand you.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘And we’re the same species. Awe-inspiring, isn’t it?’

He walked back to the flier. I followed him. We searched the rest of the islands, landed a couple of times. We found nothing living. It seemed our local group of Dragons now represented the universal population.

We were back at the laboratory by nightfall. The little Dragon still squatted where we had left it. He seemed overjoyed to see it; started scurrying about pulling down armfuls of leaves. He sat while I brewed coffee, prodding them patiently at its jaws. I thought he might sling a blanket roll beside it to make sure it didn’t stray.

There wasn’t much to do round camp. He fed Oscar and tried to teach him to sit up and beg; I logged the meter readings, processed fluid and tissue samples, collected droppings for analysis. The Dragons sat in their caves and watched us; we watched the Dragons. Each day at seventeen hundred hours Planetary we reported to Earth Control, and they reported to us. We listened to Earth news via the Loop; and twice more the Pilot’s fiancée spoke to him. The second time they had a considerable heart-to-heart. I left them to it, risking his wrath; there were a lot of tears flying about Earthside, the thing seemed pretty private. I repeated the experiment with the heartbeat recordings, beaming a ring of loudspeakers on to Oscar. He didn’t respond, which was hardly surprising; though the Pilot pronounced himself delighted with his progress. If you tickled his foreleg joints with a stick for long enough he’d sometimes rear. It didn’t strike me as exactly a critical development.

We took the flier across to Continent Three. It wasn’t much of a trip. I remembered the place as vivid green, furred with trees. Now drifts of puce and ochre dust stretched to the horizon. Heavy automats were working. They looked like magnified versions of the Dragons. The wind was blowing strongly, racing across the ruined land; you could see the trails of dust smoking along the ground, dragging their long shadows over the dunes.

We didn’t land.

He was moody at supper. It transpired he wanted to get back to Earth. Something had gone a bit wrong with his scene, he wasn’t too specific about it. ‘It’s all right for you,’ he said bitterly. ‘Nobody gives a damn how long you sit staring at bloody great insects, you’ve got nothing to get back to. If it lay with me, I’d just report the damn things extinct and clear out. Nobody’s going to know the difference anyway.’

I sucked at my pipe. It was pulling sour again. ‘Can’t be done, my son,’ I said. ‘Impatience of the young, and all that. Can’t brush science aside, y’know.’

‘Science,’ he said. ‘Two men stuck here on a bloody dustball, watching a handful of incomprehensible objects die off for no good reason. You might be devoted to research...’

I chucked the pipe down, reached for the whisky. ‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t care less.’

He stared at me. ‘Then why’re you here ?’

‘Because,’ I said, ‘I’m paid to be. Also, here’s as good a place as the next.’

He shrugged. ‘I’d say that was pretty dismal outlook,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t seem to me you’ve made much of your life. Anyway, that’s your concern. I’m not going the same way, I can tell you.’

I said, ‘Then you’re a lucky man.’ I filled a glass, shoved it across. He stared at me; then to my surprise picked it up and drained it at a gulp.

* * * *

He called me next morning, early. I walked from the lab and stared. Oscar had immobilised; the whips thrust out at right angles from the body, producing that curious helicopter effect, and the eyes were lustreless. He was waggling greenstuff beneath the mandibles, but there was no response.

I set the meters up. It looked as if this might be one of the last chances we should get to gather data. The hearts failed, in their set pattern; I drove the probes, started the pacemakers, laid the syringes ready with the stimulants. The Pilot (First Class) took it hard. His pet was dying, certainly; there was no doubt of that. But the noise he made, you’d have thought he was losing a woman at the very least. He fumed and fretted, made trips out into the jungle to bring back this or that goody; he tried Oscar with tree leaves, bush branches, the pale green tubers that grew round the hangar sheds and landing pad. None of it, of course, made the slightest difference. The heart-pairs of the little Dragon faltered on through the night; the Planetary chronometers ran up their thirty hours; on cue, Oscar died.

The Pilot seemed broken up by the whole business. He vanished for a couple of hours or more; when I saw him again, he was waving a whisky bottle. He took to his room, finally, in the afternoon. I presumed he was sleeping it off.

It was just as well. The funeral party arrived about fourteen hundred Planetary. They were commendably prompt. The ceremony didn’t take long, the volume of the deceased being fairly small. They left the shards of armour stacked neatly in the shadow of the lab; I heard the whips trail and rustle as they headed back south, towards the rock city and the quartzite towers. I labelled the new recordings, logged the time, took the routine call from Earth Control. I’d closed down the generators when I heard the lab door open and shut. I looked round, frowning. I’d no idea he’d managed to leave his room.

He didn’t look too good. He had a bottle of rye in one hand and the rocket pistol in the other, which struck me as a bit unnecessary. Still, it was dramatic.

He flung the bottle down. It broke. He said, ‘I was going to bury him. Those bloody murderers. With their bloody whips. Shaking their bloody whips...’ He advanced, unsteadily. I suppose I should have told him to put that thing down before somebody got hurt. I didn’t. It was the sort of line that would have come better from him.

He was fairly through his skull. I thought perhaps he didn’t have too high a capacity; a lot of these clean-cut young men haven’t. Also when they blow, they really blow. He waved the pistol around a bit more and told me what was going to happen if I interfered within the next hour or so. I gathered a man had to do what a man had to do. Anyway when he finally staggered out I took him at his word. The girlie mag lay on the table; I got a bottle of whisky, poured myself a stiff one and started leafing through it. After all, there’s nothing like curling up with a good book.

In time there was a hefty, rolling bang from the south, and another. Then some higher cracks that I took it were the automatic. I hoped he’d remembered to pack a few spare clips. After a bit the noise started up again, so it seemed he had.

I chucked the book down, lay back. I finished the bottle, sat watching the dawn brighten the green sky. It had been quiet a long time now; I wondered if he’d slipped on the bluff and broken his fool neck.

The lab door opened. He stood framed in the doorway, the gun still in his hand. His uniform was torn, his face haggard and dirty white. He said, ‘I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what happened.’

I said, ‘All?’

He said, ‘It was their eyes. Staring. Their bloody eyes. They let me do it, they didn’t move...’ He rubbed a hand across his face. He said, ‘If you waved at them, they didn’t blink...’

I put the glass down, carefully. I said, ‘One point, Space Pilot. Did you notice any signs of ritual behaviour among the survivors during the ... er ... event ? If so, it should go on the report. You might have added to our Store of Knowledge.’

He brought the gun round slowly. He said, ‘You bastard. You bloody bastard...’

I stayed where I was. I don’t find life universally sweet; but that particular mode of exit has never appealed. I said as pleasantly as I could, ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’m not worth it; you’ve still got Judy to think about.’ The gun barrel wavered; and I smiled. ‘If you’ve put all those rounds through that thing,’ I said, ‘it needs a clean. There’s some water on next door; nip and sluice it through. I’ll get some coffee going; you look as if you could use it.’

He stood a while longer, staring like a ghost; then it seemed it sank in. He turned silently, closed the door behind him.

‘Next door’ was my specimen lock. Amazing what autosuggestion can do. I clamped my foot on the floorswitch, heard the bolts shoot home. He yelled something, started banging the wall; and I valved gas, A steady hissing; then a thump.

And blessed peace.

I bespoke Earth Control on the emergency frequency, explained the salient facts and got a clearance.

Lugging him to the shuttle wasn’t the easiest part. I made it finally, strapped him in the couch, closed the hatches, ran through what countdown checks I could remember and gave myself back to Earth. Wire-flying through the Loop isn’t a thing to be thought on too closely; but they made it. I transferred to the Richardson vehicle, tied myself down once more; and Earth pulled the tit, plastering our substance and the substance of the freighter thinly round the parameters of paradox.

When I regained coherence we were in stable Earth orbit, and the relief vessels were coming up to us. The Pilot (First Class) was awake, and saying quite a lot. He would probably have backed up speech with action in some unpleasant form or another, only I’d taken the precaution of tieing him down again. I listened for a while; eventually I got tired. I switched his voice circuit direct to Earth Control, and he had enough sense left to button his lip. I spent the time till docking thinking how interesting we are as a species. One and all, we build round ourselves little protective shells; but inside, when we’re bottomed, we’re really quite inhuman.

So IAB never got their Dragon. I was out of circulation for a time; when I got back I was told Trade Control had already issued authority for the automats to be programmed into the islands. Epilson Development were losing money each day they didn’t mine; they underwrote the cost of the station without too much complaint and endowed a research grant that will keep me in crusts for the next five years at least. I settled down to catalogue what had been learned of the humanoids on Proxima IX before Epsilon’s power station ran supercritical; and the Dragons were forgotten.

Except that a few days later I had a visitor. I used the door sensors because only the week before there’d been a mugging a dozen floors below. But I hadn’t got that sort of trouble this time. I opened the door and poured myself a whisky.

She was as pretty as her stereo. She’d been crying; and she was wearing the season’s newest. I gave her a chair, but she wouldn’t have a drink. She crossed her legs, tried them the other way. Didn’t like that either. Finally she said, ‘Remember me?’

I said, ‘It’s coming. Don’t help me.’

She smiled. She said, ‘I always expect Researchers to be much older men.’

I put the glass down gently and sat at the desk.

She said, ‘I’ve come from ... from Drew. I wondered if you could ... tell me a little more. He’s so ... reticent. You know.’

I said, ‘There’s a report going in tomorrow. It’s irregular; but I can arrange for you to see a copy. If you so desire.’

She swallowed. She said, ‘I... will have that drink, if you don’t mind.’

I got it for her, sat down again.

She drank it, put the glass aside. She said, ‘Researcher, the report... You know why I’m here. Don’t you ?’

I said, ‘I’m always willing to be surprised.’

She stood up, without fuss. She laid her gloves down, unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it open. Then she just stood there, looking at me.

I shook my head and opened the desk drawer. I thumbed through the report and started to read.

‘Until day fifty seven, the life forms designated Epsilon VI brackets three stroke two showed no awareness of the presence of the observing party and no animosity. Their attack was both sudden and unexpected. My companion, Space Pilot First Class Andrew Scott-Braithwaite, behaved with conspicuous gallantry. To him, certainly, I owe my life; and my final employment of GS 93 was at his instigation, though he himself was imperilled by the release of the gas. Our subsequent return was logged by Earth Control ... etcetera.’

I tossed the papers over to her. I said, ‘You read the rest. The style may be wanting here and there; but at least it’s concise.’

She stared at the thing a moment, and burst into tears.

After she had gone Miss Braithwaite glided from the inner room. Miss Braithwaite is my secretary at IAB. She is also fat, fortyish and an optimist; but she cooks good suppers. Right now her eyes were misty with emotion; and she laid a hand shakily on my arm. ‘Researcher,’ she said, ‘that’s about the biggest thing I ever saw a person do.’

I patted her. ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m like that.’

That’s the sort of thing one has to live with.

They still have Pilot (First Class) Scott-Braithwaite down at the State Home for Bewildered Astronauts. But I did hear he’s being seconded for another tour of duty. Apparently that boy was one of the worst cases of Loop nerves they’d ever seen. Had I not plastered the cracks, he would certainly have been an ex-spacer by now; and Judy would have had to cast those honest, wide blue eyes around fairly rapidly. Because Drew’s disability pension would hardly have maintained her in the Manner to Which. As things stand, I wonder which would have been the better turn to do him.

I wouldn’t have thought he’d have blown like that; but you can never tell. After all, I once spent three years with a woman who closely approximated a Greek goddess. Appearances are deceptive; as a Behaviourist, it’s the first thing you learn.

Weinachtabend

The big car moved slowly, nosing its way along narrowing lanes. Here, beyond the little market town of Wilton, the snow lay thicker. Trees and bushes loomed in the headlights, coated with driven white. The tail of the Mercedes wagged slightly, steadied. Mainwaring heard the chauffeur swear under his breath. The link had been left alive.

Dials let into the seatback recorded the vehicle’s mechanical wellbeing; oil pressure, temperature, revs, k.p.h. Lights from the repeater glowed softly on his companion’s face. She moved, restlessly; he saw the swing of yellow hair. He turned slightly. She was wearing a neat, brief kilt, heavy boots, Her legs were excellent.

He clicked the dial lights off. He said, “Not much farther.”

He wondered if she was aware of the open link. He said, “First time down?”

She nodded in the dark. She said, “I was a bit overwhelmed.”

Wilton Great House sprawled across a hilltop five miles or more beyond the town. The car drove for some distance beside the wall that fringed the estate. The perimeter defences had been strengthened since Mainwaring’s last visit. Watch-towers reared at intervals; the wall itself had been topped by multiple strands of wire.

The lodge gates were commanded by two new stone pillboxes. The Merc edged between them, stopped. On the road from London, the snow had eased; now big flakes drifted again, lit by the headlights. Somewhere, orders were barked.

A man stepped forward, tapped at the window. Mainwaring buttoned it open. He saw a GFP armband, a hip holster with the flap tucked back. He said, “Good evening, Captain.”

“Guten Abend, mein Herr. Ihre Ausweis Karte?”

Cold air gusted against Mainwaring’s cheek. He passed across his identity card and security clearance. He said, “Richard Mainwaring. Die rechte Hand zu dem Gesanten. Fräulein Hunter, von meiner Abteilung.”

A torch flashed over the papers, dazzled into his eyes, moved to examine the girl. She sat stiffly, staring ahead. Beyond the Security officer Mainwaring made out two steel-helmeted troopers, automatics slung. In front of him, the wipers clicked steadily.

The GFP man stepped back. He said, “In einer Woche, Ihre Ausweis Karte ist ausgelaufen. Erneuen Sie Ihre Karte.”

Mainwaring said, “Vielen Dank, Herr Hauptmann. Frohe Weihnacht.”

The man saluted stiffly, unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. A pause, and the gates swung back. The Merc creamed through. Mainwaring said, “Bastard.…”

She said, “Is it always like this ?”

He said, “They’re tightening up all round.”

She pulled her coat round her shoulders. She said, “Frankly, I find it a bit scary.”

He said, “Just the Minister taking care of his guests.”

Wilton stood in open downland set with great trees. Hans negotiated a bend, carefully, drove beneath half-seen branches. The wind moaned, zipping round a quarterlight. It was as if the car butted into a black tunnel, full of swirling pale flakes. He thought he saw her shiver. He said, “Soon be there.”

The headlamps lit a rolling expanse of snow. Posts, buried nearly to their tops, marked the drive. Another bend, and the house showed ahead. The car lights swept across a facade of mullioned windows, crenellated towers. Hard for the uninitiated to guess, staring at the skilfully weathered stone, that the shell of the place was of reinforced concrete. The car swung right with a crunching of unseen gravel, and stopped. The ignition repeater glowed on the seatback.

Mainwaring said, “Thank you, Hans. Nice drive.”

Hans said, “My pleasure, sir.”

She flicked her hair free, picked up her handbag. He held the door for her. He said, “OK, Diane?”

She shrugged. She said, “Yes. I’m a bit silly sometimes.” She squeezed his hand, briefly. She said, “I’m glad you’ll be here. Somebody to rely on.”

* * * *

Mainwaring lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Inside as well as out, Wilton was a triumph of art over nature. Here, in the Tudor wing where most of the guests were housed, walls and ceilings were of wavy plaster framed by heavy oak beams. He turned his head. The room was dominated by a fireplace of yellow Ham stone; on the overmantel, carved in bold relief, the hakenkreuz was flanked by the lion and eagle emblems of the Two Empires. A fire burned in the wrought-iron basket; the logs glowed cheerfully, casting wavering warm reflections across the ceiling. Beside the bed a bookshelf offered required reading; the Fuehrer’s official biography, Shirer’s Rise of the Third Reich, Cummings’ monumental Churchill: the Trial of Decadence. There were a nicely bound set of Buchan novels, some Kiplings, a Shakespeare, a complete Wilde. A side table carried a stack of current magazines; Connoisseur, The Field, Der Spiegel, Paris Match. There was a washstand, its rail hung with dark blue towels; in the corner of the room were the doors to the bathroom and wardrobe, in which a servant had already neatly disposed his clothes.

He stubbed his cigarette, lit another. He swung his legs off the bed, poured himself a whisky. From the grounds, faintly, came voices, snatches of laughter. He heard the crash of a pistol, the rattle of an automatic. He walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside. Snow was still falling, drifting silently from the black sky; but the firing pits beside the big house were brightly lit. He watched the figures move and bunch for a while, let the curtain fall. He sat by the fire, shoulders hunched, staring into the flames. He was remembering the trip through London; the flags hanging limp over Whitehall, slow, jerking movement of traffic, the light tanks drawn up outside St. James. The Kensington Road had been crowded, traffic edging and hooting; the vast frontage of Harrods looked grim and oriental against the louring sky. He frowned, remembering the call he had had before leaving the Ministry.

Kosowicz had been the name. From Time International; or so he had claimed. He’d refused twice to speak to him; but Kosowicz had been insistent. In the end, he’d asked his secretary to put him through.

Kosowicz had sounded very American. He said, “Mr. Mainwaring, I’d like to arrange a personal interview with your Minister.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I must also point out that this communication is extremely irregular.”

Kosowicz said, “What do I take that as, sir? A warning, or a threat?”

Mainwaring said carefully, “It was neither. I merely observed that proper channels of approach do exist.”

Kosowicz said, “Uh-huh. Mr. Mainwaring, what’s the truth behind this rumour that Action Groups are being moved into Moscow?”

Mainwaring said, “Deputy-Fuehrer Hess has already issued a statement on the situation. I can see that you’re supplied with a copy.”

The phone said, “I have it before me. Mr. Mainwaring, what are you people trying to set up? Another Warsaw?”

Mainwaring said, “I’m afraid I can’t comment further, Mr. Kosowicz. The Deputy-Fuehrer deplored the necessity of force. The Einsatzegruppen have been alerted; at this time, that is all. They will be used if necessary to disperse militants. As of this moment, the need has not arisen.”

Kosowicz shifted his ground. “You mentioned the Deputy-Fuehrer, sir. I hear there was another bomb attempt two nights ago, can you comment on this?”

Mainwaring tightened his knuckles on the handset. He said, “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. We know nothing of any such incident.”

The phone was silent for a moment. Then it said, “Can I take your denial as official?”

Mainwaring said, “This is not an official conversation. I’m not empowered to issue statements in any respect.”

The phone said, “Yeah, channels do exist. Mr. Mainwaring, thanks for your time.”

Mainwaring said, “Goodbye.” He put the handset down, sat staring at it. After a while he lit a cigarette.

Outside the windows of the Ministry the snow still fell, a dark whirl and dance against the sky. His tea, when he came to drink it, was half cold.

The fire crackled and shifted. He poured himself another whisky, sat back. Before leaving for Wilton, he’d lunched with Winsby-Walker from Productivity. Winsby-Walker made it his business to know everything; but he had known nothing of a correspondent called Kosowicz. He thought, ‘I should have checked with Security.’ But then Security would have checked with him.

He sat up, looked at his watch. The noise from the range had diminished. He turned his mind with a deliberate effort into another channel. The new thoughts brought no more comfort. Last Christmas he had spent with his mother; now, that couldn’t happen again. He remembered other Christmases, back across the years. Once, to the child unknowing, they had been gay affairs of crackers and toys. He remembered the scent and texture of pine branches, closeness of candlelight; and books read by torchlight under the sheets, the hard angles of the filled pillowslip, heavy at the foot of the bed. Then, he had been complete; only later, slowly, had come the knowledge of failure. And with it, loneliness. He thought, ‘She wanted to see me settled. It didn’t seem much to ask.’

The Scotch was making him maudlin. He drained the glass, walked through to the bathroom. He stripped, and showered. Towelling himself, he thought, ‘Richard Mainwaring, Personal Assistant to the British Minister of Liaison.’ Aloud he said, “One must remember the compensations.”

He dressed, lathered his face and began to shave. He thought, ‘Thirty-five is the exact middle of one’s life.’ He was remembering another time with the girl Diane when just for a little while some magic had interposed. Now, the affair was never mentioned between them. Because of James. Always, of course, there is a James.

He towelled his face, applied aftershave. Despite himself, his mind had drifted back to the phone call. One fact was certain; there had been a major security spillage. Somebody somewhere had supplied Kosowicz with closely-guarded information. That same someone, presumably, had supplied a list of ex-directory lines. He frowned, grappling with the problem. One country, and one only, opposed the Two Empires with gigantic, latent strength. To that country had shifted the focus of Semitic nationalism. And Kosowicz had been an American.

He thought, ‘Freedom, schmeedom. Democracy is Jew-shaped.’ He frowned again, fingering his face. It didn’t alter the salient fact. The tipoff had come from the Freedom Front; and he had been contacted, however obliquely. Now, he had become an accessory; the thought had been nagging at the back of his brain all day.

He wondered what they could want of him. There was a rumour - a nasty rumour - that you never found out. Not till the end, till you’d done whatever was required from you. They were untiring, deadly and subtle. He hadn’t run squalling to Security at the first hint of danger; but that would have been allowed for. Every turn and twist would have been allowed for.

Every squirm, on the hook.

He grunted, angry with himself. Fear was half their strength. He buttoned his shirt remembering the guards at the gates, the wire and pillboxes. Here, of all places, nothing could reach him. For a few days, he could forget the whole affair. He said aloud, “Anyway, I don’t even matter. I’m not important.” The thought cheered him, nearly.

He clicked the light off, walked through to his room, closed the door behind him. He crossed to the bed and stood quite still, staring at the bookshelf. Between Shirer and the Churchill tome there rested a third slim volume. He reached to touch the spine, delicately; read the author’s name, Geissler, and the title. Toward Humanity. Below the title, like a topless Cross of Lorraine, were the twin linked F’s of the Freedom Front. Ten minutes ago, the book hadn’t been there. He walked to the door. The corridor beyond was deserted. From somewhere in the house, faintly, came music; Till Eulenspiegel. There were no nearer sounds. He closed the door again, locked it. Turned back and saw the wardrobe stood slightly ajar.

His case still lay on the side table. He crossed to it, took out the Luger. The feel of the heavy pistol was comforting. He pushed the clip home, thumbed the safety forward, chambered a round. The breach closed with a hard snap. He walked to the wardrobe, shoved the door wide with his foot. Nothing there.

He let his held breath escape with a little hiss. He pressed the clip release, ejected the cartridge, laid the gun on the bed. He stood again looking at the shelf. He thought, ‘I must have been mistaken.’

He took the book down, carefully. Geissler had been banned since publication in every Province of the Two Empires; Mainwaring himself had never even seen a copy. He squatted on the edge of the bed, opened the thing at random.

“The doctrine of Aryan co-ancestry, seized on so eagerly by the English middle classes, had the superficial reasonableness of most theories ultimately traceable to Rosenberg. Churchill’s answer, in one sense, had already been made; but Chamberlain, and the country, turned to Hess…

“The Cologne settlement, though seeming to offer hope of security to Jews already domiciled in Britain, in fact paved the way for campaigns of intimidation and extortion similar to those already undertaken in history, notably by King John. The comparison is not unapt; for the English bourgeoisie, anxious to construct a rationale, discovered many unassailable precedents. A true Sign of the Times, almost certainly, was the resurgence of interest in the novels of Sir Walter Scott. By 1942 the lesson had been learned on both sides; and the Star of David was a common sight on the streets of most British cities.”

The wind rose momentarily in a long wail, shaking the window casement. Mainwaring glanced up, turned his attention back to the book. He leafed through several pages.

“In 1940, her Expeditionary Force shattered, her allies quiescent or defeated, the island truly stood alone. Her proletariat, bedevilled by bad leadership, weakened by a gigantic depression, was effectively without a voice. Her aristocracy, like their Junker counterparts, embraced coldly what could no longer be ignored; while after the Whitehall Putsch the Cabinet was reduced to the status of an Executive Council…”

The knock at the door made him start, guiltily. He pushed the book away. He said, “Who’s that?”

She said, “Me. Richard, aren’t you ready?”

He said, “Just a minute.” He stared at the book, then placed it back on the shelf. He thought, ‘That at least wouldn’t be expected.’ He slipped the Luger into his case and closed it. Then he went to the door.

She was wearing a lacy black dress. Her shoulders were bare; her hair, worn loose, had been brushed till it gleamed. He stared at her a moment, stupidly. Then he said, “Please come in.”

She said, “I was starting to wonder… Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

She said, “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

He smiled. He said, “I expect I was taken aback. Those Aryan good looks.”

She grinned at him. She said, “I’m half Irish, half English, half Scandinavian. If you have to know.”

“That doesn’t add up.”

She said, “Neither do I, most of the time.”

“Drink?”

“Just a little one. We shall be late.”

He said, “It’s not very formal tonight.” He turned away, fiddling with his tie.

She sipped her drink, pointed her foot, scuffed her toe on the carpet. She said, “I expect you’ve been to a lot of house-parties.”

He said, “One or two.”

She said, “Richard, are they…”

“Are they what?”

She said, “I don’t know. You can’t help hearing things.”

He said, “You’ll be all right. One’s very much like the next.”

She said, “Are you honestly OK?”

“Sure.”

She said, “You’re all thumbs. Here, let me.” She reached up, knotted deftly. Her eyes searched his face for a moment, moving in little shifts and changes of direction. She said, “There. I think you just need looking after.”

He said carefully, “How’s James?”

She stared a moment longer. She said, “I don’t know. He’s in Nairobi. I haven’t seen him for months.”

He said, “I am a bit nervous, actually.”

“Why?”

He said, “Escorting a rather lovely blonde.”

She tossed her head, and laughed. She said, “You need a drink as well then.”

He poured whisky, said, “Cheers.” The book, now, seemed to be burning into his shoulderblades.

She said, “As a matter of fact you’re looking rather fetching yourself.”

He thought. ‘This is the night when all things come together. There should be a word for it.’ Then he remembered about Till Eulenspiegel.

She said, “We’d honestly better go down.”

Lights gleamed in the Great Hall, reflecting from polished boards, dark linenfold panelling. At the nearer end of the chamber a huge fire burned. Beneath the minstrels’ gallery long tables had been set. Informal or not, they shone with glass and silverware. Candles glowed amid wreaths of dark evergreen; beside each place was a rolled crimson napkin.

In the middle of the Hall, its tip brushing the coffered ceiling, stood a Christmas tree. Its branches were hung with apples, baskets of sweets, red paper roses; at its base were piled gifts in gay-striped wrappers. Round the tree folk stood in groups, chatting and laughing. Richard saw Müller the Defence Minister, with a striking-looking blonde he took to be his wife; beside them was a tall, monocled man who was something or other in Security. There was a group of GSP officers in their dark, neat uniforms, beyond them half a dozen Liaison people. He saw Hans the chauffeur standing head bent, nodding intently, smiling at some remark; and thought as he had thought before how he looked like a big, handsome ox.

Diane had paused in the doorway, and linked her arm through his. But the Minister had already seen them. He came weaving through the crowd, a glass in his hand. He was wearing tight black trews, a dark blue roll-neck shirt. He looked happy and relaxed. He said, “Richard. And my dear Miss Hunter. We’d nearly given you up for lost. After all, Hans Trapp is about. Now, some drinks. And come, do come; please join my friends. Over here, where it is warm.”

She said, “Who’s Hans Trapp?”

Mainwaring said, “You’ll find out in a bit.”

A little later the Minister said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we may be seated.”

The meal was superb, the wine abundant. By the time the brandy was served Richard found himself talking more easily, and the Geissler copy pushed nearly to the back of his mind. The traditional toasts - King and Fuehrer, the Provinces, the Two Empires - were drunk; then the Minister clapped his hands for quiet. “My friends,” he said, “tonight, this special night when we can all mix so freely, is Weihnachtabend. It means, I suppose, many things to the many of us here. But let us remember, first and foremost, that this is the night of the children. Your children, who have come with you to share part at least of this very special Christmas.”

He paused. “Already,” he said, “they have been called from their crèche; soon, they will be with us. Let me show them to you.” He nodded; at the gesture servants wheeled forward a heavy, ornate box. A drape was twitched aside, revealing the grey surface of a big tv screen. Simultaneously, the lamps that lit the Hall began to dim. Diane turned to Mainwaring, frowning; he touched her hand, gently, and shook his head.

Save for the firelight, the Hall was now nearly dark. The candles guttered in their wreaths, flames stirring in some draught; in the hush, the droning of the wind round the great facade of the place was once more audible. The lights would be out, now, all over the house.

“For some of you,” said the Minister, “this is your first visit here. For you, I will explain.

“On Weihnachtabend, all ghosts and goblins walk. The demon Hans Trapp is abroad; his face is black and terrible, his clothing the skins of bears. Against him comes the Light-bringer, the Spirit of Christmas. Some call her Lucia Queen, some Das Christkind. See her now.”

The screen lit up.

She moved slowly, like a sleepwalker. She was slender, and robed in white. Her ashen hair tumbled round her shoulders; above her head glowed a diadem of burning tapers. Behind her trod the Star Boys with their wands and tinsel robes; behind again came a little group of children. They ranged in age from eight- and nine-year-olds to toddlers. They gripped each other’s hands, apprehensively, setting feet in line like cats, darting terrified glances at the shadows to either side.

“They lie in darkness, waiting,” said the Minister softly. “Their nurses have left them. If they cry out, there is none to hear. So they do not cry out. And one by one, she has called them. They see her light pass beneath the door; and they must rise and follow. Here, where we sit, is warmth. Here is safety. Their gifts are waiting; to reach them, they must run the gauntlet of the dark.”

The camera angle changed. Now they were watching the procession from above. The Lucia Queen stepped steadily; the shadows she cast leaped and flickered on panelled walls.

“They are in the Long Gallery now,” said the Minister. “Almost directly above us. They must not falter, they must not look back. Somewhere, Hans Trapp is hiding. From Hans, only Das Christkind can protect them. See how close they bunch behind her light!”

A howling began, like the crying of a wolf. In part it seemed to come from the screen, in part to echo through the Hall itself. The Christkind turned, raising her arms; the howling split into a many-voiced cadence, died to a mutter. In its place came a distant huge thudding, like the beating of a drum.

Diane said abruptly, “I don’t find this particularly funny.”

Mainwaring said, “It isn’t suppose to be. Shh.”

The Minister said evenly, “The Aryan child must know, from earliest years, the darkness that surrounds him. He must learn to fear, and to overcome that fear. He must learn to be strong. The Two Empires were not built by weakness; weakness will not sustain them. There is no place for it. This in part your children already know. The house is big, and dark; but they will win through to the light. They fight as the Empires once fought. For their birthright.”

The shot changed again, showed a wide, sweeping staircase. The head of the little procession appeared, began to descend. “Now, where is our friend Hans?” said the Minister. “Ah...”

Her grip tightened convulsively on Mainwaring’s arm. A black-smeared face loomed at the screen. The bogy snarled, clawing at the camera; then turned, loped swiftly toward the staircase. The children shrieked, and bunched; instantly the air was wild with din. Grotesque figures capered and leaped; hands grabbed, clutching. The column was buffeted and swirled; Mainwaring saw a child bowled completely over. The screaming reached a high pitch of terror; and the Christkind turned, arms once more raised. The goblins and were-things backed away, growling, into shadow; the slow march was resumed.

The Minister said, “They are nearly here. And they are good children, worthy of their race. Prepare the tree.”

Servants ran forward with tapers to light the many candles. The tree sprang from gloom, glinting, black-green; and Mainwaring thought for the first time what a dark thing it was, although it blazed with light.

The big doors at the end of the Hall were flung back; and the children came tumbling through. Tearstained and sobbing they were, some bruised; but all, before they ran to the tree, stopped, made obeisance to the strange creature who had brought them through the dark. Then the crown was lifted, the tapers extinguished; and Lucia Queen became a child like the rest, a slim, barefooted girl in a gauzy white dress.

The Minister rose, laughing. “Now,” he said, “music, and some more wine. Hans Trapp is dead. My friends, one and all, and children: Frohe weihnacht!”

Diane said, “Excuse me a moment.”

Mainwaring turned. He said, “Are you all right?”

She said, “I’m just going to get rid of a certain taste.”

He watched her go, concernedly; and the Minister had his arm, was talking. “Excellent, Richard,” he said. “It has gone excellently so far, don’t you think?”

Richard said, “Excellently, sir.”

“Good, good. Eh, Heidi, Erna… and Frederick, is it Frederick? What have you got there? Oh, very fine…” He steered Mainwaring away, still with his fingers tucked beneath his elbow. Squeals of joy sounded; somebody had discovered a sled, tucked away behind the tree. The Minister said, “Look at them; how happy they are now. I would like children, Richard. Children of my own. Sometimes I think I have given too much… Still, the opportunity remains. I am younger than you, do you realize that? This is the Age of Youth.”

Mainwaring said, “I wish the Minister every happiness.”

“Richard, Richard, you must learn not to be so very correct at all times. Unbend a little, you are too aware of dignity. You are my friend. I trust you; above all others, I trust you. Do you realize this?”

Richard said, “Thank you, sir. I do.”

The Minister seemed bubbling over with some inner pleasure. He said, “Richard, come with me, Just for a moment. I have prepared a special gift for you. I won’t keep you from the party very long.”

Mainwaring followed, drawn as ever by the curious dynamism of the man. The Minister ducked through an arched doorway, turned right and left, descended a narrow flight of stairs. At the bottom the way was barred by a door of plain grey steel. The Minister pressed his palm flat to a sensor plate; a click, the whine of some mechanism, and the door swung inward. Beyond was a further flight of concrete steps, lit by a single lamp in a heavy well-glass. Chilly air blew upward. Mainwaring realized, with something approaching a shock, that they had entered part of the bunker system that honeycombed the ground beneath Wilton.

The Minister hurried ahead of him, palmed a further door. He said, “Toys, Richard. All toys. But they amuse me.” Then, catching sight of Mainwaring’s face, “Come, man, come! You are more nervous than the children, frightened of poor old Hans!”

The door gave onto a darkened space. There was a heavy, sweetish smell that Mainwaring, for a whirling moment, couldn’t place. His companion propelled him forward, gently. He resisted, pressing back; and the Minister’s arm shot by him. A click, and the place was flooded with light. He saw a wide, low area, also concrete-built. To one side, already polished and gleaming, stood the Mercedes, next it the Minister’s private Porsche. There were a couple of Volkswagens, a Ford Executive; and in the farthest corner, a vision in glinting white. A Lamborghini. They had emerged in the garage underneath the house.

The Minister said, “My private short cut,” He walked forward to the Lamborghini, stood running his fingers across the low, broad bonnet. He said, “Look at her, Richard. Here, sit in. Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t she fine?”

Mainwaring said, “She certainly is.”

“You like her?”

Mainwaring smiled. He said, “Very much, sir. Who wouldn’t?”

The Minister said, “Good, I’m so pleased. Richard, I’m upgrading you. She’s yours. Enjoy her.”

Mainwaring stared.

The Minister said, “Here, man. Don’t look like that, like a fish. Here, see. Logbook, your keys. All entered up, finished.” He gripped Mainwaring’s shoulders, swung him round laughing. He said, “You’ve worked well for me. The Two Empires don’t forget. Their good friends, their servants.”

Mainwaring said, “I’m deeply honoured, sir.”

“Don’t be honoured. You’re still being formal, Richard…”

“Sir?”

The Minister said, “Stay by me. Stay by me. Up there… they don’t understand. But we understand… eh? These are difficult times. We must be together, always together. Kingdom, and Reich. Apart… we could be destroyed.” He turned away, placed clenched hands on the roof of the car. He said, “Here, all this. Jewry, the Americans… Capitalism. They must stay afraid. Nobody fears an Empire divided. It would fall!”

Mainwaring said, “I’ll do my best, sir. We all will.”

The Minister said, “I know, I know. But Richard, this afternoon. I was playing with swords. Silly little swords.”

Mainwaring thought, ‘I know how he keeps me. I can see the mechanism. But I mustn’t imagine I know the entire truth.’

The Minister turned back, as if in pain. He said, “Strength is Right. It has to be. But Hess…”

Mainwaring said slowly, “We’ve tried before, sir…”

The Minister slammed his fist onto the metal. He said, “Richard, don’t you see ? It wasn’t us. Not this time. It was his own people. Baumann, von Thaden… I can’t tell. He’s an old man, he doesn’t matter any more. It’s an idea they want to kill, Hess is an idea. Do you understand? It’s Lebensraum. Again… Half the world isn’t enough.”

He straightened. He said, “The worm, in the apple. It gnaws, gnaws… But we are Liaison. We matter, so much. Richard, be my eyes. Be my ears.”

Mainwaring stayed silent, thinking about the book in his room; and the Minister once more took his arm. He said, “The shadows, Richard. They were never closer. Well might we teach our children to fear the dark. But… not in our time. Eh? Not for us. There is life, and hope. So much we can do…”

Mainwaring thought, ‘Maybe it’s the wine I drank. I’m being pressed too hard.’ A dull, queer mood, almost of indifference, had fallen on him. He followed his Minister without complaint, back through the bunker complex, up to where the great fire burned low and the tapers on the tree. He heard the singing mixed with the wind-voice, watched the children rock heavy-eyed, carolling sleep. The house seemed winding down, to rest; and she had gone of course. He sat in a corner and drank wine and brooded, watched the Minister move from group to group until he too was gone, the Hall nearly empty and the servants clearing away.

He found his own self, his inner self, dozing at last as it dozed at each day’s end. Tiredness, as ever, had come like a benison. He rose carefully, walked to the door. He thought, ‘I shan’t be missed here.’ Shutters closed, in his head.

He found his key, unlocked his room. He thought, ‘Now she will be waiting. Like all the letters that never came, the phones that never rang.’ He opened the door.

She said, “What kept you?”

He closed the door behind him, quietly. The fire crackled in the little room, the curtains were drawn against the night. She sat by the hearth, barefooted, still in her party dress. Beside her on the carpet were glasses, an ashtray with half-smoked stubs. One lamp was burning; in the warm light her eyes were huge and dark.

He looked across to the bookshelf. The Geissler stood where he had left it. He said, “How did you get in?”

She chuckled. She said, “There was a spare key on the back of the door. Didn’t you see me steal it?”

He walked toward her, stood looking down. He thought, ‘Adding another fragment to the puzzle. Too much, too complicated.’

She said, “Are you angry?”

He said, “No.”

She patted the floor. She said gently, “Please, Richard. Don’t be cross.”

He sat, slowly, watching her.

She said, “Drink?” He didn’t answer. She poured one anyway. She said, “What were you doing all this time? I thought you’d be up hours ago.”

He said, “I was talking to the Minister.”

She traced a pattern on the rug with her forefinger. Her hair fell forward, golden and heavy, baring the nape of her neck. She said, “I’m sorry about earlier on. I was stupid. I think I was a bit scared too.”

He drank slowly. He felt like a run-down machine. Hell to have to start thinking again at this time of night. He said, “What were you doing?”

She watched up at him. Her eyes were candid. She said, “Sitting here. Listening to the wind.”

He said, “That couldn’t have been much fun.”

She shook her head, slowly, eyes fixed on his face. She said softly, “You don’t know me at all.”

He was quiet again. She said, “You don’t believe in me, do you?”

He thought, ‘You need understanding. You’re different from the rest; and I’m selling myself short.’ Aloud he said, “No.”

She put the glass down, smiled, took his glass away. She hotched toward him across the rug, slid her arm round his neck. She said, “I was thinking about you. Making my mind up.” She kissed him. He felt her tongue pushing, opened his lips. She said, “Mmm …” She sat back a little, smiling. She said, “Do you mind ?”

“No.”

She pressed a strand of hair across her mouth, parted her teeth, kissed again. He felt himself react, involuntarily; and felt her touch and squeeze.

She said. “This is a silly dress. It gets in the way.” She reached behind her. The fabric parted; she pushed down, to the waist. She said, “Now it’s like last time.”

He said slowly, “Nothing’s ever like last time.”

She rolled across his lap, lay watching up. She whispered, “I’ve put the clock back.”

Later in the dream she said, “I was so silly.”

“What do you mean?”

She said, “I was shy. That was all. You weren’t really supposed to go away.”

He said, “What about James?”

“He’s got somebody else. I didn’t know what I was missing.”

He let his hand stray over her; and present and immediate past became confused so that as he held her he still saw her kneeling, firelight dancing on her body. He reached for her and she was ready again; she fought, chuckling, taking it bareback, staying all the way.

Much later he said, “The Minister gave me a Lamborghini.”

She rolled onto her belly, lay chin in hands watching under a tangle of hair. She said, “And now you’ve got yourself a blonde. What are you going to do with us ?”

He said, “None of it’s real.”

She said, “Oh …” She punched him. She said, “Richard, you make me cross. It’s happened, you idiot. That’s all. It happens to everybody.” She scratched again with a finger on the carpet. She said, “I hope you’ve made me pregnant. Then you’d have to marry me.”

He narrowed his eyes; and the wine began again, singing in his head.

She nuzzled him. She said, “You asked me once. Say it again.”

“I don’t remember.”

She said, “Richard, please…” So he said, “Diane, will you marry me?” And she said, “Yes, yes, yes,” then afterwards awareness came and though it wasn’t possible he took her again and that time was finest of all, tight and sweet as honey. He’d fetched pillows from the bed and the counterpane, they curled close and he found himself talking, talking, how it wasn’t the sex, it was shopping in Marlborough and having tea and seeing the sun set from White Horse Hill and being together, together; then she pressed fingers to his mouth and he fell with her in sleep past cold and loneliness and fear, past deserts and unlit places, down maybe to where spires reared gold and tree leaves moved and dazzled and white cars sang on roads and suns burned inwardly, lighting new worlds.

He woke, and the fire was low. He sat up, dazed. She was watching him. He stroked her hair awhile, smiling; then she pushed away. She said, “Richard, I have to go now.”

“Not yet.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

He said, “It doesn’t matter.”

She said, “It does. He mustn’t know.”

“Who?”

She said, “You know who. You know why I was asked here.”

He said, “He’s not like that. Honestly.”

She shivered. She said, “Richard, please. Don’t get me in trouble.” She smiled. She said, “It’s only till tomorrow. Only a little while.”

He stood, awkwardly, and held her, pressing her warmth close. Shoeless, she was tiny; her shoulder fitted beneath his armpit.

Halfway through dressing she stopped and laughed, leaned a hand against the wall. She said, “I’m all woozy.”

Later he said, “I’ll see you to your room.”

She said, “No, please. I’m all right.” She was holding her handbag, and her hair was combed. She looked, again, as if she had been to a party.

At the door she turned. She said, “I love you, Richard. Truly.” She kissed again, quickly; and was gone.

He closed the door, dropped the latch. He stood a while looking round the room. In the fire a burned-through log broke with a snap, sending up a little whirl of sparks. He walked to the washstand, bathed his face and hands. He shook the counterpane out on the bed, rearranged the pillows. Her scent still clung to him; he remembered how she had felt, and what she had said.

He crossed to the window, pushed it ajar. Outside, the snow lay in deep swaths and drifts. Starlight gleamed from it, ghost-white; and the whole great house was mute. He stood feeling the chill move against his skin; and in all the silence, a voice drifted far-off and clear. It came maybe from the guardhouses, full of distance and peace.

“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

“alles schlafte, einsam wacht…”

He walked to the bed, pulled back the covers. The sheets were crisp and spotless, fresh-smelling. He smiled, and turned off the lamp.

“Nur das traute, hoc heilige Paar.

“Holder Knabe im lochigen Haar …”

In the wall of the room, an inch behind the plasterwork, a complex little machine hummed. A spool of delicate golden wire shook slightly; but the creak of the opening window had been the last thing to interest the recorder, the singing alone couldn’t activate its relays. A micro-switch tripped, in-audibly; valve filaments faded, and died. Mainwaring lay back in the last of the firelight, and closed his eyes.

“Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh,

“Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh …”

* * * *

2.

Beyond drawn curtains, brightness flicks on.

The sky is a hard, clear blue; icy, full of sunlight. The light dazzles back from the brilliant land. Far things - copses, hills, solitary trees - stand sharp-etched. Roofs and eaves carry hummocks of whiteness, twigs a three-inch crest. In the stillness, here and there, the snow cracks and falls, powdering.

The shadows of the raiders jerk and undulate. The quiet is interrupted. Hooves ring on swept courtyards or stamp muffled, churning the snow. It seems the air itself has been rendered crystalline by cold; through it the voices break and shatter, brittle as glass.

“Guten Morgen, Hans…”

“Verflucht kalt!”

“Der Hundenmeister sagt, sehr Gefdhrlich!”

“Macht nichts! Wir erwischen es bevor dem Wald!”

A rider plunges beneath an arch. The horse snorts and curvets.

“Ich wette dierfünfzig amerikanische Dollar!”

“Einverstanden! Heute, habe ich Glück!”

The noise, the jangling and stamping, rings back on itself. Cheeks flush, perception is heightened; for more than one of the riders, the early courtyard reels. Beside the house door trestles have been set up. A great bowl is carried, steaming. The cups are raised, the toasts given; the responses ring again, crashing.

“The Two Empires ..!”

“The Hunt. . !”

Now, time is like a tight-wound spring. The dogs plunge forward, six to a handler, leashes straining, choke links creaking and snapping. Behind them jostle the riders. The bobbing scarlet coats splash across the snow. In the house drive, an officer salutes; another strikes gloved palms together, nods. The gates whine open.

And across the country for miles around doors slam, bolts are shot, shutters closed, children scurried indoors. Village streets, muffled with snow, wait dumbly. Somewhere a dog barks, is silenced. The houses squat sullen, blind-eyed. The word has gone out, faster than horses could gallop. Today the Hunt will run; on snow.

The riders fan out, across a speckled waste of fields. A check, a questing; and the horns begin to yelp. Ahead the dogs bound and leap, black spots against whiteness. The horns cry again; but these hounds run mute. The riders sweep forward, onto the line.

Now, for the hunters, time and vision are fragmented. Twigs and snow merge in a racing blur; and tree-boles, ditches, gates. The tide reaches a crest of land, pours down the opposing slope. Hedges rear, mantled with white; and muffled thunder is interrupted by sailing silence, the smash and crackle of landing. The View sounds, harsh and high; and frenzy, and the racing blood, discharge intelligence. A horse goes down, in a gigantic flailing; another rolls, crushing its rider into the snow. A mount runs riderless. The Hunt, destroying, destroys itself unaware.

There are cottages, a paling fence. The fence goes over, unnoticed. A chicken house erupts in a cloud of flung crystals; birds run squawking, under the hooves. Caps are lost, flung away; hair flows wild. Whips flail, spurs rake streaming flanks; and the woods are close. Twigs lash, and branches; snow falls, thudding. The crackling, now, is all around.

At the end, it is always the same. The handlers close in, yodelling, waist-high in trampled brush; the riders force close and closer, mounts sidling and shaking; and silence falls. Only the quarry, reddened, flops and twists; the thin high noise it makes is the noise of anything in pain.

Now, if he chooses, the Jagdmeister may end the suffering. The crash of the pistol rings hollow; and birds erupt, high from frozen twigs, wheel with the echoes and cry. The pistol fires again; and the quarry lies still. In time, the shaking stops; and a dog creeps forward, begins to lick.

Now a slow movement begins; a spreading out, away from the place. There are mutterings, a laugh that chokes to silence. The fever passes. Somebody begins to shiver; and a girl, blood glittering on cheek and neck, puts a glove to her forehead and moans. The Need has come and gone; for a little while, the Two Empires have purged themselves.

The riders straggle back on tired mounts, shamble in through the gates. As the last enters a closed black van starts up, drives away. In an hour, quietly, it returns; and the gates swing shut behind it.

Surfacing from deepest sleep was like rising, slowly, through a warm sea. For a time, as Mainwaring lay eyes closed, memory and awareness were confused so that she was with him and the room a recollected, childhood place. He rubbed his face, yawned, shook his head; and the knocking that had roused him came again. He said, “Yes?”

The voice said, “Last breakfasts in fifteen minutes, sir.”

He called, “Thank you,” heard the footsteps pad away.

He pushed himself up, groped on the side table for his watch, held it close to his eyes. It read ten forty-five.

He swung the bedclothes back, felt air tingle on his skin. She had been with him, certainly, in the dawn; his body remembered the succubus, with nearly painful strength. He looked down smiling, walked to the bathroom. He showered, towelled himself, shaved and dressed. He closed his door and locked it, walked to the breakfast room. A few couples still sat over their coffee; he smiled a good morning, took a window seat. Beyond the double panes the snow piled thickly; its reflection lit the room with a white, inverted brilliance. He ate slowly, hearing distant shouts. On the long slope behind the house, groups of children pelted each other vigorously. Once a toboggan came into sight, vanished behind a rising swell of ground.

He had hoped he might see her, but she didn’t come. He drank coffee, smoked a cigarette. He walked to the television lounge. The big colour screen showed a children’s party taking place in a Berlin hospital. He watched for a while. The door behind him clicked a couple of times, but it wasn’t Diane.

There was a second guests’ lounge, not usually much frequented at this time of the year; and a reading room and library. He wandered through them, but there was no sign of her. It occurred to him she might not yet be up; at Wilton, there were few hard-and-fast rules for Christmas Day. He thought, ‘I should have checked her room number.’ He wasn’t even sure in which of the guest wings she had been placed.

The house was quiet; it seemed most of the visitors had taken to their rooms. He wondered if she could have ridden with the Hunt; he’d heard it vaguely, leaving and returning. He doubted if the affair would have held much appeal.

He strolled back to the tv lounge, watched for an hour or more. By lunchtime he was feeling vaguely piqued; and sensing too the rising of a curious unease. He went back to his room, wondering if by any chance she had gone there; but the miracle was not repeated. The room was empty.

The fire was burning, and the bed had been remade. He had forgotten the servants’ pass keys. The Geissler copy still stood on the shelf. He took it down, stood weighing it in his hand and frowning. It was, in a sense, madness to leave it there.

He shrugged, put the thing back. He thought, ‘So who reads bookshelves anyway?’ The plot, if plot there had been, seemed absurd now in the clearer light of day. He stepped into the corridor, closed the door and locked it behind him. He tried as far as possible to put the book from his mind. It represented a problem; and problems, as yet, he wasn’t prepared to cope with. Too much else was going on in his brain.

He lunched alone, now with a very definite pang; the process was disquietingly like that of other years. Once he thought he caught sight of her in the corridor. His heart thumped; but it was the other blonde, Müller’s wife. The gestures, the fall of the hair, were similar; but this woman was taller.

He let himself drift into a reverie. Images of her, it seemed, were engraved on his mind; each to be selected now, studied, placed lovingly aside. He saw the firelit texture of her hair and skin, her lashes brushing her cheek as she lay in his arms and slept. Other memories, sharper, more immediate still, throbbed like little shocks in the mind. She tossed her head, smiling; her hair swung, touched the point of a breast.

He pushed his cup away, rose. At fifteen hundred, patriotism required her presence in the tv lounge. As it required the presence of every other guest. Then, if not before, he would see her. He reflected, wryly, that he had waited half a lifetime for her; a little longer now would do no harm.

He took to prowling the house again; the Great Hall, the Long Gallery where the Christkind had walked. Below the windows that lined it was a snow-covered roof. The tart, reflected light struck upward, robbing the place of mystery. In the Great Hall, they had already removed the tree. He watched household staff hanging draperies, carrying in stacks cf gilded cane chairs. On the minstrels’ gallery a pile of odd-shaped boxes proclaimed that the orchestra had arrived.

At fourteen hundred hours he walked back to the tv lounge. A quick glance assured him she wasn’t there. The bar was open; Hans, looking as big and suave as ever, had been pressed into service to minister to the guests. He smiled at Mainwaring and said, “Good afternoon, sir.” Mainwaring asked for a lager beer, took the glass to a corner seat. From here he could watch both the tv screen and the door.

The screen was showing the world-wide linkup that had become hallowed Christmas afternoon fare within the Two Empires. He saw, without particular interest, greetings flashed from the Leningrad and Moscow garrisons, a lightship, an Arctic weather station, a Mission in German East Africa. At fifteen hundred, the Fuehrer was due to speak; this year, for the first time, Ziegler was preceding Edward VIII.

The room filled, slowly. She didn’t come. Mainwaring finished the lager, walked to the bar, asked for another and a packet of cigarettes. The unease was sharpening no w into something very like alarm. He thought for the first time that she might have been taken ill.

The time signal flashed, followed by the drumroll of the German anthem. He rose with the rest, stood stiffly till it had finished. The screen cleared, showed the familiar room in the Chancellery; the dark, high panels, the crimson drapes, the big hakenkreuz emblem over the desk. The Fuehrer, as ever, spoke impeccably; but Mainwaring thought with a fragment of his mind how old he had begun to look.

The speech ended. He realized he hadn’t heard a word that was said.

The drums crashed again. The King said, “Once more, at Christmas, it is my…duty and pleasure… to speak to you.”

Something seemed to burst inside Mainwaring’s head. He rose, walked quickly to the bar. He said, “Hans, have you seen Miss Hunter?”

The other jerked round. He said, “Sir, shh… please…”

“Have you seen her ?”

Hans stared at the screen, and back to Mainwaring. The King was saying, “There have been… troubles, and difficulties. More perhaps lie ahead. But with… God’s help, they will be overcome.”

The chauffeur licked his mouth. He said, “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Which was her room?”

The big man looked like something trapped. He said, “Please, Mr. Mainwaring. You’ll get me into trouble…”

“Which was her room ?”

Somebody turned and hissed, angrily. Hans said, “I don’t understand.”

“For God’s sake man, you carried her things upstairs. I saw you!”

Hans said, “No, sir…”

Momentarily, the lounge seemed to spin.

There was a door behind the bar. The chauffeur stepped back. He said, “Sir. Please…”

The place was a storeroom. There were wine bottles racked, a shelf with jars of olives, walnuts, eggs. Mainwaring closed the door behind him, tried to control the shaking. Hans said, “Sir, you must not ask me these things. I don’t know a Miss Hunter. I don’t know what you mean.”

Mainwaring said, “Which was her room? I demand that you answer.”

“I can’t!”

“You drove me from London yesterday. Do you deny that?”

“No, sir.”

“You drove me with Miss Hunter.”

“No, sir!”

“Damn your eyes, where is she ?”

The chauffeur was sweating. A long wait; then he said, “Mr. Mainwaring, please. You must understand. I can’t help you.” He swallowed, and drew himself up. He said, “I drove you from London. I’m sorry. I drove you… on your own.”

The lounge door swung shut behind Mainwaring. He half-walked, half-ran to his room. He slammed the door behind him, leaned against it panting. In time the giddiness passed. He opened his eyes, slowly. The fire glowed; the Geissler stood on the bookshelf. Nothing was changed.

He set to work, methodically. He shifted furniture, peered behind it. He rolled the carpet back, tapped every foot of floor. He fetched a flashlight from his case and examined, minutely, the interior of the wardrobe. He ran his fingers lightly across the walls, section by section, tapping again. Finally he got a chair, dismantled the ceiling lighting fitting.

Nothing.

He began again. Halfway through the second search he froze, staring at the floorboards. He walked to his case, took the screwdriver from the pistol holster. A moment’s work with the blade and he sat back, staring into his palm. He rubbed his face, placed his find carefully on the side table. A tiny earring, one of the pair she had worn. He sat awhile breathing heavily, his head in his hands.

The brief daylight had faded as he worked. He lit the standard lamp, wrenched the shade free, stood the naked bulb in the middle of the room. He worked round the walls again, peering, tapping, pressing. By the fireplace, finally, a foot-square section of plaster rang hollow.

He held the bulb close, examined the hairline crack. He inserted the screwdriver blade delicately, twisted. Then again. A click; and the section hinged open.

He reached inside the little space, shaking, lifted out the recorder. He stood silent a time, holding it; then raised his arms, brought the machine smashing down on the hearth. He stamped and kicked, panting, till the thing was reduced to fragments.

The droning rose to a roar, swept low over the house. The helicopter settled slowly, belly lamps glaring, downdraught raising a storm of snow. He walked to the window, stood staring. The children embarked, clutching scarves and gloves, suitcases, boxes with new toys. The steps were withdrawn, the hatch dogged shut. Snow swirled again; the machine lifted heavily, swung away in the direction of Wilton.

The Party was about to start.

* * * *

Lights blaze, through the length and breadth of the house. Orange-lit windows throw long bars of brightness across the snow. Everywhere is an anxious coming and going, the pattering of feet, clink of silver and glassware, hurried commands. Waiters scuttle between the kitchens and the Green Room where dinner is laid. Dish after dish is borne in, paraded. Peacocks, roast and gilded, vaunt their plumes in shadow and candleglow, spirit-soaked wicks blazing in their beaks. The Minister rises, laughing; toast after toast is drunk. To five thousand tanks, ten thousand fighting aeroplanes, a hundred thousand guns. The Two Empires feast their guests, royally.

The climax approaches. The boar’s head, garnished and smoking, is borne shoulder-high. His tusks gleam; clamped in his jaws is the golden sun-symbol, the orange. After him march the waits and mummers, with their lanterns and begging-cups. The carol they chant is older by far than the Two Empires; older than the Reich, older than Great Britain.

“Living he spoiled, where poor men toiled, which made kind Ceres sad. …”

The din of voices rises. Coins are flung, glittering; wine is poured. And more wine, and more and more. Bowls of fruit are passed, and trays of sweets; spiced cakes, gingerbread, marzipans. Till at a signal the brandy is brought and boxes of cigars.

The ladies rise to leave. They move flushed and chattering through the corridors of the house, uniformed link-boys grandly lighting their way. In the Great Hall, their escorts are waiting. Each young man is tall, each blond, each impeccably uniformed. On the minstrels’ gallery a baton is poised; across the lawns, distantly, floats the whirling excitement of a waltz.

In the Green Room, hazed now with smoke, the doors are once more flung wide. Servants scurry again, carrying in boxes, great gay-wrapped parcels topped with scarlet satin bows. The Minister rises, hammering on the table for quiet.

“My friends, good friends, friends of the Two Empires. For you, no expense is spared. For you, the choicest gifts. Tonight, nothing but the best is good enough; and nothing but the best is here. Friends, enjoy yourselves. Enjoy my house. Frohe Weihnacht….”

He walks quickly into shadow, and is gone. Behind him, silence falls. A waiting; and slowly, mysteriously, the great heap of gifts begins to stir. Paper splits, crackling. Here a hand emerges, here a foot. A breathless pause; and the first of the girls rises slowly, bare in flamelight, shakes her glinting hair.

The table roars again.

* * * *

The sound reached Mainwaring dimly. He hesitated at the foot of the main staircase, moved on. He turned right and left, hurried down a flight of steps. He passed kitchens, and the servants’ hall. From the hall came the blare of a record player. He walked to the end of the corridor, unlatched a door. Night air blew keen against his face.

He crossed the courtyard, opened a further door. The space beyond was bright-lit; there was the faint, musty stink of animals. He paused wiped his face. He was shirt-sleeved; but despite the cold he was sweating.

He walked forward again, steadily. To either side of the corridor were the fronts of cages. The dogs hurled themselves at the bars, thunderously. He ignored them.

The corridor opened into a square concrete chamber. To one side of the place was a ramp. At its foot was parked a windowless black van.

In the far wall, a door showed a crack of light. He rapped sharply, and again.

“Hundenmeister. …”

The door opened. The man who peered up at him was as wrinkled and pot-bellied as a Nast Santa Claus. At sight of his visitor’s face he tried to duck back; but Mainwaring had him by the arm. He said, “Herr Hundenmeister, I must talk to you.”

“Who are you ? I don’t know you. What do you want…”

Mainwaring showed his teeth. He said, “The van. You drove the van this morning. What was in it ?”

“I don’t know what you mean…”

The heave sent him stumbling across the floor. He tried to bolt; but Mainwaring grabbed him again.

“What was in it…”

“I won’t talk to you! Go away!”

The blow exploded across his cheek. Mainwaring hit him again, backhanded, slammed him against the van.

“Open it..!”

The voice rang sharply in the confined space.

“Wer ist da? Was ist passiert?”

The little man whimpered, rubbing at his mouth.

Mainwaring straightened, breathing heavily. The GFP captain walked forward, staring, thumbs hooked in his belt.

“Wer sind Sie?”

Mainwaring said, “You know damn well. And speak English, you bastard. You’re as English as I am.”

The other glared. He said, “You have no right to be here. I should arrest you. You have no right to accost Herr Hundenmeister.’’

“What is in that van?”

“Have you gone mad ? The van is not your concern. Leave now. At once.”

“Open it!”

The other hesitated, and shrugged. He stepped back. He said, “Show him, mein Herr.”

The Hundenmeister fumbled with a bunch of keys. The van doors grated. Mainwaring walked forward, slowly.

The vehicle was empty.

The Captain said, “You have seen what you wished to see. You are satisfied. Now go.”

Mainwaring stared round. There was a further door, recessed deeply into the wall. Beside it controls like the controls of a bank vault.

“What is in that room?”

The GFP man said, “You have gone too far. I order you to leave.”

“You have no authority over me!”

“Return to your quarters!”

Mainwaring said, “I refuse.”

The other slapped the holster at his hip. He gut-held the Walther, wrists locked, feet apart. He said, “Then you will be shot.”

Mainwaring walked past him, contemptuously. The baying of the dogs faded as he slammed the outer door.

“It was among the middle classes that the seeds had first been sown; and it was among the middle classes that they flourished. Britain had been called often enough a nation of shopkeepers; now for a little while the tills were closed, the blinds left drawn. Overnight it seemed, an effete symbol of social and national disunity became the Einsatzegruppefuehrer; and the wire for the first detention camps was strung…”

Mainwaring finished the page, tore it from the spine, crumpled it and dropped it on the fire. He went on reading. Beside him on the hearth stood a part-full bottle of whisky and a glass. He picked the glass up mechanically, drank. He lit a cigarette. A few minutes later a new page followed the last.

The clock ticked steadily. The burning paper made a little rustling. Reflections danced across the ceiling of the room. Once Mainwaring raised his head, listened; once put the ruined book down, rubbed his eyes. The room, and the corridor outside, stayed quiet.

“Against immeasurable force, we must put cunning; against immeasurable evil, faith and a high resolve. In the war we wage, the stakes are high; the dignity of man, the freedom of the spirit, the survival of humanity. Already in that war, many of us have died; many more, undoubtedly, will lay down their lives. But always, beyond them, there will be others; and still more. We shall go on, as we must go on, till this thing is wiped from the earth.

“Meanwhile, we must take fresh heart. Every blow, now, is a blow for freedom. In France, Belgium, Finland, Poland, Russia, the forces of the Two Empires confront each other uneasily. Greed, jealousy, mutual distrust; these are the enemies, and they work from within. This, the Empires know full well. And, knowing, for the first time in their existence, fear…”

The last page crumpled, fell to ash. Mainwaring sat back, staring at nothing. Finally he stirred, looked up. It was zero three hundred; and they hadn’t come for him yet.

The bottle was finished. He set it to one side, opened another. He swilled the liquid in the glass, hearing the magnified ticking of the clock.

He crossed the room, took the Luger from the case. He found a cleaning rod, patches and oil. He sat awhile dully, looking at the pistol. Then he slipped the magazine free, pulled back on the breech toggle, thumbed the latch, slid the barrel from the guides.

His mind, wearied, had begun to play aggravating tricks. It ranged and wandered, remembering scenes, episodes, details sometimes from years back; trivial, unconnected. Through and between the wanderings, time after time, ran the ancient, lugubrious words of the carol. He tried to shut them out, but it was impossible.

“Living he spoiled where poor men toiled, which made kind Ceres sad. …”

He pushed the link pin clear, withdrew the breech block, stripped the firing pin. He laid the parts out, washed them with oil and water, dried and re-oiled. He reassembled the pistol, working carefully; inverted the barrel, shook the link down in front of the hooks, closed the latch, checked the recoil spring engagement. He loaded a full clip, pushed it home, chambered a round, thumbed the safety to GESICKERT. He released the clip; reloaded.

He fetched his briefcase, laid the pistol inside carefully, grip uppermost. He filled a spare clip, added the extension butt and a fifty box of Parabellum. He closed the flap and locked it, set the case beside the bed. After that there was nothing more to do. He sat back in the chair, refilled his glass.

“Toiling he boiled, where poor men spoiled.…”

The firelight faded, finally.

* * * *

He woke, and the room was dark. He got up, felt the floor sway a little. He understood that he had a hangover. He groped for the lightswitch. The clock hands stood at zero eight hundred.

He felt vaguely guilty at having slept so long.

He walked to the bathroom. He stripped and showered, running the water as hot as he could bear. The process brought him round a little. He dried himself, staring down. He thought for the first time what curious things these bodies were; some with their yellow cylinders, some their indentations.

He dressed and shaved. He had remembered what he was going to do; fastening his tie, he tried to remember why. He couldn’t. His brain, it seemed, had gone dead.

There was an inch of whisky in the bottle. He poured it, grimaced and drank. Inside him was a fast, cold shaking. He thought, ‘Like the first morning at a new school.’

He lit a cigarette. Instantly his throat filled. He walked to the bathroom and vomited. Then again. Finally there was nothing left to come.

His chest ached. He rinsed his mouth, washed his face again. He sat in the bedroom for a while, head back and eyes closed. In time the shaking went away. He lay unthinking, hearing the clock tick. Once his lips moved. He said, “They’re no better than us.”

At nine hundred hours he walked to the breakfast room. His stomach, he felt, would retain very little. He ate a slice of toast, carefully drank some coffee. He asked for a packet of cigarettes, went back to his room. At ten hundred hours he was due to meet the Minister.

He checked the briefcase again. A thought made him add a pair of stringback motoring gloves. He sat again, stared at the ashes where he had burned the Geissler. A part of him was willing the clock hands not to move. At five to ten he picked the briefcase up, stepped into the corridor. He stood a moment staring round him. He thought, ‘It hasn’t happened yet. I’m still alive.’ There was still the flat in Town to go back to, still his office; the tall windows, the telephones, the khaki utility desk.

He walked through sunlit corridors to the Minister’s suite.

The room to which he was admitted was wide and long. A fire crackled in the hearth; beside it on a low table stood glasses and a decanter. Over the mantel, conventionally, hung the Fuehrer’s portrait. Edward VIII faced him across the room. Tall windows framed a prospect of rolling parkland. In the distance, blue on the horizon, were the woods.

The Minister said, “Good morning, Richard. Please sit down. I don’t think I shall keep you long.”

He sat, placing the briefcase by his knee.

This morning everything seemed strange. He studied the Minister curiously, as if seeing him for the first time. He had that type of face once thought of as peculiarly English; short-nosed and slender, with high, finely-shaped cheek-bones. The hair, blond and cropped close to the scalp, made him look nearly boyish. The eyes were candid, flat, dark-fringed. He looked, Mainwaring decided, not so much Aryan as like some fierce nursery toy; a feral Teddy Bear.

The Minister riffled papers. He said, “Several things have cropped up; among them I’m afraid, more trouble in Glasgow. The fifty-first Panzer division is standing by; as yet, the news hasn’t been released.”

Mainwaring wished his head felt less hollow. It made his own voice boom so unnecessarily. He said, “Where is Miss Hunter?”

The Minister paused. The pale eyes stared; then he went on speaking.

“I’m afraid I may have to ask you to cut short your stay here. I shall be flying back to London for a meeting; possibly tomorrow, possibly the day after. I shall want you with me of course.”

“Where is Miss Hunter?”

The Minister placed his hands flat on the desk top, studied the nails. He said, “Richard, there are aspects of Two Empires culture that are neither mentioned nor discussed. You of all people should know this. I’m being patient with you; but there are limits to what I can overlook.”

“Seldom he toiled, while Ceres roiled, which made poor kind men glad. …”

Mainwaring opened the flap of the case and stood up. He thumbed the safety forward and levelled the pistol.

There was silence for a time. The fire spat softly. Then the Minister smiled. He said, “That’s an interesting gun, Richard. Where did you get it?”

Mainwaring didn’t answer.

The Minister moved his hands carefully to the arms of his chair, leaned back. He said, “It’s the Marine model of course. It’s also quite old. Does it by any chance carry the Erfurt stamp? Its value would be considerably increased.”

He smiled again. He said, “If the barrel is good, I’ll buy it. For my private collection.”

Mainwaring’s arm began to shake. He steadied his wrist, gripping with his left hand.

The Minister sighed. He said, “Richard, you can be so stubborn. It’s a good quality; but you do carry it to excess.” He shook his head. He said, “Did you imagine for one moment I didn’t know you were coming here to kill me ? My dear chap, you’ve been through a great deal. You’re overwrought. Believe me, I know just how you feel.”

Mainwaring said, “You murdered her.”

The Minister spread his hands. He said, “What with? A gun? A knife? Do I honestly look such a shady character?”

The words made a cold pain, and a tightness in the chest. But they had to be said.

The Minister’s brows rose. Then he started to laugh. Finally he said, “At last I see. I understood, but I couldn’t believe. So you bullied our poor little Hundenmeister, which wasn’t very worthy; and seriously annoyed the Herr Hauptmann, which wasn’t very wise. Because of this fantasy, stuck in your head. Do you really believe it, Richard? Perhaps you believe in Struwwelpeter too.” He sat forward. He said, “The Hunt ran. And killed… a deer. She gave us an excellent chase. As for your little Huntress… Richard, she’s gone. She never existed. She was a figment of your imagination. Best forgotten.”

Mainwaring said, “We were in love.”

The Minister said, “Richard, you really are becoming tiresome.” He shook his head again. He said, “We’re both adult. We both know what that word is worth. It’s a straw, in the wind. A candle, on a night of gales. A phrase that is meaningless. Lacherlich.” He put his hands together, rubbed a palm. He said, “When this is over, I want you to go away. For a month, six weeks maybe. With your new car. When you come back… well, we’ll see. Buy yourself a girlfriend, if you need a woman that much. Einen Schatz. I never dreamed; you’re so remote, you should speak more of yourself. Richard, I understand; it isn’t such a very terrible thing.”

Mainwaring stared.

The Minister said, “We shall make an arrangement. You will have the use of an apartment, rather a nice apartment. So your lady will be close. When you tire of her… buy another. They’re unsatisfactory for the most part, but reasonable. Now sit down like a good chap, and put your gun away. You look so silly, standing there scowling like that.”

It seemed he felt all life, all experience, as a grey weight pulling. He lowered the pistol, slowly. He thought. ‘At the end, they were wrong. They picked the wrong man.’ He said, “I suppose now I use it on myself.”

The Minister said, “No, no, no. You still don’t understand.” He linked his knuckles, grinning. He said, “Richard, the Herr Hauptmann would have arrested you last night. I wouldn’t let him. This is between ourselves. Nobody else. I give you my word.”

Mainwaring felt his shoulders sag. The strength seemed drained from him; the pistol, now, weighed too heavy for his arm.

The Minister said, “Richard, why so glum? It’s a great occasion, man. You’ve found your courage. I’m delighted.”

He lowered his voice. He said, “Don’t you want to know why I let you come here with your machine? Aren’t you even interested?”

Mainwaring stayed silent.

The Minister said, “Look around you, Richard. See the world. I want men near me, serving me. Now more than ever. Real men, not afraid to die. Give me a dozen… but you know the rest. I could rule the world. But first… I must rule them. My men. Do you see now? Do you understand?”

Mainwaring thought, ‘He’s in control again, But he was always in control. He owns me.’

The study spun a little.

The voice went on, smoothly. “As for this amusing little plot by the so-called Freedom Front; again, you did well. It was difficult for you. I was watching; believe me, with much sympathy. Now, you’ve burned your book. Of your own free will. That delighted me.”

Mainwaring looked up, sharply.

The Minister shook his head. He said, “The real recorder is rather better hidden, you were too easily satisfied there. There’s also a tv monitor. I’m sorry about it all, I apologise. It was necessary.”

A singing started, inside Mainwaring’s head.

The Minister sighed again. He said, “Still unconvinced, Richard? Then I have some things I think you ought to see. Am I permitted to open my desk drawer?”

Mainwaring didn’t speak. The other slid the drawer back slowly, reached in. He laid a telegram flimsy on the desk top. He said, “The addressee is Miss D. J. Hunter. The message consists of one word. ‘ACTIVATE.’ “

The singing rose in pitch.

“This as well,” said the Minister. He held up a medallion on a thin gold chain. The little disc bore the linked motif of the Freedom Front. He said, “Mere exhibitionism; or a death wish. Either way, a most undesirable trait.”

He tossed the thing down. He said, “She was here under surveillance of course, we’d known about her for years. To them, you were a sleeper. Do you see the absurdity? They really thought you would be jealous enough to assassinate your Minister. This they mean in their silly little book, when they talk of subtlety. Richard, I could have fifty blonde women if I chose. A hundred. Why should I want yours?” He shut the drawer with a click, and rose. He said, “Give me the gun now. You don’t need it any more.” He extended his arm; then he was flung heavily backward. Glasses smashed on the side table. The decanter split; its contents poured dark across the wood.

Over the desk hung a faint haze of blue. Mainwaring walked forward, stood looking down. There were blood-flecks, and a little flesh. The eyes of the Teddy Bear still showed glints of white. Hydraulic shock had shattered the chest; the breath drew ragged, three times, and stopped. He thought, ‘I didn’t hear the report.’

The communicating door opened. Mainwaring turned. A secretary stared in, bolted at sight of him. The door slammed.

He pushed the briefcase under his arm, ran through the outer office. Feet clattered in the corridor. He opened the door, carefully. Shouts sounded, somewhere below in the house.

Across the corridor hung a loop of crimson cord. He stepped over it, hurried up a flight of stairs. Then another. Beyond the private apartments the way was closed by a heavy metal grille. He ran to it, rattled. A rumbling sounded from below. He glared round. Somebody had operated the emergency shutters; the house was sealed.

Beside the door an iron ladder was spiked to the wall. He climbed it, panting. The trap in the ceiling was padlocked. He clung one-handed, awkward with the briefcase, held the pistol above his head.

Daylight showed through splintered wood. He put his shoulder to the trap, heaved. It creaked back. He pushed head and shoulders through, scrambled. Wind stung at him and flakes of snow.

His shirt was wet under the arms. He lay face down, shaking. He thought, ‘It wasn’t an accident. None of it was an accident.’ He had underrated them. They understood despair.

He pushed himself up, stared round. He was on the roof of Wilton. Beside him rose gigantic chimney stacks. There was a lattice radio mast. The wind hummed in its guy wires. To his right ran the balustrade that crowned the facade of the house. Behind it was a snow-choked gutter.

He wriggled across a sloping scree of roof, ran crouching. Shouts sounded from below. He dropped fiat, rolled. An automatic clattered. He edged forward again, dragging the briefcase. Ahead, one of the corner towers rose dark against the sky. He crawled to it, crouched sheltered from the wind. He opened the case, pulled the gloves on. He clipped the stock to the pistol, laid the spare magazine beside him and the box of rounds.

The shouts came again. He peered forward, through the balustrade. Running figures scattered across the lawn. He sighted on the nearest, squeezed. Commotion below. The automatic zipped; stone chips flew, whining. A voice called, “Don’t expose yourselves unnecessarily.” Another answered.

“Die kommen mit dem Hubschrauber

He stared round him, at the yellow-grey horizon. He had forgotten the helicopter.

A snow flurry drove against his face. He huddled, flinching. He thought he heard, carried on the wind, a faint droning.

From where he crouched he could see the nearer trees of the park, beyond them the wall and gatehouses. Beyond again, the land rose to the circling woods.

The droning was back, louder than before. He screwed his eyes, made out the dark spot skimming above the trees. He shook his head. He said. “We made a mistake. We all made a mistake.”

He settled the stock of the Luger to his shoulder, and waited.

The Lake of Tuonela

The dawn had been overcast; but by midmorning the weather had cleared. The small yellow sun of Xerxes burned in the planet’s blue-green sky, waking shimmers and sparks from the little bow-wave the long boat drove ahead of it. The banks of the canal, lower here, were clothed with bushes and some stouter trees. Mathis, leaning his forearms on sun-warmed wood, felt the shadows stroke his cheek, touches of light and heat combined.

Here, in the bows of the vessel, the thud of her big single-cylinder engine was muted. He glanced back along the tented cargo space, turned once more to lean over the craft’s side. The water was milky green; and some trick of light lent greater depth and perspective to the reflections than to the vegetation above. The tree leaves, small rounded sprays backlit to gold, passed smooth and silent fifty feet beneath the hull.

He studied the bow-wave, the fluctuating patterns within its stable form. The main crest curved from an inch or two before the vessel’s blunt stem. Behind it the concave slope of water was glassy and clear. Some six inches ahead a smaller ripple began; the ends of this wavered, flickering forward and back in some pattern that seemed at the same time random and predetermined. Into it flowed the detailed images of branches; behind it the blue and gold melted into streaks that vanished in the deep green shadow of the hull.

He moved his shoulders, feeling the aches from the day before in back and arms. Thirty locks, in three flights of ten, had taxed his strength to the limit. The gates, unused for years, were grass-grown, nearly too stiff to move; also leaks had started, round the heel plates and worn paddle gear. Chamber after chamber refused to fill; it had taken the weight of the boat, butting at the timbers, to force the gates back. Locking down, the problem would be aggravated; but he had no intention of turning back.

He glanced at the chronometer strapped to his wrist, stared ahead again. For two days the canal had paralleled the course of GEM tracks, raw swaths of earth curving through the scrub and marshland that comprised much of Xerxes’ Northern Continent; but the last of these had long since swung away. There were no signs of civilisation, either Terrestrial or Kalti, and no sounds save the sporadic piping of birds. The boat moved through a silence that the thudding of the engine only seemed to make the more complete.

He wondered, with something approaching interest, whether his absence had yet been noticed. A week had passed since leaving the lagoon that fringed Bran Gildo on the seaward side, climbing the vast lock flight that leads inland from the city. Mathis shrugged. If an alarm had been raised, it mattered little enough. Hidden for most of the time beneath the lapping tangle of branches, the boat would be invisible from a flyer; while the canals of the Southern Complex forked and meandered endlessly, joined by watercourse after watercourse, some natural, others artificial. The hamlets they had served, the mills and tiny manufactories, lay deserted now, the scrub growing up to and lapping across their walls; once lost in that complex, a spotter craft might search for a week and be no wiser at the end.

The air was humid beneath the trees. He wiped at his face and arms. On Earth, flies and midges would have made life burdensome; but the few flying insects of Xerxes, jewellike creatures resembling terrestrial dragonflies, had no interest in blood. He watched one now, darting and hovering beneath the miniature moss-grown cliff of the bank. The thing swooped, took something from the surface of the water, vanished with a bright blur of wings. The water, he noted, still flowed steadily. The current came via bypass sluices from the high Summit Level ahead. It was an encouraging sign.

In front of the boat a purple-flowered shrub hung low across the water. Her cabin passed beneath its branches with a scrape and rustle. A dozen times already she had been forced to a halt, while Mathis and his steersman used machetes to hack a way through the half-choked watercourse; but in the main the navigability of the canal after so many years disuse was a monument to the half-legendary Bar-Ab and his engineers.

Four Earth centuries ago, so ran the stories, Bar-Ab had been Prince of Bran Gildo, the palm-fringed city by the Salt Lagoon. He it was who in war after war had swept away the barbarous tribes of the interior, driving their remnants into reserves or into the sea; he also who had given to Xerxes the vast network of canals that till Terran Contact had remained the planet’s major transportation system. From his line the Kalti, the Boatmen of Xerxes, claimed descent; when they troubled to claim anything at all. From the first, Mathis had been intrigued by them; the little dumpy men and the little dumpy women with their wide-brimmed, round-crowned hats and suits of Sunday black. Though the Kalti were a fast-vanishing race themselves. In every direction, through the swamps, across the uplands with their mile on mile of spindly forest, ran the broad trackways of the Ground Effect Machines; their windy rushing was the night-sound of Xerxes now, replacing the churring of frogs and hunting birds.

Mathis shrugged, and lit a cigarette. From the hundred or so he had brought with him, he allowed himself just two a day. He smoked carefully and slowly, thinking back to his interview with Jefferson, the Bran Gildo Controller. Just ten days ago, now.

He’d pushed his request as far as a Behaviourist (Grade 2A) reasonably could; and been mildly surprised at the result. A small but important circus had assembled to consider the proposition; Ramsden, head of Biology; an Engineer/Controller from the survey section; and Figgins from Liaison, complete with Earth-style secretary. It had been Figgins who opened the attack; Figgins fat, and Figgins bearded.

‘John, I feel I must make one point at the outset. This sort of thing is hardly your Department’s concern.’

The Terran Complex, an air-conditioned cube of dural and glass, overlooked the brick-red ruins of the Old Palace; the place where Bar-Ab once sat, planning the network of waterways that would span a continent. A boat was passing, on the broad green moat that fronted the ruins, gliding above its mirror-image like a swan. A gay-striped awning covered it; on the foredeck lay a bare brown girl. Mathis shrugged. Difficult to keep his attention on the matter in hand. He said slowly, ‘I never claimed my Department was involved. It’s a personal project; and I’ve got a slab of leave come due.’

Figgins’ secretary crossed her legs, looking bored. Ramsden, a neat, bald, compact man, ran his finger across an ornamental carafe—Kalti work—and frowned. The engineer doodled on a scratchpad. A little wait, while the Controller decided not to speak; and Figgins carried on.

‘Speaking off the record,’ he said, ‘what would your object be in making a trip like this ? What would you hope to prove?’

Mathis said, ‘It’s all in the report.’

Another wait. Nobody helped him.

The boat was nearly out of sight. He turned back from the window, unwillingly. The words sounded dry; meaningless with repetition. He said, ‘We’ve been on Xerxes about one Earth generation. When we arrived we found a flourishing native culture. Backward on the sciences maybe but well up in the arts. We found a sub-culture, the Boatmen. They had a pictographic writing system like nothing we’d ever seen, and a religion we still haven’t properly understood. One generation, and that culture is dying. I don’t think we have that sort of privilege.’

Jefferson laid down the stylus he had been fingering. The click of metal on the rainbow-wood desk served to focus attention. Obscurely, Mathis wanted to smile.

The Controller said, ‘I think we’re rather wandering from the point. There are a lot of side effects to culture-shock that none of us much like. But they’re inevitable given the situation in which we find ourselves.’

He glanced at Mathis, eyes bright blue beneath shaggy brows. It was a standard mannerism; a look calculated to convey old-world kindliness combined with shrewdness. ‘We might not have learned as much as we ought from three hundred planets,’ he said, ‘but this much we do know. The day we made contact with Xerxes, existing social patterns were doomed. Mr. Mathis, you mentioned privilege just now. Let’s all be logical.’ He turned briefly to the big coloured map that covered most of one wall. ‘The hinterland of the Northern Continent is largely swamp,’ he said. ‘In time, that swamp will be drained and reclaimed. Better standards of living are going to bring a higher birthrate, more mouths to feed. We shall need that land. As of this moment ... One Ground Effect Machine will traverse between Bran Gildo and Hy Antiel by any of half a dozen routes in a little under one day Planetary. It’ll carry the payload of between five and six Kalti longboats, each of which would take a month on the trip. As I see it, our job isn’t to resist a change that’s already an accomplished fact. We’re here to channel that change, help native cultures through a time of transition as smoothly and quickly as possible. In time, the Boatmen will learn new skills. Re-adapt. That’s the way it has to be.’

Mathis said, ‘In time, the Boatmen will cease to exist.’

The Controller nodded gravely. He said. ‘That’s also a possibility we must allow for.’ He leafed through the docket on his desk. He said, ‘You’re asking for permission to take a Kalti boat through the Southern Complex by way of Hy Antiel Summit. And you still haven’t answered Mr. Figgins’ question. What’s your ultimate object?’

Mathis said, ‘The word goes that that complex is no longer navigable. That isn’t true; and I’m going to prove it. A tenth of what we spent last year on GEM terminals would restore it to full working use. And a hundredth of the labour. I want to see that happen; and I also want the matter of the Kalti culture raised at the next sitting of the Extraterrestrial Council. With your permission, I’m applying for a personal hearing. I want the Boatmen protected, and the entire Northern Continent declared a Planetary Reserve.’

The Controller raised his brows slightly. He said, ‘Well, that’s your privilege. Ramsden, what do you feel about all this?’

The biologist rubbed his chin. ‘There’s another factor of course,’ he said in his quiet, precise voice. ‘Preservation equals stagnation; stagnation equals deterioration. This sort of thing has been tried enough before. In my experience, it’s never worked.’

Figgins grunted. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that you’re starting from unsound premises anyway. These people, the Kalti; I haven’t seen many of ‘em clamouring for help. Could be they don’t want the old way any more than we do. You preservationists are all alike, John. None of you can take the broad view.’

Mathis shook his head, still vaguely amused. How explain ? If Figgins didn’t understand, it was because he didn’t want to. Study a Kalti pictograph, the swirls that were tenses, the shadings that were words, and the answer was plain enough. Through every design, like a great hyphen, slashed the Bar-Ko, the mark of the One who made water and earth, the green leaves and the sky. At the start of time, He decreed all things to be. If a man was to die, or a culture fail, then these facts were preordained; true a million years ago, and true for ever. This was all you needed; know it, and you knew the Boatmen.

But the Controller was speaking again. This time to the engineer.

‘Mr. Sito, do you have anything to add?’

Sito shrugged. ‘I’d say the whole thing was a pipedream. That cut hasn’t been used in thirty years; even the Boatmen don’t seem to know much about it any more. I shouldn’t think you’d get through to Summit Level; and if you did, do you know the length of that tunnel ?’

Mathis said, ‘Not precisely, no.’

The other made a face. ‘That’s my point. Those blighters dug like beavers. There’s a tunnel up in the Northern Marshes, Kel Santo, that measures out at ten kilometres. We’ve had to put scaffolding through nearly a kilometre to hold the roof; and Kel Santo’s never been out of maintenance. Take a boat into Hy Antiel and jam, and you’d not walk back out. It isn’t a chance I’d take.’

The Controller nodded. ‘Yes, Mr. Ramsden ?’

The biologist said carefully, ‘I have to point out it’s not too healthy an area. Most of our cases of Xerxian fever have been brought in from the Antiel range. It’s spread by a free-swimming amoeboid, gets into the smallest abrasion. Leave that untreated, and you’re in trouble. I’ve seen some native cases; the medics call it the Shambles.’

The Controller said briskly, ‘Right, I think that gives us all we need.’ The stylus tapped the table-top again, with finality. ‘I’m not unsympathetic,’ he said to Mathis. ‘Far from it. As far as appeals go, I’ll forward your case with pleasure; we all know every frontiersman has that right. But for the rest; I have to think, first and foremost, of the safety of Base personnel. Both your own and the party we’d have to send out if you went missing. So ... request refused. I’m sorry.’ He shuffled the papers together, handed them across the desk and rose.

* * * *

Ramsden caught up with Mathis in the outer office. By mutual consent, they took the elevator to the ground floor bar. Earth interests on Xerxes were expanding steadily; they were brewing something on the planet now that tasted remarkably like whisky. The biologist called for doubles, drank, put the glass down and puffed a pipe alight. He said, ‘Hm, sorry about that. Hardly expected anything else though. Disappointed?’

Mathis smiled. He said slowly, ‘Not particularly.’

The other glanced up sharply; and it occurred to Mathis that alone of the committee, Nathan Ramsden had understood his real purpose. Better, perhaps, than he understood it himself. He’d known the biologist a long time. Once, a thousand years back on another planet, he’d been in trouble. He rang Ramsden; and Ramsden had listened till the bursting words were done. Then he said quietly, ‘I see. Now, what’s the first thing I can do to help ?’

The older man took another sip of the pseudo-Scotch. He said, ‘As you know, it’s not my custom to offer unwanted advice. But I’m offering some now. Go home.’

Mathis stayed silent. He was seeing the canals; the endless shadings of green and gold, puttering of the long black hulls, interlacing of leaf and branch shadows in the brown-green mirror of the water. By pictograph, an answer might be made. The white and blue swirls formed themselves unasked, inside his head.

Ramsden set the glass down. He said, ‘This’ll be my last tour anyway. I’m looking forward to putting my feet up on an Honorary Chair somewhere. You’re still young, John; you’ve got a year or two left yet.’

Mathis said vaguely, ‘I suppose we’re as young as we feel.’

The biologist said, ‘Hmm...’ He waited a moment longer; then rose. He said, ‘Drink up. I’ve got an hour before my duty tour; I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.’

* * * *

The steersman called behind him; a high, sharp sound, like a yap. The Kalti waved and grinned, pointing to the bank; and Mathis smiled, nodding in return. Ahead rose a line of hills, outliers of the Hy Antiel massif. An arm of forest swept down to the canal; it enclosed a grassy clearing, quiet and golden with sunlight. The Boatman swung the painted shaft of the stem oar, nosing the big craft in towards the bank.

* * * *

In the Lagoon, close under the old white city walls, the long vessels lay tied each to each; the sun winked from brass-strapped chimneys and round portglasses, gleamed on the painted coamings of cabins. On each stempost, knotted ropework was pipeclayed to whiteness; above each roof were the big running lamps with their filigree-work of brass; on each side, somewhere, was the mark of the God, the Bar-Ko with its sprays of leaves, gold and white and blue. Ramsden strolled beside the bright herd of boats, wiping his face and neck with a bandanna. He paused finally beside a craft tied up some distance from the rest, and called. ‘Can’t get my tongue round these Kalti names,’ he said. ‘I just call him Jack.’

The Boatman who bobbed from the diminutive bow cabin was slimmer than most of his people. His bland face with the dark, slightly tilted eyes looked very young; to Mathis, he seemed little more than a boy. He grinned, ducking his head, showing a half-moon of brilliant teeth. Ramsden said, ‘Hoki, Jack. Hoki, a-aie?’ The Kalti grinned again and nodded, waving a slender hand. The biologist stepped across to the raised prow, dropped, grunting, to the fore-deck. Mathis followed him.

Hoki, the coffee-like beverage brewed by the Boatmen, had not at first been to Mathis’ taste; but he had grown accustomed to its sharp, slightly bitter flavour. He squatted in the cramped cabin, the thin-shelled, brightly painted cup in his fingers, waited while Ramsden mopped his face again. ‘He speaks a bit of Terran,’ he said. ‘Not much, but I think you’ll get by. His parents are dead. He’s twenty-five; usually their marriage contracts are settled before they’re out of their teens but Jack’s still working single-handed. Bit of an oddball, in many respects.’

The Boatman grinned again. He said, ‘Too right,’ in a clipped, slightly sing-song voice. He took Mathis’ cup, poured more of the brownish fluid. The pot in which it was brewed, like all Kalti artifacts, was gaily decorated; the little discs of copper hanging round its circumference tinkled as he set it down.

Mathis looked round the cabin. It wasn’t usual for Terrans to be invited aboard a Kalti boat. Nests of drawers and cupboards lined the walls. No inch of the tiny living space seemed wasted; there were earthenware bowls, copper measures and a dipper, a barrel for water storage, a minute stove. He wondered vaguely how Ramsden had come to know the Boatman. He seemed well enough at home.

The biologist lit his pipe again, staring through the open doors at the sparkling expanse of the lagoon. ‘This man will take you to Hy Antiel,’ he said quietly. ‘By the old route, through the Antiel Range. He’s a bit of a patriot in his own way too, is young Jack.’

Mathis narrowed his eyes. He said, ‘Why’re you doing this, Nathan?’

The older man shrugged and raised his brows. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘if you intend to go, and I feel you do, I’d rather you have a good man with you. That way you stand a chance of coming back.’ He prodded at the pipe bowl with a spent match. ‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘If they drag you out by the back hair, as they probably will, I shan’t know a thing about it. I’ve got troubles of my own already...’

He had one final memory; of sitting on the cabin roof of the great boat later that day, watching a vessel come in from planetary west. Through the glasses she seemed to make no progression, hanging shadowlike against the glowing shield of water. The figures that crowded her rocked, as she rocked, slowly from side to side. From them drifted a thread of sound; a single note, harsh and unnatural, taken up and sustained by voice after voice.

Mathis touched the young Kalti on the shoulder, pointed. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘what’s that?’

‘Kaput,’ said the Boatman unexpectedly. ‘All finish.’

Mathis said musingly, ‘All the decks were dense with stately forms ...’ He glanced down sharply. He said, ‘You mean it’s a funeral?’

‘All finish,’ said Jack. ‘Yes. Bloody bad luck.’

* * * *

The canal shallowed towards the edges, banked with fine silt. He heard the slither and bump as the fiat-bottomed craft grounded, and shrugged. A few minutes’ work with the poles would shift her, at first light. For safety’s sake he still carried a line ashore. The ground, unexpectedly soft, wouldn’t hold a mooring spike. He tethered the boat instead to a sapling at the water’s edge. He sat a while watching the shadows lengthen, the gold fade from the little space of grass. From the cabin at his back came shufflings, once a tinkle as the Kalti worked, preparing the mess of beans on which the Boatmen habitually lived. With the dusk a little breeze rose, blowing from the hills, heavy with the scent of some night flower.

The Kalti bobbed from the cabin slide. ‘All done,’ he said. ‘Too quick.’

Mathis turned, stared up at the high line of hills losing themselves in the night. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘are we going to make it?’

The Boatman nodded vigorously. ‘One time,’ he said. ‘No sweat. Too bloody quick.’

He had conned De Witt at Base into knocking him up a generator and headlamp to supplement the lighting of the Kalti boat. It rested now on the forward cabin top, an untidy arrangement of batteries and wires. He ran a hand across the motor casings as he smoked his final cigarette. The canal was restless; cheepings sounded and close plops, once a heavier crashing of branches followed by the swack-swack-swack of a bird taking off from water. The banks, and the shaggy bushes lining them, were mounded velvet; between them the water gleamed, depthless and pale. It seemed the canal itself gave off a scent; chill and pervasive. The moon of Xerxes was rising as he sought his sleeping bag.

* * * *

The morning was difficult. The channel, much overgrown here, had silted badly; time and again the boat grounded, sliding to a halt. The pole tip sank in the softness, raising blackish swirls that stained the clear green. The Kalti, patient and expressionless, worked engine and steering oar, using the boat’s power now to drive her forward, now to draw back from an impassable shoal. The sun woke shimmers from the thread of water remaining, while Mathis sweated and heaved. By midday, he guessed they had covered little more than a mile. They rested a while, drawn beneath a tangle of bushes; and he heard the echoing whistle of a flyer, somewhere to the north. He waited, frowning. For a time the machine seemed to circle, the sound of its motors eddying on the wind. Then the noise faded. It did not return.

By mid-afternoon the condition of the waterway had improved. The boat resumed its steady pace, gliding still between high mounded bushes. Some of the branches bore viciously sharp thorns; Mathis, standing in the bow, swung a machete, lopping a path clear for the steersman. That night he was glad of his rest.

Next morning they reached the foot of a long lock flight that climbed steadily into the hills. The chambers were well spaced, the pounds between them a mile or more in length. Over each pair of gates the Bar-Ko rusted in its bright iron frame, a valediction from the long-dead Prince. Viridian creepers had wound themselves into and through the scrollwork of the supports; their long tendrils brushed Mathis’ face as the boat glided beneath. On the following day they entered the first of the cuttings.

For some time the ground to either side had been trending steadily upward; now the canal sides, still heightening, closed together, becoming near-vertical cliffs of dark purple rock. The strata of which they were composed were seamed and cracked; between the layers massive trees somehow found lodgement. The root bosses, gnarled and lichened, glistened with water that oozed its way steadily through the stone. Above, the higher trunks were festooned with the brilliant creeper. Some inclined at precarious angles, meshing their branches with those of their fellows on the opposite bank. From them the tendrils swayed, dropping masses of foliage to the water fifty or sixty feet beneath. Later the cutting, still immensely deep, opened out; here lianas, as thick as or thicker than Mathis’ arms, stretched pale and taut from the leaf canopy to the shelving rock. They did not, he saw, descend vertically but inclined on both sides at a slight angle to the water; so that driving between them was like passing through the forest-ribs of an enormous keel.

The cutting had one advantage; the height and density of the trees had thinned out secondary growth. The water still ran clear and green; the rock, though friable, seemed not to discolour it. Mathis sat in the damp warmth, hearing the magnified beat of the engine echo back from the high cliff to either side. In time he grew tired of staring up; then it seemed his sense of scale was altered. The bank beside which the boat slid, the foot or so of rock at the water’s edge, became in itself a precipice, sheer and beetling. The sheet of lichen, the tiny mosslike plants clinging to the stone, were meadows and trees, above which the menacing shapes drifted like clouds. The tips of the great falls of creeper, touching the boat, discharged showers of drops that fell like storms of icy rain.

He thought vaguely of Ramsden, back at Base; the delight the biologist would take in the strange plant forms surrounding him. With the thought came another, less surely formed; a sense of loss, an aching regret at the necessity for actions. He knew himself better now; and understood more fully the nature of his journey. The notion, once admitted, remained with him, his mind returning to it with the insistence with which the tongue-tip probes the wound of an extraction. This seemed to be the truth; that because nothing, no homecoming, waited beyond the hill range he was drawn forward, because of desolation and emptiness he had to go on. The trees stretched their ranks over the edge of rock above him; beyond he knew lay others and still more, mile on endless mile of forest haunted by rodents and owls. There were empty hamlets, empty villages, empty towns maybe, lapped by the rising green, wetted by rains, warmed by summer suns. He experienced a curious desire, transient yet powerful, to know that land; but know it in detail, hollow by hollow, as he knew the lines of his palms. He wondered at the state of mind, not wholly new to him; and wondered too at a curious notion Ramsden had once expressed that the Loop, in scrambling a man, never reassembled the same being twice. The oddity was allied to another, better known; that over seven years or so the elements of the body, the pints of water and pennorths of salt, are wholly changed so that physically and intimately one becomes a different being. Yet the thinking part, whichever that might be, goes on for ever. Hurting, and giving pain.

A mile into the cutting the engine stalled, with a thud.

He was amused, momentarily, at the flash of panic aroused in him. The mind, it seems, insists on clinging to patterns once known; maybe to the point of death. The long hull was swinging and losing way, pushed by the faint current from ahead; he fended with the pole, felt the bottom bump gently against mud. He climbed to the catwalk above the cargo space, walked steadily astern.

Round the rear of the vessel, immediately above the propeller, ran a narrow ledge. The Kalti was squatting on it, gripping one-handed, groping with the other arm beneath the water. For the journey, he had affected Terran garb; a sleeveless woollen jerkin, printed with Fair Isle patterns and plentifully daubed with oil, and a pair of frayed and faded jeans. His harsh, longish hair hung forward; between jeans and pullover showed a half-moon of olive skin. He straightened when Mathis spoke, grinning his inevitable grin; Mathis wondered suddenly if it was no more than a reflex of the nerves. ‘All stuck up,’ he said. ‘Jolly bad luck.’

Mathis climbed down beside him. The tip of a nobbled branch protruded from the water; below, its cloudy shape was visible for a foot or more before vanishing in the greenness. He tugged at it. It felt immovable. His reach was longer than the Kalti’s; he felt carefully for the propeller boss, traced his finger back along the battered edge of the blade. The log was jammed firmly between propeller and hull.

The Kalti pulled the sweater over his head, balancing with care. He folded the garment neatly and slid into the water. Mathis followed, feeling the buoyant chill.

From this viewpoint, the black hull seemed immense. The mud of the canal bottom sucked at his feet; he grabbed for breath, ducked, surfaced again. He ran fingers across the curving, crusted planks, carefully, remembering Ramsden’s injunction. The Kalti heaved at the branch. It moved anticlockwise an inch or so, jammed again. Half-rotten, the wood was difficult to grip. Mathis clung to the step, exploring again with his free hand. The edge of the big prop had bitten deeply into the waterlogged fibres. He shook his head, made washout motions with his palm above the water.

He paddled to where he could once more swing himself aboard. The ironwood grating at the stern lifted readily enough. Beneath it the shaft gleamed dully, secured to the primitive gearbox by a flexible jawed coupling. He fingered the heavy hand-forged bolts. The Kalti nodded, and grinned again.

De Witt had made up a toolkit for the boat. None of the set spanners fitted; he used an adjustable, working carefully so as not to burr the edges of the nuts. As he worked a light drizzle began, drifting in greyish veils from the heights above.

The nuts came clear, finally. He tapped the bolts back through the fibrous coupling plate, and gripped the shaft. It wouldn’t budge.

He sorted the toolkit for the longest crowbar. A wooden wedge pressed against the gearbox end protected the coupling from damage. He leaned his weight carefully. The shaft stayed firm. He took a breath, jerked. The thing slid backward through the packing gland, with a faint creak. He reached behind him, pulled. The branch rolled clear and sank.

He eased the shaft forward, reconnected. He sat back, wiping his hands on a piece of fibrous husk. He said, ‘Hoki, Jack?’ The Kalti raised his thumbs. He said, ‘Dear me, yes.’ He scrambled forward, over the cargo space.

By mid-afternoon they were clear of the cutting. Beyond, the land fell away with startling speed to a steep and ragged valley. Across it strode an aqueduct, massive arches built of the same purplish rock. To one side, sluices discharged water from the canal lips with a sullen roar. The spray from the fall drifted back, obscuring the defile. Mathis, gripping the boat’s rail, imagined the black hull, topped with the tilted brightwork of the cabins, sliding so high in the air. He saw the vessel from the viewpoint of an observer in the tangled valley bottom. Beyond the great structure the rock walls once more swooped together; and the Kalti moored for the night.

In the second cutting they were delayed again, this time by mud and weed. The weed, slimy strings of it twenty feet or more in length, wrapped itself persistently around the propeller, building a solid ball between blades and hull. As the obstructions formed the Boatman sliced them away patiently. Mathis poled dully, disinterested in time; later the machetes were once more brought into use. Finally the narrows were passed; the second cutting opened up ahead. The rock rose steeply, a hundred feet or more, clothed still for most of its height with living green. Through much of the day the far lip caught the sun; the feathery trees that lined it seemed to burn, haloed with pale gold. Later, clouds grew across the sky. The drizzle returned; and a thin mist, veiling the highest rock. In time the mist crept lower, rolling slowly, clinging in tongues to the water.

He was standing beside the steersman on the little stern grating. The Kalti grunted, pulling his lips back from his teeth. Mathis shook his head; and the Boatman waved an arm. ‘Mutta-a,’ he said to the surrounding heights. ‘Mutta-a. Kaput.’

Mutta-a. Mutti, Maman ... The first sound of any mammal’s voice will make. Mathis said, ‘You mean it’s haunted.’ Perhaps this was why the Kalti were disinclined to talk.

‘Mutta-a,’ said Jack, nodding vigorously. ‘Rather silly.’

Mathis said, ‘I can believe it.’

He walked forward. The mist, or cloud-base, had thickened again; the tree-limbs, some bleached, pushed through it, with curious effect. He was interested to find it was still possible to feel unease. He savoured the sensation, with some care.

The huge walls angled to the left. The boat edged round the bend; and a black mouth showed ahead. The sloping hillside in which it was set climbed to unguessed height. Bushes clung to it; above hung the trunks of the endless forest. The opening itself was horseshoe-shaped, its throat densely black. From fifty yards, he smelled its breath; ancient and chill. Mathis rubbed his face; then swung to the cabin top to start the generator.

This was the Tunnel of Hy Antiel.

* * * *

He turned the handlamp. The ribbon of water ahead was tarry, non-reflecting. To either side the close brick walls were festooned with red and green slime; larger masses, leprous-white in the light, hung from the half-seen roof. As the boat brushed at them they broke with soft snaps. From the brickwork of the tunnel fell a steady chill rain.

He listened, turning his head. What he had not been prepared for was the din. The thudding of the boat’s diesel echoed massively from the curved walls; but there were other sounds. A sighing rose to something like a roar, fled forward and back along the shaft. Maybe the boat had scraped the side, some sprag touched her hull; God only knew. The brick throat threw echoes back on themselves, lapping and distorting. At first the sounds had troubled him; but they had been travelling two hours or more, he had grown accustomed to the place.

He pitched the light farther ahead. For some time now a deeper roar had been growing in intensity. He saw its source finally; a curtain of clear water, sparkling as it fell from the roof. At its base the surface boiled and rippled, throwing up wavering banks of brownish foam.

This was the fourth airshaft he had seen. He ducked, tortoise-fashion, into the little bow castle, heard the cannonade pass down the long tarpaulins of the cargo space to the stem. The big boat rocked; the sighing came again, mixed with the fading roar.

Here, in the encroaching dark, the swimming sense of motion was intensified. A memory returned to him, odd and unconnected; and he nearly smiled. It was of a journey back from London to his home, when he was a tiny child. On the trip down, the monorail whispered and clattered, flashing through tunnel after tunnel beneath the great complexes of buildings; but now the darkness pressed uniform and baffling against the rounded panes of the carriage. He had asked, finally, when this tunnel would end; and his father, momentarily surprised, had dropped a hand to his shoulder and laughed. ‘It isn’t a tunnel, John,’ he said. ‘It’s the night...’

He leaned back, head against the bulky survival pack. He felt tired and a little dizzy. Maybe it was the fumes that hung in the shaft. He lit his daily cigarette, and closed his eyes. He saw with remarkable clarity the white walls and green palm-clumps of Bran Gildo, the unused watchtowers pushing their dunce-cap roofs into the turquoise sky. It seemed he could smell the hot, spiced air, the fragrance of spike-leaved shrubs where the Terran girls walked with their pleated kilts and strapped native sandals and long bronzed limbs. From beyond the Palace walls came the sounds of the city’s traffic, cartbells mixed with the whine of the electric buggies that were a gift from an ever-benevolent Earth. He opened his lids, seeing the slime-hung walls. The two images, so disparate, were yet interlinked; pieces of an equation that one day must be solved.

He reached above him to the pack. Strapped to it was the holster of the standard ten-shot Walther issued under space regs to every serving frontiersman, beside it the bulkier grip of the Gyrojet pistol Ramsden had at the last insisted he carry. He shook his head. Perhaps he had studied the pictographs too long. The philosophy of weapons, alien to the Kalti, had become all but alien to him. The One beyond, whose Sign is the glimmering horizon, decreed all things to be; death and life came in their turn, and were acceptable. To oppose circumstance, to impose the will, had come to seem a heresy. It was not will that drove him, or the boat; rather it was a sense of inevitability, of the fitness of his course to some purpose that continued to evade him. There was no sense of struggle; consequently there could be no achievement. The massive fetish of the guns reminded him of much that he had wished to leave behind. He had thought at first he might drop them over the side; but an ennui, the same listlessness that stilled his tongue at the meeting, came between intention and the act. There they lay; there let them be.

He must have slept; certainly he dozed, for when his eyes once more opened the engine of the boat was quiet. The cabin lamps were lit; Jack banged and clattered at the little stove.

He rose, awkward in the confined space. For a moment he was disoriented; and the child’s confusion returned so that it seemed the boat must have passed the tunnel. Then he saw how the lamplight glowed in fans across wet brickwork; the air he drew into his lungs was chill and stale. He turned to the Boatman; and the Kalti grinned. ‘Too far,’ he said. ‘Not much good.’

They were moored to what seemed to be the remains of a little wharf. Lines of rusting iron rings were let into the brickwork. He swung to the cabin top, started the generator. The lampbeam showed the black, unrippling water stretching ahead. To the right, joining the main line at a sharp angle, was a second shaft. The stonework of the curving groin where tunnels met looked new and fresh. He pointed to the shaft; but the Kalti shrugged, making washout motions with his hands. He said again, ‘Not much good.’

With the boat motionless, the silence of the tunnel was complete. He lay a long time hearing the quietness hiss in his ears. Finally, sleep came; and with it, dreams. They were untenanted, yet precisely detailed. They concerned ancient buildings, places seen once on Earth. A gatehouse, lost in a wood of tall elms; a street of white-walled cottages; a flight of turf steps before a great stone Minster.

Finally it seemed he sat in an upper room of a very large house. The room, a study, looked out on wings of crumbling stone. Beyond were formal gardens, arbours framing leaden nymphs and gods. In the dream he knew with certainty that he would never leave the room, never rise from the chair; and that the light, the afternoon light, would never change.

* * * *

The Kalti roused him. He was giddy and lightheaded; and his eyes seemed gummy, as though he had not slept. He ate the bean stew the boy set before him with little interest. Afterwards he walked to where the jetty, if jetty it was, narrowed, the stone fairing into the smooth brick of the shaft. His purpose satisfied, he stepped back to untie the ropes from the heavy rings. The Kalti swung up the engine; he poled the bow from the wharf, and the journey was resumed.

Twice in the hours that followed echoing roars from ahead warned of fresh ventshafts. Each discharged its torrent of water into the canal; but staring up as the boat approached Mathis could detect no gleam of outside light. One shaft seemed partially choked; fibrous roots hung twisting in the downpour, their tips pale and rotted. At eleven hundred the boat passed a line of low flood arches. Water from the canal lip poured beneath them in steady greenish sheets. Mathis turned the lamp. At first it seemed a black void opened beyond; but this was a trick of light. The rock, covered with some dark, non-reflectant growth, was very close.

The workings in the tunnel were complex, like none he had seen. He wondered at their age. He asked the Kalti, shouting above the engine; but the Boatman shook his head. ‘Mutta-a,’ he said. He spread his fingers, and again. Many generations.

The tunnel was very old.

To his other questions there was no reply. The tunnel was very long.

Later in the day the brickwork ended.

The effect was odd. Beyond the shaft sides, a jet half-circle seemed to form and widen. He watched the spreading band a moment, puzzled; then the tunnel was falling away behind. The engine noise, that for so long had pounded in his ears, faded as the stern of the boat drew clear.

He swung the big lamp left and right, discovering no sign of walls; the gloom ahead was likewise unrelieved. At last the abundance of summit water was explained; they had entered an underground lake, of unknown size. He wondered fleetingly if Bar-Ab and his engineers had known. Had they plotted the extent of the cavern, tunnelled to its brink; or had the miners burst into the void, startled and unsuspecting ...

On impulse, he angled the light upward. Above, suspended it seemed from an infinite height, the Bar-Ko, dark red and dripping, marked the way. Beyond the great iron Sign hung another; and another, dimly seen.

He nodded to himself. They had known.

The tunnel had been loud with noise. Running through the void, the opposite effect seemed to hold true. Silence, like the dark, pressed in on the boat; almost it seemed the cavern deadened sound, so that twice he scrambled to the cabin roof convinced the engine was no longer running. Each time he was reassured by the thumping ninety feet astern. Once he tried sounding, with the longest pole, but could touch no bottom. He turned his wrist in the beam of De Witt’s spotlight, holding the chronometer close up to his face. He was surprised to see an hour had elapsed since quitting the shaft.

With time, the absence of sensation affected him strongly. The tunnel sounds returned, the whisperings and long sighs; but they were in his ears. Also it seemed that lights appeared, far across the water. It was as if a fairy army drove to meet him, yet forever receded. He rubbed his face, knuckling at his eyes; and the lights were gone.

Finally a fresher breeze blew from ahead. Also he saw, above the endless line of markers, a fold of stone that was the dripping of the cavern roof. Ghostings of grey appeared to either side; then, suddenly, the cavern walls began to close back in. The slime-hung brickwork returned; and he stared behind him at the velvet dark. He said, ‘The Lake of Tuonela.’

Tuonela, where dead spirits walk.

* * * *

In the outer world, the time was thirteen hundred. The abstraction counted for little here. He wound the chronometer, staring up while the bow of the vessel bumped gently at what looked at first sight to be the gate of a stop lock. The journey was ended.

The tilted beam of light rolled slowly, illuminating a slope of wet, smooth rock. At its summit, the side of the second great caisson showed its panels of rusting iron. More iron, columns and tie rods, rose into the dark. Beyond was an engine house. The round-topped windows stared like dim sockets; above them the buttressed column that was the chimney grew up into the stone, thrusting for the open air. Mathis grinned, showing his teeth. He said softly, ‘The crazy bastards.’

He sat on the cabin roof and lit a cigarette. He felt closer to Bar-Ab and his men than he would have thought possible. He rubbed the beard-stubble on his chin and asked himself, how could they have done it? How could they carve through twenty miles of rock, with pickaxes and plumb bobs, and keep their line and level ? Those engineers in kilts and plumes? Like the Incas, their priests used the Rope of Thorns. Like the Victorians, they knew black powder and the barrow run. Like both, they vanished. They left... this.

They built an Inclined Plane, inside a bloody hill.

A sound at his elbow made him turn. The Kalti’s face was a pale mark in the gloom. He waved an arm at the monstrousness; the caissons, the engine house, the rails with their great red bogies. ‘Make go,’ he said. ‘Make go.’

Mathis threw the half-smoked butt into the water. Sito would have given his back teeth for this. ‘Yes, Jack,’ he said. ‘We must make it go..

There was coal; great bunkers of it, growing here and there a rich skin of mould. Coal, but no kindling. For that they stripped the powdering, frames from windows, boards from the engine-house floor. Fuel oil from the boat’s depleted tank would fire the furnace. The boiler they filled painfully, a bucket at a time. The top caisson already held water; the gate of the lower for a time refused to close. Mathis rigged a fourfold purchase from a mooring bollard, strained the thick iron partially shut; the boat herself, thundering in reverse, completed the job. Brown foam boiled; the big door closed, with protesting squeals. They lit the furnace then, sat an hour while pressure built to working head. Round the boiler were heavy riveted straps. In time the rivet heads began to sizzle and steam.

There was a bank of gauges, each set in a plate of foliated brass. The markings on the faces made no sense. It was guesswork, all the way.

Mathis edged the regulator forward. A rumbling; rust flew, in a thin rain. Below, the long chains stretched over the rock clanked to tautness. The boat slopped against the chamber side; the engine slowed as the ancient gearing felt the load. Steam roared from a union; and the boat was climbing, inching sideways up the Plane. The headlight, blazing, drew level with Mathis, began to pass. The Kalti heaved at the caisson side, adding his strength to the strength of the machine. He was happy. He had done what the strange Terri wanted; now others would come, with their engines that tore away rock and plucked down trees. And the long cuttings would once more fill. His head made pictures; he saw the blue and red stars that were the lamps of boats, sailing all night long from Bran Gildo to Hy Antiel.

A chain link parted, with a ringing crash. Mathis, sweating, wrenched at the emergency brake with blistered hands. The caisson, with its hundred thousand gallon load, lurched backward on the slope; and the Kalti’s heels shot from under him.

‘Oh dear,’ said Jack. The bogies, gathering speed, severed his arm, ploughed crashing across his chest. The caisson took the water it had quitted with a thunderous splash. A tinkling; the headlight on the cabin roof swayed sideways, and was extinguished.

* * * *

The tunnel portal was set into a low, mounded hill. Beyond it the canal was fringed with low shrubs that blazed with smoky orange blossom. Above, saplings hung graceful and still, their sprays of rounded leaves catching the sunset light.

To an observer stationed at the tunnel mouth, the twin lamps of the Kalti vessel would have appeared at first like dim brown stars. For some time, such are the curious optics of tunnels, the stars would have appeared to grow no closer; then, suddenly it seemed, they swam forward. Between them the outlines of the boat became visible; the knotted headropes of the prow, the tilted cabin with its ornamented ports. Behind, sliding into the light, came the long tented cargo space; the engine-house, hazed with blue; the stern deck with its grating, the Bar-Ko vaunting white and gold on the rounded black sides. The steersman, in once-white slacks and shirt, leaned wearily on the painted shaft of the oar. His face was fringed with a stubble of beard; from time to time he glanced down, frowning, at a bundle near his feet. In places the canvas of which it was composed was soaked and dark; and a runnel of fluid had escaped, staining the boat’s dull side.

To Mathis, the transition from darkness to the light seemed curiously unreal. He smelled the sweetness of the grass, heard the wind rustle in the tops of trees and frowned again, shaking his head as if to clear it. His brain recorded, but sluggishly. Ahead and to the left, twin hills marked the position of Hy Antiel. This was the Summit Pound; five miles ahead the lock flight began that led to the city, stepping in green steps down a green and grassy hill. He’d walked beside it often enough, it seemed in some other life.

He squinted up, at the high dusting of gold. To the right showed the pilings of a mooring place. Little bushes surrounded it, throwing their branch-shadows across the water. He turned the oar, unused as yet to the boat’s response, glided the long vessel to the bank.

He was uncertain of the forms to be employed. He chose a spot finally; a grassy knoll beneath the branches of a broad, spreading tree. He had brought a spade and mattock from the boat; he wiped his forehead, and began to dig. Later he drove a stake into the grass at the head of the fresh-turned mound. To it he lashed a crosspiece for the Bar-Ko sign; then there was nothing more to do.

He searched the Kalti’s few possessions. He found a breechcloth of silk, a scarf, a broad-brimmed, round-crowned hat; and a bolero crusted with pearly buttons, the sort of garment a Boatman would wear on a feast-day in Bran Gildo. In a bag closed by a drawstring were two brooches set with semi-precious stones, a nugget of what looked to be iron pyrites and a lock-key charm in gold. There were also a prayer-roll sealed with the Bar-Ko mark, and a much-thumbed packet of postcards showing bare-breasted Terran girls. These last he returned to the bag before tucking it carefully away.

He didn’t wish to eat. Instead he brewed up the Kalti coffee, drinking several cups. Slightly alcoholic, the drink had a heady effect. He smoked a cigarette, saw to his mooring stakes and spread his sleeping-bag on the cabin roof. The spinning in his head was worse; he closed his eyes, and was quickly asleep.

He woke some time before the Xerxian dawn. To planetary east, the first faint flush of green heralded the sun. The canal was a silver mirror, set between velvet trees; and Barbara watched him from the bank, her chin in her hand. The light gleamed palely from her hair.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, and smiled. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you coming on board ?’

She considered, smiling in her turn, before she slowly shook her head. ‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I think once was enough. I don’t think I could go through it all again.’

He said, ‘I can’t say I blame you. You’re better off where you are.’

She chuckled. ‘My word,’ she said, ‘you’ve certainly changed.’

He said, ‘I suppose we all do.’ He rubbed his face. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ he said. ‘Not here. I thought I’d travelled much too far away.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you know me, John. I’m the little crab who always hangs on. Remember?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’

She was quiet a moment, watching along the canal. She said, ‘This is a lovely place.’

‘It needed you,’ he said. ‘It was rather pointless before.’

‘Where were you going?’

He said, ‘Hy Antiel.’ He gestured at the bank. ‘There were two of us. But...’

She said, ‘I know.’ She shook her head. She said, ‘You haven’t altered all that much after all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Poor John,’ she said. ‘You never could understand, could you ? About other people,’

He said, ‘I didn’t want it to happen. I didn’t want him to be hurt.’

She said, ‘You never wanted anybody to be hurt. But you always forgot.’

He said, ‘I’m sorry.’

She said, ‘I know. It doesn’t matter.’

A little silence. Then he said, ‘Please come aboard.’

She laughed. She said, ‘No, not now. But I will stay with you.’

He said, ‘Thank you.’

She said softly, ‘It’s more than you deserve.’

He said, ‘You were always more than I deserved.’

He let himself sink back. Later she too dozed, her head resting on her arm. For that he couldn’t blame her. It had been a long way, from Tuonela.

* * * *

Sunlight lay in hazy patches on the water when he opened his eyes. He sat up slowly, pushing back the fabric of the bag, and saw how clever she had been. The light patch of her skirt was bright grass seen through a triangle of lapping boughs. The smooth rootstock of a shrub had made her ankle; and she had used a glistening branch for the sheen of her hair. He moved, and she was gone. But there were many shadowed places on the canals, many quiet banks of grass; he found himself not without hope.

The shaking in his legs and arms was bad, but his head felt fractionally clearer. He started the engine, poled the boat from the bank. The canal was wider here and deep, curving gracefully beneath the overhanging bushes. The diesel chugged steadily; the wash ran slapping against earth banks studded with moss-grown holes. The chikti made them, the little burrowing mammals of the tropics.

Three miles before the flight a broad green arm of water opened to the left; the Coldstream branch, that once had served the villages to the south of Hy Antiel. He pushed the oar, leaning his weight steadily, watching as the bow began to swing. He had understood a final thing; that pain is life, and death is when the pain has gone away.

Ahead, the lapping of blue and gold repeated itself into distance. Beyond, dimly glimpsed, were the low hills of the watershed through which the canal, broadening and meandering, lost itself once more in the marshlands of the south.

The Lordly Ones

'How beautiful they are, the Lordly Ones,

'Who live in the heart of the hollow hills.'

William Sharp & Rutland Boughton, 'The Immortal Hour'

When I was very young I was given a pedal car. That must have been just before the War, as such things later became unobtainable. I mean by that World War Two. People of my generation still call it 'The War', though of course there have been many wars since.

It was a very fine car indeed, much larger than was common and with a door on one side that could be opened. It was painted a bright golden brown, with three smart red flashes on either side of its bonnet. It had streamlined headlamps let into its mudguards and its wheels had rubber tyres and chromium hub plates, though the hub plates could not be removed. I became very skilled at driving it, though perhaps I should not say such a thing, and could negotiate the narrowest gates and doorways without scraping its paint. I also learned to steer it in reverse, and was able to turn it round in very small spaces.

I do not know why my father gave me such an expensive present as we were a fairly poor family. I was an only child, and lived in an end terrace house in a back street of the town in which I had been born. Both the terrace and the street in which it stood have been knocked down now for many years.

It was a small house, though as a child I was not conscious of this, but it had a long garden. I remember the garden particularly well. It was closed off on both its sides, partly by solid fencing and partly by trellis work fixed to stout posts. The fences and trellis were painted with creosote, which the summer sun bleached to a pleasant brown. At the bottom of the garden was a tall, untidy hedge of hawthorn. The hedge had gaps in it low down through which you could see allotments dotted with little sheds, and pig pens made of corrugated iron. On a sunny day the allotments and the men working on them looked like little bright pictures seen through the stems and leaves.

The garden, though narrow, was further divided by two long paths made of some pinky ashy stuff and edged by a grey-leaved creeper that grew star-shaped flowers in summer. Near the house was a little paved part my mother always called The Patio. Beyond The Patio was a rose plot, then another with Lane's Prince Albert apple trees, then the vegetable patch and some raspberry canes before you came to the cold frame and the compost heap. There was a little greenhouse too, built close up to the hedge so that one side of it always grew green spots on the glass no matter how often they were scraped away. The greenhouse had an iron rainwater butt. During the War my father put it outside in the street and wrote FIRE on it in big red letters, though we were never bombed.

I remember the garden so well because of a game I played there. All the paths had names I had invented, the long paths and the little ones that went between the plots, the hard, beaten patch by the compost heap, the turning place beside the cold frame. The borders had their roadways too, places that were not often dug and where my tyre marks did not show, but only I knew what they were called. On summer afternoons when I did not have to shop with my mother I would sit on The Patio and plan my travels through the country I had invented. My choice of routes was wide. For instance, I could take the North Road or the South. The North Road, the first of the long pink paths, led to Foxglove Close, or if I travelled its full length, to Cold Frame Garage and the greenhouse. Behind the greenhouse were old bricks and rotted boxes, and a pair of great spoked wheels my father told me had once belonged to an aeroplane. The bindweed crawled over them before climbing up into the hedge. The Road ended here. It was a dangerous place, frightening and a little dark. Or I could cross The Patio to the South Highway. Clumps of violets grew between the flags of The Patio, where the cracks were widest. I knew exactly the locks to apply to steer my wheels between them. From the Highway I could swing right into Mornington Crescent. The grass path in front of the raspberry canes curved a little, and it was here the sun came first in summer. I do not know where I had heard the name I chose for it, but it seemed right.

Wherever I travelled though, I would always end up in my favourite place of all. I called it Daisy Lane, from the big mauve clumps of Michaelmas Daisies that grew close by each year. Here, by careful reversing, I could slide myself right out of sight between tall bushes. Once in position I could not be seen from the house at all, but I could see. I could stare down through the gaps in the hedge at the men working in the field, easing the car backward a little by the pressure of a pedal if one of them paused and seemed to glance my way. The sun struck hot on my face and arms, and the bushes broke the breeze. It was always still in Daisy Lane, and wasps would come and bite at the old wood of the fence posts, little beetles would run across the earth.

In winter or when the weather was bad I would oil the motor ready for fresh journeys, and polish its headlamp rims. Newspapers would be spread on the living room rug and my father would turn the car on its side for me so I could reach the pedal bearings. I had been given a little oilcan, round, flat and with a long, thin spout, to have for my own. I kept it with my cleaning rags in a tin with an overlapping pattern in brown, gold and orange. The oilcan had to be stored upright, or the oil would spill.

I do not know why I have begun to write down my thoughts, or why I should think first of my toy car, and the games I played when I was small.

It is very still today, with hardly any wind, and the Station is quiet. Recently a skylight ventilator has taken to rattling, several times it has woken me in the night. Yesterday I got the big steps out and climbed up to it but I could not see what was wrong. I wonder if a strip of draught excluder would be a good idea. If I put it along the top of the frame by the catch it would stop the noise, and also prevent the rain getting in. At least it would do no harm. I am always careful about undertaking actual repairs, as I know I am not very good with my hands.

I did my first piece of writing last night. I have read through it, and do not quite know what to think. I am not really sure what I am trying to do. I am certainly not writing my life story.

Even if I was capable of such a thing, it would not be of any interest. Nor am I keeping a diary, I did the writing in an old ledger I found when I first cleaned my office out. So I suppose I must have started a hobby. I must be careful not to let it interfere with my work. I do not think I have ever had a hobby before.

The writing took a long while. Three hours, from locking the Stations until nearly midnight. I was amazed when I looked at my clock and saw how much time had passed. If I am to write regularly I must rearrange my schedule so as to take more advantage of the light. I have a good supply of candles but it seems a waste to burn them unnecessarily.

I read parts of what I had done several times. I was surprised at how much I had remembered about being small. I could never be a real writer of course but I find I can put my thoughts down clearly, and in the proper order. That will have to do instead.

I must spend this afternoon filling the water tank. It is a good tank and has been very useful, but filling it takes a long time. I found it behind what I think is an old factory on the far side of the Car Park. It was thrown out on a rubbish heap with a lot of used bricks so it seemed quite all right to take it, though it was very hard work getting it to the Station. I was afraid to drag it in case I damaged it but it was so heavy that carrying it took most of a day. It had a tap already fitted that I thought would be very useful, though when I got it back I realized it would have to be lifted up onto something before I could fill buckets from it. So I fetched some of the bricks and made them into two stacks for it to stand on. I was very pleased when I had finished as it seemed to be quite firm. The night after I fixed the tank was the first time I saw the camp fires on the hills.

A stream runs past the Station, within a yard or two of it, but the banks are steep and slippery and it is difficult to reach the water. For a time I did not know what to do, then I found something in a shed by the rubbish heap that I thought would help. It was like a little crane with a pulley and an arm and a sort of foot, a metal plate with holes at the corners for fixing. I do not know what it was for originally. There was some rope too. At first I did not like to borrow it as I was afraid it would look like stealing, but there was nobody I could ask. There is a bridge across the stream, where the cars used to come into the Car Park. I managed to fix the crane to its parapet with baling wire. The pulley was very stiff at first but it ran quite freely after I had oiled it. It was difficult for a time getting the bucket to fill. Instead of turning over and sinking it would float, and the current would carry it off along the stream. I found after several tries that it was best to drop it the last little way with a bump, and sort of jog it over onto its side. Of course I only have the plastic buckets that were supplied for use on the Station. I wonder if metal ones might work better.

I was very worried when the water went off. I did not bother so much about the electricity as I had a box of candles in the office and have been able to get more since, but without water the Stations could not do their job properly. There was water in the small cisterns of course, but the big one my side used to flush automatically every twenty minutes and without the sound of it the whole place seemed different. I got the steps and filled it with a bucket. I found it would still work when the water reached the proper level. At first I filled it several times a day but with nobody using the Station any more that was not really necessary. But it is still done twice a day, last thing before I lock up and first thing in the morning.

I have been thinking some more about when I was small. I have been trying to remember the very last time I used the car, drove down the South Highway or into Mornington Crescent. There must have been a last time, but I cannot remember it. This seems strange. I found the car a long while later, when I was cleaning out the wash house after my mother died. It was very rusty, it needed a good clean up and a coat of paint. There were new people next door, with young children. I asked them if they wanted it but they said no so I put it back where it was. It was hard to believe I had once been small enough to drive it. By that time most of my Roads had gone anyway, as my mother had been ill for several years and I was never very good at gardening. It disappointed my father, as he had wanted me to be a gardener like himself.

I did not get on very well at school. Everybody said I was slow, though I was never sure just what they meant. One time when it was very bad I started trying to do all sorts of things, like eating and tying my shoelaces, quicker than usual to show I was not slow at all. My father visited the school several times. I met him once in the corridor, it seemed very strange to see him there. Afterwards the Head sent for me, from one of my classes. I was very frightened. He asked me a lot of questions about the sort of things I did at home. I could not answer him properly as I did not know what he meant. It was a new school, built nearly outside the town, and his study was very new with light green walls. There was a cream-painted cupboard behind his desk, I knew that was where he kept his Sticks. They were canes really but we called it getting the Stick. There were also tall glass doors with a flagged courtyard outside, like The Patio at home only much tidier. He said he wanted to help me and that I was not to worry. I was very glad when he told me I could go.

After that they put me into a Special Class. They said it was to help my reading. We all sat round on funny-smelling straw mats with bright patterns on them and took it in turns to read aloud. I could read quite well although I was never very interested in books, but I could not answer questions. They confused me, I could never understand what I was supposed to say.

Afterwards the Head sent for me several more times and asked what I was doing at home to help my mother. I could never think of what to say to him either. He said he wanted to be my friend but I never really liked him much.

I think not being able to remember the last time I drove my car is really odd. It has made me think of doing other things for the last time. I did read a story once, about a man who was going to be shot for spying. Only they did not do it till the morning so that he could see his last sunset. But if you were going to be killed there would be a lot of other things. Like the last time you cut your nails, or the very last time you ever combed your hair.

Things always seemed to get harder for me, not easier. After I left school my father got me a job at the Council nurseries. I had to go and see a man called Mr Sanderson. I thought I was going to like it at the beginning. It was not far to go, just the other side of the allotments. There were three big greenhouses about 30 yards long. I could see the roof of our house and the big hedge at the bottom of the garden, it looked quite different from the other side. But I did not do very well. I kept breaking plant pots, things were always going wrong. And there was a girl who worked in the office. She used to follow me about, try and get me on my own in one of the sheds. She made me afraid to go to work. Then she said a lot of things about what I had done to her. They were not true but everybody believed her. Afterwards I worked at the Tip for a long time, then I was on the carts. I did not like that at all.

I was nearly 45 when I started at the Station. It had not been built very long then. I knew they wanted someone to look after it but I did not think they would give the job to me. I had to see a man called Mr Ireland. That was at the new Council Offices. He asked me a lot of questions, it was nearly like being in the Headmaster's study again. Then he said that I had worked for the Council a long time and that apart from one small incident I had a very good record. He said that he had known my father for many years and that he had been a good worker too. He made some notes and sat and thought for a minute, then he said he would let me know. He was very nice to me.

The letter came next day. It upset my mother very much. I was really happy, I could not understand why she was not pleased as well. She kept saying, 'To think a son of mine should be a lavatory attendant.' But I never thought of it as a lavatory. It was the Station almost from the start. I heard a lady say one afternoon, 'Thank God, a Comfort Station!' It pleased me very much, it seemed such a good name. I think she was an American.

There are two Stations really, built on to each other, one for Ladies and one for Gentlemen. The Ladies side was looked after by someone called Mrs Stevens. She was rather short and had hornrimmed glasses and very yellow hair. On sunny afternoons she used to take a chair outside and sit by her door and knit. I used to say good morning to her but we never talked much. She did not seem very friendly.

I expect it will sound silly but I think the Station is very beautiful. It stands to one side of the Car Park, very close to the stream. It is low and plain and built of a sort of fawn-coloured brick, with narrow windows along the side that have muffled glass. Inside, all the tiles are white and the walls are a very light grey with more white on them in little splashes. It is always cool, even in summer. At the end farthest from the stream there is quite a large room with one door into the Station and another that opens outside. This is my room. It has a chair and table and a ring for boiling kettles, a sink and two big cupboards and quite a lot of shelves. There is even space for a bed, which is very fortunate.

I made a mistake about the room the first time Mr Ireland came to the Station. I had been there nearly 2 weeks then. When I took over it was in a terrible mess, with cigarette ends ground out all over the floor and dirt everywhere. I scrubbed it out, using the disinfectant for the Station floor, and got everything tidy, and Mr Ireland came to see what stores and equipment I had and what new things I would need. I said, 'If you will come into the office, sir, I will show you,' and he laughed. I felt myself going red at that, like I used to at school when I had said something stupid, but he put his hand on my shoulder. 'That's all right,' he said. 'If you want it to be your office, that is what it will be.' I do not know why, but I felt better almost at once.

The next time he came it was because I had written him a note. One of the channels was stained, it annoyed me as the rest of the Station was spotless, but although I had scrubbed it with the disinfectant for a long time it had not done any good. Also people kept writing things on the cubicle doors. Horrible things, sometimes. I had been rubbing them off with hot water and Vim but the paint was wearing away as well in places and the doors were looking a sight. He brought me a can of special cleaner that worked very well though he told me to be careful not to get it on my hands. He said he would get some special paint put on the doors. He even asked me what colour I would like. I said I thought dark blue would look very nice and he laughed. He said it was up to the architect really but he would see what he could do. I felt confused. Nobody had ever asked me a thing like that before.

I asked him if he would like a cup of tea. I do not know what made me say such a thing as it was hardly my place. I was sure he would refuse and that I had made another mistake but he said, 'That would be very nice.' I was a bit nervous, I gave him the cup with the big crack in it, I did not realize till afterwards. But he did not seem to mind. He sat in the office and smoked a cigarette. Then he said a most surprising thing. 'You know, Tom,' he said—he always called me Tom, right from the start— 'if everybody on the Council was as conscientious as you, we'd have no call for complaint.' I did not know what to say. I felt really embarrassed, being praised like that. I had never realized there was anything I could do well.

After that I started coming down to the Station very early. It opened at half past eight in the summer and I was suppose to be there an hour before, but I took to coming down at half past six. It gave me a chance to do a lot of extra cleaning jobs, like the door catches and the windows. It was a lovely time of day, with nobody about and the sun on all the buildings and the parked cars. There was mist on the stream sometimes, but the hills all round the town were very clear.

Sometimes I would stay on late as well, after the Station was closed. Then I would not want to go home at all. My mother had died by this time and they had moved me out of the old house. They gave me a flat in a new building overlooking the Cathedral Close. It was very nice, there was a bedroom and a place where I could cook, but I did not like it. I was always happier at the Station.

I thought about it a long time, then I bought a little air bed. They had a sale of camping things at one of the big shops in the town centre, that was what gave me the idea. After that I could sleep at the Station and get up and make my breakfast and start whenever I liked. Each morning I rolled the bed up carefully and put it away at the bottom of one of the cupboards. I did not tell Mr Ireland. I did not think he would approve.

After he brought the cleaning stuff he started calling in quite regularly, sometimes twice a week. He always had tea. He would sit and talk about his job, and how hard it was to keep everything going with the money getting tighter all the time. One day he even brought some tea of his own, he said it was to replace all mine that he had drunk though that did not matter. It was a very expensive brand, one I had never bought. I still have some of it left.

I do not know how to describe Mr Ireland. He was about 2 inches taller than I am, with grey hair combed straight back and very bright blue eyes, but that is not enough. There were other things, and I cannot find the proper words for them. Nobody was ever as kind to me as he was.

I have been trying to remember how long it has been since anybody used the Station. The Trouble came at Easter, and it is nearly autumn now. So it must be at least 5 months, perhaps more.

I have fixed the skylight, though I do not know yet whether it has worked as it has not been windy. Also, I looked out of the office window tonight before I lit the candle. There seemed to be a lot more fires than before, and some of them were closer.

I must stop now, as the candle is nearly out. I did not mean to go on for so long, but there was more to say about Mr Ireland than I realized.

I want to try and write something very difficult. I have started twice already and had to cross out what I had done. I think perhaps this is the first really hard thing I have tried to say.

There was a song we had to learn at school, about the Lordly Ones. Miss Chaston, who taught us music, said that meant the fairies. It was a strange song and puzzled me very much at first. It said they lived in the hollow hills but I thought the other children were singing 'the Harlow hills' and that all fairies lived at a place called Harlow, wherever that might be. I often used to make mistakes like that.

I did not think about the song again for years. Then when I was working on the dust carts there was a man called Smudger. I never knew his proper name. He was a big man, much bigger than me, and had a lot of friends. I used to go with him sometimes to a hotel near the town centre to have a drink. I would never have dared go to such a place on my own. The Public Bar was up the yard and to get to it you had to pass a room lit by candles where all the guests were eating their dinner. The first time I looked in I thought some of the ladies were the most beautiful I had ever seen and for some reason I remembered the song at once. I knew they were not fairies of course, just very rich people, but afterwards whenever I went there the song always started in my mind.

Then when I had my flat I used to sit quite a lot looking down over the Cathedral wall at the grass and driveways inside, especially if there was a wedding there or some other big function, which often happened. The people who came were very grand. Some of them even wore top hats like in the films, so I thought they must be the Lordly Ones too. So although I was always getting shouted at for being clumsy or in the way, I thought if I could get the job at the Station some of them might come there and see the towels all clean and soap in the dispensers, and be pleased. I wonder if Mr Ireland knew that, and that was why he set me on.

I have had an idea. There is some old lead piping on the rubbish heap where I found the water tank. If I could somehow fix a piece of it to the edge of one of the buckets it would tip over automatically when it went into the water, and filling it would be a lot easier.

I cannot do very much tonight. I feel tired. I wonder if it is the writing, and having to think so hard to find the proper words.

It works! I went over to the factory first thing this morning, as soon as it was light, and brought the pipe back. I cut a piece off, using a saw that was in one of the cupboards in the office, and knocked it flat with a hammer. Then I bent it round the edge of one of the buckets and hammered it again till it was tight. After that I did not have to jiggle the bucket about each time to make it sink, and filling the tank took a whole half hour less!

After I had finished I went and sat on the bank of the stream for a time because I was still feeling shaky from having had to use the saw. I do not like saws. I was playing with one once when I was small and it slipped, I remember looking down and seeing all the white bone. I could not feel anything at first so I thought I had not hurt myself very much, then the blood all came in a big red spurt. I think everybody in the street came out to see when I was taken to the hospital. My mother kept shouting, 'I told him not to touch the saw! I told him not to touch the saw!' I do not think I was so frightened of the blood as of being shouted at again if the saw had slipped. It made me feel really sick. But it had not slipped, I had not had an accident at all, and after a time the sickness went away.

It is a very beautiful stream. There are notices on the bridge saying it is the River Avon so I suppose it must be, but it always looks like a stream to me. Under the bridge the water is quite deep but by the Station there is a shallower part where there are great masses of starwort. The underwater leaves are long and thin like hair but those on top spread out like little light green roses. There is duckweed too. In the very shallowest parts the leaves throw their shadows onto the bottom, each with a little bright rim. Hart's Tongue Ferns grow on the banks. Their leaves are bright green and wavy, and the tips of the longest nearly touch the water. There are small trees too, mostly alder. When I first went to the Station I bought a book of plants, and can now identify nearly all of them.

I was always afraid they would do something to the stream, dredge it or culvert it. I remember when they cut the hedge behind the old house. It was only waist high when they had finished, all the branches woven in and out like a fence, and the dark places underneath it had gone. Everything looked different, it did not seem possible there had ever been that great mound of leaves.

I used to sit by the stream a lot, early in the morning and in the evening when the Station had closed. I was there when the Trouble started. It was a fine evening. It was a Sunday, so there were not many cars in the Park. I did not understand what was happening at first. There was some shouting, and bangs and rattlings like a lot of cars all backfiring at once. I only realized later it was shooting.

By that time I was sleeping at the Station nearly every night. I had bought a little gas cooker as I was afraid to use too much electricity, and I had a saucepan and some tins of soup. When I heard the shooting I was very frightened. I could not think what to do. In the end I decided to stay in the office and wait. I locked the doors and went to bed. Some people came in the night and took the rest of the cars away, but they did not come near the Station.

The noise went on all next day, and most of the next. The third morning was very quiet, and there was no electricity.

Two days later the water stopped running. I knew I must do something then, as it had to be reported. Also I was very hungry, having used up all my soup. There was a telephone box in the main street, at the top of the little lane that leads to the Car Park. I made sure I had some twopenny pieces and walked up to it. My throat felt rather dry as I do not like using telephones.

The main street was empty. There were some cars parked, one with its doors standing open, but nobody was moving about. Also there was a big cloud of smoke coming from somewhere behind the Cathedral. It was all very odd.

I rang the Offices. I had the number in my pocket book. I was going to ask to speak to Mr Ireland but the telephone did not answer. It did not even make those little clicks and buzzes you usually hear. I read the instructions to make sure I was doing it right, and tried again. But nobody spoke.

After I had tried several more times I went back to the office. It was a sunny morning, quite warm for the time of the year. I made some tea. I had to drink it without anything as I had run out of both sugar and milk. I did not know what to do, I had been relying on speaking to Mr Ireland.

It was afternoon by the time I had decided. I walked round to the Offices. The doors were all closed. I banged on them but nobody came. I felt more confused than ever and went on toward the town centre. I had not gone very far when I saw a body. I mean a dead person. He was lying on the path with his arms spread out and there were dark brown splashes all round his head. I had not seen anything like that before.

I kept on walking but I soon saw some more. One was a lady. She had some shopping with her, it had all spilled out across the path. Something, cats I expect or perhaps birds, had been scratching at it so that all the cartons were spoiled. I did not go very close.

There were a lot more bodies in the town centre and more cars, one with its windscreen smashed. The bodies were mostly on the pavements, so I walked in the road. I kept looking round. I was expecting somebody to shout at me to ask what I was doing. It took me a long time to realize that there was nobody left.

On the way back I passed the supermarket where I used to do my shopping. Its doors were standing open and one of its windows had been broken. I went inside. I was not hungry any more after what I had seen but I knew I had to get more food. I took a basket and went round some of the shelves. They were all still full. I took some corned beef and some tins of fruit salad, which I have always liked. I knew it was no use taking the bread as it would have gone stale but I found some things called oat cakes that were just as good. When I had filled the basket I went back to one of the checkouts. I did not know how much I had taken and am not very good with figures, so I left a 5 pound note in the clip on the front of the till. I hoped that would be enough.

I went back again when the food was gone. It was horrible. There were big crows flapping about in the streets and the whole town was starting to smell. I knew I had to have a lot of food this time as it might be a long while before anyone came back, so I took a shopping trolley. I tried to add it all up but I kept getting different amounts. In the end I just walked away. I knew that was stealing but I was very hungry, and somehow it did not seem to matter any more.

I do not know why the Trouble happened. There was a lot on the telly about the black people fighting the whites, and the Unions trying to take over, but I could never understand it. I do not know why black people and white people should fight. I knew a black man once when I was on the carts. He was a very quiet person, and used to bring small fruit pies to work that his wife had made. He shared them with me sometimes. They were very nice.

I have done more than I intended to again, the ledger is starting to look quite full. But it seems when I think of one thing it makes me think of others, and then they have to be put down as well.

I am glad I have written about what it was like in the town. I do not feel quite so worried now, though I do not know why that should be.

I had a bad dream last night. It was very frightening. At least I think it was a dream. It certainly started out as one.

When it began I was sitting by the back door of the old house in my car. I remember it very clearly. There was a patch of dark blue shiny bricks and a strip of earth to one side with ferns in it and a big flaky seashell the size of a football. The outhouse door was painted dull green and had a horseshoe nailed to it. I never liked to get too close to the outhouse as there was something inside it that frightened me. I found out later it was an old washing dolly but in the half light it always looked like an animal, with a long neck and big sticking-out ears. In the dream I knew it was going to come out and get me but I could not move. My mother was knocking on the living room window and shouting something, but it was as if the pedals of the car were frozen solid.

Then I do not know how it happened but I had moved and was rushing across The Patio very fast. Only the garden was not as I remembered it, there was a great hill beyond that kept getting steeper and steeper. The pedals started going quicker and quicker, then just as I was going to crash there was a great shout of 'Whoa, back!' It woke me and I sat up. I was sweating quite a lot. I was frightened because the shout had been right too. I mean, something I remembered. The house I used to live in was on a little slope and there was one Co-Op man who never used to set the handbrake on his van, and that was how he would shout at the horse when it kept walking on. The noise still seemed to be echoing, though why he should come back and shout in my office again after so long I could not understand.

I lit a candle, but there was nothing there. Then I thought the sound might have come from one of the Stations, my side or the Ladies, so I got the keys and a torch and unlocked them. But everything was all right. It was a beautiful night with a full moon. The hills showed clearly, and I could hear the stream running in the dark.

I did not go into the other Station till nearly a month after the Trouble. Mrs Stevens did not come again, though with all that had happened I hardly expected her to, so while my side was still opened and closed at the proper times hers stayed shut. Then one morning, I do not know why, I tried my outside key in the other lock. I did not think it would fit. But it did, and the door opened.

I was very startled by that. For a moment I did not know what to do. Then I put my head inside. Naturally I had never been in before. It was just like my side, the same light grey walls, the same basins and roller towels and white tiles. It smelled a little musty though, from having been shut up so long.

I went farther in. I was worried that I was doing wrong, but very curious. There were no channels, naturally, just the cubicles, but everything else was just the same, with a door at the back to another little office. It was open, so I went in. It was the same as mine, only not so tidy. There was a raincoat on a hanger and a corner cupboard and a table with some keys on it. I took them and put them on my own ring. I was not worried any more as I had come to a decision. Since nobody was looking after the other Station it was clearly my duty to take it over myself. This time I was sure Mr Ireland would agree. I went back and stood in the main part again by the cubicles. It still seemed a little strange, everything the same as my side only the wrong way round. But I soon got used to it.

My first job was to clean out the office, which was really in rather a mess. I tidied all the stores I could find and washed the floor, and stood the doors open for it to dry. Then I started on the rest. I cleaned the pedestals, flushed all the cisterns and refilled them by hand. There was a dispenser on the wall that I did not like to touch at first but finally I unlocked it. I did not know what I would see inside but it was quite all right, just a stack of little white cartons. I had found some while I was tidying the office and had not known what they were. I filled the machine right up and checked that it was working properly, then I started on the floor. A lot of dust and stuff had blown in under the door, I swept it out and gave the Station a good scrub through. Then I got the steps and cleaned the windows, inside and out. It was a hard day's work but when it was finished I was very pleased with myself.

Next morning I went back to the town. I had realized while I was doing the cleaning that the other office would make a useful store room, and since my food was running low I had better get a really good supply. The streets did not smell quite as much as they had, though in the supermarket it was worse. All the food in the refrigerators had gone bad and there were rats scuttling about. They had even chewed the labels on a lot of the tins so it seemed I was only just in time. I spent a long while going forward and back with the trolley. When I had finished the office was really full. Then I went looking for other things that would be useful, like spare gas cylinders for the cooker. It was easy, as nearly all the shops had been left open. I had got quite used to taking what I wanted by this time, it hardly seemed like stealing any more. After all nobody else wanted it. Then I went to my flat. I had some more tinned soup there, I took it all and some clothes and blankets.

Nearly the last thing I did was go to the Cathedral. I had wanted to see inside it ever since I could remember but I had never dared, and now seemed as good a chance as any. When I got up close I realized how big it really was, with the spire going up and up in the sunlight and all the windows staring down. It made me feel quite giddy. I half expected it to be locked up but it was open too. There was a big door at the side, standing ajar. I went through and there was another door with a huge iron handle. I turned it and pushed and it opened a little way. The air inside smelled funny, very musty and cold. There were great tall columns like trees and a big window with the light all pouring through. But I could not go in. I stood on the step a long time but in the end I had to walk away. It frightened me. Places like that are for the Lordly Ones, not the likes of me.

I spent this afternoon sitting by the stream again. The doors of both Stations were open, ready for anybody who might come, and there was nothing else to do. It was a warm afternoon and very still, the sort of day you often get in September. The hills looked yellow in the sunlight, and some smoke was going up a long way off. It was really quiet but from time to time there was a sort of dull booming, like guns being fired miles away.

I suppose it will sound funny, but I felt at peace. I have been feeling like that a lot since everybody went away. I cannot really find the right words to describe it.

When I wake up in the mornings the sun makes a patch low down on the wall by my head, always in the same place. Birds are singing in the trees by the stream and I know if I go to the window the sun will be on the brick wall round the Car Park, and the hills. As it moves round through the day all the shadows change until they point the other way. Sometimes if there is a wind the dust blows across the Car Park in little whirls. When I lock the doors last thing at night the moon is coming up. The moon makes shadows too of course, and they change as well as it goes across the sky. The moonlight makes the Car Park look nearly white but the shadows by the stream are black, like velvet. At night it always seems you can smell the water more clearly. The mist usually comes when it is starting to get light. It makes long streaks that reach as high as the bridge parapet. Nothing else happens. I do not want anything else to happen, ever again.

Being on my own was strange at first but I soon got used to it. I was sorry for a while that I would not see Mr Ireland again but I do not think he will come now. I do not think anybody will come.

I have had an odd thought. I think I enjoyed the garden so much when I was small because I could be on my own there. Nobody knew about the secret places except me. I wonder if perhaps that is what I have always wanted. Just to be alone, and not have people always telling me off. Perhaps that is why I wrote so much about the garden, and my pedal car.

The tune about the Lordly Ones has been in my head again all day. There must be a reason for it. I wonder if they are the only people left, if they own everything now. I think it is their fires I can see on the hills.

If they do come, the Stations will be ready. They will see that I have been doing my job.

The water is running again!

It woke me in the night. At first I did not understand, then I could not believe it. The pipes were knocking and banging all round then I heard the big cistern flush, and the hissing as it started to fill again. I got up and went outside. I still could not believe it, but it was true.

I unlocked the Stations and went in with my torch. I was afraid of something overflowing or getting blocked. But everything was working perfectly. I flushed all the cisterns, both sides, again and again; and as fast as I flushed them, they filled back up! It was like a miracle.

I could not go back to sleep. I made some tea instead. As it was a celebration I used the special packet Mr Ireland brought. I even opened some tinned milk I was keeping for a special occasion.

I cannot write any more just now. It is getting light already and I have a lot to do. Both Stations must be cleaned right through, from top to bottom. I expect somebody will be round from the Offices soon, to see how I have been getting on.

I have made another decision. When Mr Ireland comes, I am going to show him what I have written. I expect some of it is silly but I know he will not laugh. I would not show it to anybody else. Nobody in the whole world.

I cannot understand what is happening. The water is still on and the electricity came back this afternoon, I kept trying the switches just in case. But nobody has been to the Stations.

I worked all day. I did everything, the tiles and channels, the pedestals, the downpipes, the windows and floors. I wanted it all to be looking its very best. But nobody came.

I kept telling myself they would be very busy, they would have a lot more important people to see than me. But when it got to evening I started getting anxious again and went up to the telephone box. It was just the same as last time though, the telephone would not answer however much I tried. So I went round to the Offices. They were still shut and big drifts of paper and rubbish had blown up against the doors. So nobody had been there after all.

It was getting late when I came back and I noticed something else. All the hills were dark, there were no fires showing anywhere. So the Lordly Ones have gone away as well.

I do not know what to think. I want to see Mr Ireland again of course but I am getting worried now about all the food still in Mrs Stevens' office. I had to have food if I was going to keep on doing my job but I am afraid if he does come now he will think I took too much. But I did not know how long I would have to be here and it was only spoiling anyway. I did not take anything that was not necessary. I even returned the trolley when I had finished with it, I can show him where I left it. And he will see the water tank and the crane and know I did the best I could.

There have been noises in the town for hours now. Queer noises. It sounds like the shooting again. But that surely cannot be right. It is all over.

I am going to leave the lights on in the Stations tonight, and the doors unlocked. I know it is against the rules but if there are people about again someone might need them.

I think maybe the Lordly Ones came down from the hills and turned the water on for me. I suppose I am really hoping they will come here. I wonder what they will be like. Beautiful of course, as it says in the song. I wonder if they will be black.

They have been to the Station!

It was some time during the night, I do not know when. After I had finished writing I put the office light out and lay down on the bed. I felt very tired but I did not think I would sleep. I must have done though because when I opened my eyes again it was early morning.

I got up at once and went outside. The mist was still hanging over the brook, the trees looked quite ghostly with it floating round their trunks. The first thing I noticed was something lying on the Car Park. It was a piece of cloth, all covered with blood. There was some more near the Station door. I went inside and had a nasty shock. There was blood everywhere, on the basins, on the floor and splashed down one of the walls. So they must have been badly hurt. If only they had called me! I have bandages in the office, proper bandages, I brought them back when I fetched the spare gas cylinders. I could have helped.

I got started right away cleaning the mess up. I got it off the floor and the basins easily enough but it would not come off the wall, it still left stains however much I rubbed. I wish it had not gone on the wall but I do not suppose they could help it.

There has been shooting in the town all day. It is still going on. And there must be a big fire somewhere close because clouds of smoke keep blowing across the Car Park. The sunlight coming through it makes it a funny ginger colour. Sometimes I can hardly see the far wall, and the hills are quite blotted out. I was going to try and get to the Offices again but I did not dare. I wish I knew what was going on.

I had a sleep this afternoon. It was only a short nap but I had a very strange dream. It was as if I was standing a long way off looking at the Station. It was all on its own in fields, no buildings near at all, just the big green hills all around. It is still very clear in my mind. I wish I could draw a picture of it just as I saw it. But I was always very bad at drawing, even at school.

I wish that was how it could be. Just the Station on its own, miles away from anywhere, and me to look after it. I could have a stove for the winter, and curtains I could draw. And I could get up every day and polish the copper pipe under the cistern and do the channels, and the people would come and go from the hills and I could see them. And nothing would change for ever, there would be no more worries at all.

They are here again!

I do not know what the time is. It is still dark. I have lighted a candle to write this, as somehow I did not want to turn the electricity on. I am very nervous, though I am sure there is no need.

Although it is still night I can see the Car Park. There is an orange, flickery light like the light from a bonfire and I can still smell smoke. It must be coming from the burning building.

They are all round the Station. I can hear their feet scuffling and their voices, but I cannot make out what they are saying.

It is silly to be nervous. After all I am not important, they are not interested in me. But if they really are the Lordly Ones, come down from the hills, I am not sure after all that I want to see them.

They are calling something. It sounds like, 'Come out, wherever you are.' That is very strange. They surely cannot mean me.

There is something else now. They are all shouting it together. 'Dan, Dan, the shithouse man,' But that is not right. This is a Comfort Station, and I am its attendant.

This is terrible! They are shooting, at the Station! I can hear the glass going in the windows. They must not do that! It is special glass, I cannot replace it!

There must have been a mistake. They think there is someone else here, someone they do not like. I will go out to them, I should have gone before. I shall blow the candle out first, then open the door. When they see me it will be all right.

I have had a silly thought, the silliest of all. I would like my little car back again now. I always felt safe in it, I could pedal it through the door and they would laugh. They would see I was only a little child after all.

I am putting the light out now.

Kaeti's Nights

This isn't one of Kaeti's nights. So I can get a bit of work done.

Wind's getting up again, blustering round the pub. Sign starting to creak a bit in the big gusts. That means Force Eight, Nine. We've got our own Beaufort scale here. Raining again too, hard. Hear it rattle on the windows. Been a funny old year for weather. Trees didn't drop their leaves till near on Christmas. Fields were still green too. Vivid. Sort of sickly.

Just seen to Chota, got her her bits. Saucer of milk and that. Funny little beggar. Born the wrong side of the door, I reckon. Any door. Some cats are like that. I never thought Kaeti would rear her. She did though. Kept on. Even after we'd all written her off. Even her Mum. Used to come back midmornings, give her her feed. Never knew how she got away with it. That's Kaeti though.

Kaeti's my daughter. She's dead, by the way. Just three weeks before Christmas, it was.

Funny. Me writing. Not my sort of thing at all. Couldn't see the point at first. Kaeti explained all that though. About actions. Said we weren't supposed to see the point. None of us. She said—let's get this right—she said what matters about actions is just that they're done. She said if she, well, spilled a glass of milk or scratched her knee or anything, anything at all, then it was always true it was going to happen. At that place, and at that point of time. Very particular about that she was. Because there are other Points, apart from those in Time. She said it was always true it would happen, no matter how many millions of years you went back. And it would always be true it had happened, no matter how far you went forward. Something about going on from where Gotama stopped. Sitting right across from me she was, curled up on the settee. And looking solemn, solemn as I'd ever seen her. She'd lost me a bit by then. She said that didn't matter though, nobody could get it all first time off. What mattered was that I believed. Another sort of belief. Something quite new.

She talked a lot about Time. Said you could feel it passing, if you tried. The minutes, all the seconds in 'em, all those actions going on, getting themselves recorded. Building something that was huge and getting bigger, something that could never be stopped or hurt. It doesn't need us, it never needed us. But we all belong to it. She said it was called the One, that everything belongs to it. The atoms in a chair leg, all whistling about. They're Events as well. Sometimes one explodes, and that's a Nova. She said to read the neo-Platonists, they knew a bit about it. I wondered where she'd had time for stuff like that. I thought Sixth Form College was nothing but skiving and Business English.

Doesn't make sense? That isn't important. Not really. Because it makes sense to me. Just in flashes. When a pendulum swings, there's shadows. Like those trick titles you see now on the Box. Some are in the future, some are in the past.

It's the bar clock I can hear. The big one in the saloon.

Funny how you can hear it right up here. Sort of trick of the building.

Came from Pete's Dad's place, that clock did. His pride and joy. Parliament clocks, they call them. Go back to the days when some silly blighter put a tax on timepieces. Seems governments weren't any smarter then. All that happened was they all chucked their clocks out, had one thundering great big thing everybody could see. Worth a packet these days. That bent little sod from the brewery offered me two hundred cash to knock it off the inventory. He must have been joking.

That's another funny idea. Worth. Value, price. If you knew the half of what I do—but maybe you will one day. If you get the time.

Looked in on Pete on the way up. She's asleep. Real sleep, not that halfway, floating stun you get from pills. Hair spread on the pillow, looks about twenty. As it the years don't matter. But they don't, not really. That's what's so bloody marvelous. They don't matter at all.

Asked Kaeti what I should write about. She just grinned though. "Anything," she said. "You, Mum. The pub. It's all Actions. Anything you like." So I'll start with me.

I wasn't born in these parts. London, that's where I hail from. The Smoke. Only they shifted me out. Five or six I was, and the Blitz just really starting to warm up.

Funny how clear some of it still is. The sirens going and us trailing out from school, lining up in the yard Then down the shelters, shoving and pushing, and the whistles going and all us with the gasmasks on our shoulders. We used to sit sometimes and hope there'd be a raid. Like holidays they were. Half days off, courtesy of old Adolf. We didn't know of course. Not really. Bombs don't mean anything to kids. They're just something that happens on the films.

I remember the shelters too. Lines of slatted seats, and the voices everywhere. Puddles on the floor, and that stink there always was of wet cement. And the lamps in their wellglasses, lines and lines of little yellow bulbs.

Funny, thinking back. The school was a damned sight better built than those bloody shelters, we'd have been better off staying where we were.

That's what my old man reckoned. We'd got an Anderson out the back, they all had. Only, we only ever used ours the once. After mat, if there was a raid on, he'd sit downstairs with his mates and just play cards. You'd hear the rumble of voices and the laughing. Sounded louder than the bombs sometimes. They'd always get me up though, make me dress. I'd got a siren suit made out of bright blue blankets, just like old Churchill. They'd get me into it and zip the front, then Jerry could do what he bloody liked. That was all we bothered.

I was only ever really scared once. And that wasn't at anything that could hurt. Typical. Mam put the bedroom light out one night and opened the curtains and took me to the window. "Look, Bill," she said, "we'll be all right now. It's the serchlie!" I didn't know what she meant, not to start with. Then I saw these two beams of misty blue, reaching up there miles across the housetops, and for some reason, God knows why, they looked like horns on the head of a bloody great ghost. Then they swung and dipped, and I knew the serchlie was nosing about looking for me and started yelling the place down. Poor old Mam, she never did understand it. They tied the labels on our coats next morning and shipped us out. Evacuation, they called it. Sis kept bawling but I was just glad I was getting out, where the serchlie couldn't get me. Ghosts were a lot worse than bombs. That's where we all went wrong of course, years and years ago. Teaching kids a load of muck like that.

That's how I got to Blackwell the first time. Blackwell, Hants. Just over the border, on the edge of the big common. Queer little place it is. Not much to it, not even a church. Just little red-brick cottages scattered about and a couple of pubs, and the lane up to the farm. There's one big house, at the other end of the village. That's where we all stayed. The Stantons have got it now, had it for years, but in those days it was owned by an old biddy called Olivia Devenish. Left over from the Raj, she was. Indian stuff all stood about, and a big old overgrown garden that even had canebrakes in it. You could play lions and tigers through there a treat. Or Spitfires and Messerschmitts. We did too, me and Sis and about a dozen more. Right little perishers, we were. Mrs. Devenish never bothered though, just sat in the middle of it all and mended socks and clipped ears when she had to. I reckon that was her War Effort. Auntie we called her, and we all got on fine. Knew when to stop of course. Not like these days.

It was a bit queer to start with, green fields all over and the birds every morning. Most of us never took to it. I know Sis didn't, she was off back to London first chance she got. It suited me though somehow. They'd got ack-ack guns on the common then, and a searchlight unit. I knew what they were by then of course. Used to hang round every chance I got, scrounge off the soldiers. Got to be a sort of company mascot in the end. Even had my picture in the paper once, sitting at one of the guns complete with oversize tin hat. Plus some bloody drivel about the next generation and Building for the Future. Still got it somewhere.

Nobody ever bombed Blackwell though; and after a while the unit was moved out. It was real quiet after that.

I could have gone back, I suppose. A lot of them did. I probably would have if I'd had the chance. But Dad always said no, not till they blew the whistle. Reckoned Jerry had still got some stuff left up his sleeve. As it turned out, he was right. V-2 it was, took the whole row out. The war finished a few weeks later.

I lived with Auntie May and her lot till I finished school. I got myself a garage apprenticeship then. Used to hang round Douggie Caswell's old place in the village, I'd got used to the smell of motor oil. After that it was national service of course. For some reason they decided I wasn't quite A-l so it was the pay corps and like it. Two years counting plasters, watching camels float down the Sweetwater bloody Canal. When I got back to London, there was nothing to stay for any more. What mates I'd had had ail drifted off; Sis had married and moved out, damn near to Epping, and the Council had really got their teeth into our neighborhood. I reckon they finished Jerry's job for him. All the stuff he hadn't had a go at, they did. My old man would have turned in his grave. If he a ever had one. Auntie was slated for a high-rise block, and there wouldn't have been room for me even if I'd wanted to go. That's how I turned up again one bright day in Blackwell. I've been here ever since.

Always liked the common. Not that there's all that much to see. Just flat ground, undulating a bit, the tussocky grass, big stands of gorse and bramble. Swarms with adders in the summer, the cottage hospital always used to keep the serum. Lazy little beggars, bite rather than move, the kids would step straight on 'em. Autumn's the time to see it though. Autumn, and early winter. It sort of comes into its own then. The pub fronts it square-on, you can see the mist lie on it like milk, the humps and bushes sticking up out of it dark. The mist's nearly always there, hanging low. Till the wind gets up and shreds it. They say it's to do with the subsoil. Which I suppose is as good a story as the next. Sometimes it comes creeping across the road, big blue tongues that push out sudden, no more than a toot or two off the ground. It was a night like that old Teddy saw the ghost. Tall swirling pillar it was, come squirting straight out the ground. I can remember him saying it. "Swirling," he kept on saying. "Swirling, it was." Took half a bottle of Scotch to set him to rights. But Teddy was an old trooper, sarn't-major farrier in the Bengal Lancers. Never needed much in the way of excuses at the best of times.

I first met Pete on the common. I used to walk there whenever I had the time. Which wasn't all that often. I was working for Douggie Caswell then, been with him getting on Tour years. He was at the garage all hours himself so if an urgent job came in, which they often did, I never bothered much about staying on as well. Not much else to do in Blackwell anyway. But I used to stroll that way when I could. You could still see the pads where they stood the anti-aircraft guns, and close by were some concrete bunkers they'd never got round to knocking down. Even some rusty coils of wire, with the weeds all crowing through them. I'd sit and smoke a fag and think about the old times. Mam and Dad, what he a have made of it all. I suppose I'd turned into a bit of a loner. I was like it in the mob, they always reckoned I was a funny sort of blighter. Even for a Londoner.

Pete was a bit the same. Though to start with I never realized why. She's got this scar on her face. Down one cheek and across her chin. Pulls her lip up one side, into a little pucker. Pony did it, when she was a nipper. Must have nearly split her in half, poor little devil. They'd make a better job of it now. But those days plastic surgery was something not even money could buy. Took us a war to really find out about that.

Funny, but that first time I never even noticed it. Maybe because she had a knack of keeping her face half turned away. She was very good at it too, never made it obvious. All I saw was this tall blonde piece in flat slippers and a belted mac, mooching along on her own. Her collar was turned up against the drizzle, her hands were rammed in her pockets. But, do you know, I fancied what I saw. When I finally did see the mark—well, it was just a part of her, wasn't it? It didn't worry me one little bit, not ever. I sometimes think I thought more of her because of it. But perhaps I'm funny that way.

Her Dad kept a ramshackle old pub the other side of Camberley. The Hoops, it was called. Been knocked down for years now, to make way for a by-pass. Her Mum was dead and there weren't any other kids, so Sunday afternoons were about the only free time she had. That's when we used to meet, up on the common. Meet, and just walk. Sometimes we'd talk, sometimes we wouldn't bother. I expect you'll think that's a funny sort of courtship. But then I never looked on it as courting. I don't think she did either. I'd tell her about Cairo and the army, and being in London in the war, and she'd come out with bits about herself. Her great grandparents were Norwegian, which was where she got her figure and her looks. Proud of it too, in a funny sort of way. She still spelled her name the same, "Petersen" with an "e." She hadn't got much of a life though. Just the pub really. Her Dad enjoyed the gout, he'd got pills for it but the awkward old blighter wouldn't take 'em. They didn't do much trade, not enough to run to bar help. So the nights he couldn't hobble, she'd got the place to run on her own. That's why I took to dropping in, latish sometimes, to do a bit of cellar work for them. Rack the barrels for tapping, get the empties into the yard. I suppose they got to rely on me. But we didn't think too much about that either.

It was over a year before I popped the question. Even then I don't think I would have, only I'd had just one or two over the odds. Christmas it was, they'd asked me over to stay, help out with the bars because for once they were going to be busy. Anyway, when we finally got the doors shut and the old man had tottered off for some kip, we just flopped out, both of us, either side the fire. Turkey was on, there wasn't anything else to do. We watched the windows bluing for a while; then she fetched another drink and we got to talking. She was really tired. I knew because she was nibbing the scar, a thing she never did. Sliding her fingers along it, touching at her lip.

I don't know why but I felt a sense of urgency. As if a moment was coming—an Event—that would never come again. Not ever, not in a thousand million years. I'd never imagined myself marrying anybody, let alone asking. I'd thought about it odd times, I suppose everybody does, but the image had just refused to form. But now I somehow knew it wouldn't wait. Every second was precious and they were rushing past faster and faster, all the while I sat. So I just came out with it. No time even to be scared.

I'll never forget the look on her face. "What?" she said. "What?" As if she hadn't heard right. So I said it again. Told her some other things as well, that had been waiting a very long time. They all came out in a rush. I wasn't any bloody capture, not for anybody. Let alone a girl like her. It was a cheek even to think about it, and I told her that as well.

She still looked sort of dazed. "Me?" she said. "Me?" I found out then what that silly little mark on her face had come to mean to her over the years. Because she grabbed my hand, pressed my fingers on it. "You'd be marrying this as well," she said. "This. Wake up every morning, have to look at it."

I knew I'd had too much then because I just got blazing mad. Not at her though. Sort of for her. "Yes," I said, "and aren't I the lucky one? Think of all the fun I'm going to have, trying to kiss it better."

She started laughing at that. Then she was crying, then we were both laughing again. "Why not?" she said. "Why bloody not?" Then I think we both went a bit mad. All that lot bottled up, then the cork came out the bubbly. Afterwards she said, "I love you, Bill, I love you," and I said, "I love you." Silly bloody words, aren't they? But words are all we've got. We lay and said them and said them and the radio was playing in the lounge because we hadn't turned it off, and there's a carol that still stands my back hairs straight on end. I was the King of Bethlehem that night, because I'd just been born; and she was the Queen.

We made part of the top floor of the Hoops into a flat. It wasn't ideal but there really wasn't anything else to do. Kaeti was born just over a year later. That wasn't a good time either. Pete got her second scar. Afterwards, she could never ever have any more.

They say it never rains but what it bloody pours. A few weeks later Douggie called me into his rabbit hutch of an office. I'd been expecting it. I'd lost a lot of hours, work was piling up, we were going to have to sort something out. It wasn't that though. He beat about the bush for a while, which wasn't like him; then he came out with it. He hadn't been feeling too good for a year or more; he'd been thinking it was time to call it quits. Now he'd had an offer he couldn't turn down. So he was selling up.

He'd started to look his age, I granted that. I'd seen it, so had one or two more. But the first thing in my mind was Pete and the kid. I said, "Who to?"

He looked away again. Finally he said, "Jacobsons." Then he looked back. He said, "I'm sorry about it, Bill, I know just how you feel. I feel the same. But that's the way it's got to be."

A by-word in the district, they were. Right crowd of Flash Harrys. Made it pay though, got a big place out on the A-30, couple more down Frimley way. Believed in fast turnover. Small profits, quick returns. Or so the saying goes. The fast turnover included staff. I couldn't imagine what they wanted our dump for. I found out fast enough though. First thing in was the time clock. Second was a smartyboots little manager. His main job was corner-cutting. If there was a fast way round anything, that was the way you took. Not sawdust in the axles, rubbish like that; they were far too smart. But some of the bits were bloody near as bad. There were four of us by then. Five including the foreman. Which naturally wasn't me. They extended the old workshop, pushed an ugly great prefab across what used to be the Waterfords' greenhouse. General consensus was, it spoiled the village. Which in fact it did. There are such things as planning authorities of course, but a bob or two in the right place always did work wonders.

Maybe I should have got out before I did. But jobs in my line weren't all that thick on the ground. I did prospect a couple, but I couldn't see myself being any better off. And it had to be local because Pete was tied to the pub. Her old man was worse than ever, in addition to which he'd started hitting the bottle. We'd had to take on a fulltime girl, and another to cover her days off. The combined wages made a hefty dent in the family income. All in all, we'd got ourselves into a right bloody tangle.

I stood it for a year. Then Douggie rang one night with a proposition. I didn't fancy it at first. I'd never seen myself as a shopkeeper, I don't now. But the way he put it, it made sense. "You know the trade's changing, boy. It's not repairs any more, it's just replacements. You don't do any bloody engineering, one month's end to the next. Why not face facts?"

He'd got property all over, bought in the days when you could get a nice little cottage for a couple of hundred quid. Nice little shop it was too, just off Camberley High Street. Caswell Autospares. Did well right from the start, I was surprised. Leather steering wheels, poncy little car vacs; lot of stuff I wouldn't have bothered with myself. I always stopped short at Dolly Danglers though.

Funny, sometimes when you hit a bit of rough. It seems you cop for the lot. Then you get through it and it all goes smooth and straight and you know it's going to stay that way, for a little while at least. Though I expect Kaeti would have a smart answer for that as well. Something to do with Perception of Reality.

She was seven when we came up here. Right little tomboy, spitting image of her Mum. Darker coloring, but the same big grey-Blue eyes. Her Grandad had been dead five years or more. We brought the big clock out and an old carved box full of family letters, and that was the last I wanted to see of the Hoops. We settled down to build the business up and make ourselves a home. The first real one we'd had.

Pete was over the other thing as well. About never having any more kids. It hit her hard to start with. She never said all that much, but I could tell. I knew she was over it when she stood in front of the mirror one night. "You know," she said, "I think it's working."

I couldn't think what she meant, not to start with. I said, "What's working?" and she grinned at me. She said, "What you told me that first night. It must be mind over matter."

I'd been going through some of the papers and they'd given me an idea. "Pete," I said, "have you ever been home?"

"What?" she said. "I am home."

"No," I said, "I didn't mean that. I ment Norway." It didn't sink in for a minute. Then her eyes started to change. She said, "We can't afford it."

"No," I said, "we can't. When shall we go?" She didn't answer straight off. Just sort of swallowed.

Then she said, "It'll have to be a ship. Grandad always said it had to be a ship." And so a ship it was. Kaeti and Pete and me, all on a great big ship. And Norway?

It's funny, but it's a place where there's only Now.

Because the winter's coming and it's dark, it lasts forever.

So you live a marvelous, vivid Now. And there's the mountains, the huge mountains, and the sea. It's a place to be in love. On a ship, under the Midnight Sun.

Wind's dropped a bit. Rain's easing too. Put the light out just now, stood till my eyes got used to the dark. Nothing to see though. Dim gleam of the lane and the common stretching out, big humps of bushes. Nothing moving at all.

Douggie died in sixty-nine. I'd been expecting it but it still came as a shock. After all, I'd known him most of my life. I got a bigger shock a few days later though. He'd left us the shop. The lot, lock, stock and barrel. I knew there weren't any relatives, just a sister somewhere down Brighton way; but I still never expected that. About the same time the word went round the Greyhound would be changing hands, old Bill was going to retire. Good old boy he was, ex-copper. Had it since just after the War.

Pete grinned when I told her about it. She said, "Going to have a go then?"

"A go," I said, "what do you mean?" and she looked at me. "The pub," she said. "You know you want it."

I think my mouth must have dropped open. I did want it, I wanted it a lot, but till that minute I don't think I'd faced up to it. I said, "Haven't you seen enough of pubs?"

She started clearing away. "We're not talking about me," she said. "We're talking about you."

"We're talking about both of us," I said. "You wouldn't want to go back into a pub, not after what you put up with."

She leaned on the table. "Look, Bill Fredericks," she said, "I've never told you what I want, one way or the other. So don't go putting words in my mouth." She looked thoughtful "Matter of fact, I wouldn't mind running a pub," she said. "Running one. My way. And you could make that place go."

"But there's nothing up there," I said. "Only the village."

"There's the new estates," she said. "And that other one they started up Yately way. Came by the other day, there's people in already."

"They're no good," I said. "Up to here in mortgages. Anyway we couldn't afford it, the ingoing's bound to be sky high. It'd mean selling up."

She looked scornful. "Course it wouldn't," she said. "Get it off the bank, you've got collateral now. Then put somebody in here. I don't see how you could lose."

And that was the first time I realized Pete's got a far better business head than me.

I didn't think we stood much of a chance. Heard later they had twenty couples after it. But Pete got herself done up to kill and that was the end of it. Perhaps the brewery thought they owed her a favor.

I suppose the Greyhound isn't everybody's idea of a country pub. Big gaunt red-brick place it is, stands back on its own facing the common. Wood-paneled walls, vintage nineteen twenty, and the two big bars. There's more to it than meets the eye though. Had a horse in the Public one night, new pony from the riding school. Old Teddy's fault, that was. Little lass on board couldn't get it past; then he clicked to it and in it came for its ale. Reckoned later he could tell it was a beer drinker by the look in its eye. And there it was plunging about with the little lass looking distraught and Teddy up the corner having the croup. He got it back outside finally with the lure of a pine, after which of course it never would go by the pub. Used to have to hack along the other road.

Thursdays were the highlights. They were the barter nights; unspoken thing it was, among the locals. They'd all slope in, starting about eight, dump polythene sacks on the long bench just inside the door. Peas and beans, cabbages, onions and spuds, cauliflowers. Looked like a budding harvest festival sometimes. They'd have a pint or two apiece, not hurrying, then it would start. "Nice-looking collies you got there," Jesse Philips would say, and somebody else would take it up. "See your beans done all right then, Jesse." After a while the swap would be made, and that would set the tone for the rest. Peas would change place with cabbages, potatoes with onions, till everybody was suited. The incomers from the new estate cottoned after a while and tried to join in. But all they brought were bunches of flowers. Jesse Philips summed it up one night. "Can't eat bloody chrysanths," he said, after which they took the hint and tried for vegetables. But the new plots couldn't compete. The builders dumped the rubbish from the footings, they'd lost their topsoil. The ring closed up. They'd sell, at fair Camberley prices, but they would not trade. So Blackwell became two villages. We watched that happen as well.

We made our mistakes of course, like everybody else. But they weren't too serious. We kept the old trade and built on it. The lads from Jacobsons started dropping in when they heard I'd taken over. And there was the new place, the annex to the Agricultural College. Weekends they'd bring their wives and girlfriends, and so the word spread round. Sundays there were the trippers and hikers. We catered for them, forty or fifty at a time, so the word spread that way too. After the first couple of years we could afford bar help two or three nights a week, and we were taking holidays again. Never get rich, not from a pub like the Greyhound; but we were comfortable. And of course there was the shop as well.

I've heard people say bringing up teen-age boys is bloody murder. I wouldn't know. Ail I can say is, try bringing up a teen-age girl. I can't remember noticing the change as such, but suddenly it seemed we hadn't got a pretty little kid any more. Instead there was this gawky twelve- or thirteen-year-old, all knees and elbows and Woody bad temper. Tantrums every morning, tears every night. Or so it seemed to me. And never a reason for it, not that I could see. She'd got all the things most kids of her age want, but it was never enough. So-and-so had got this, somebody else had got that. Such-and-such was going on a school exchange to Germany, why couldn't she? So we sent her to Germany, though she didn't seem much better suited when she got back. Then it was a pony, she had to have a pony. Horses morning noon and night, six months or more. So we got her a pony, rented grazing from old Frank the diddy. The fad lasted another three or four months, after which she never went near. So there was trouble over that as well. Her mother got fed up in the end, sold the thing over her head. The row that followed was the best so far. I left them to it, opened up on my own. The public bar was beginning to seem more and more a haven of rest.

Then it was boys of course. First was young Davey Woodford from the farm. Nice enough kid in his way, but, oh Gawd, teen-age romance! "Wasn't you ever young, Mr. Fredericks," he asked me once. "Wasn't you ever young?" I'm afraid I made things worse, laughing the way I did. Course I was young, but I can't remember any episodes like that. Never had time, to start with. His age I was out in the bundu, counting bloody shekels.

Got worse rather than better when the thing with him blew up. She attracted 'em, from as far away as Frimley. Acted like a magnet. She was starting to be a looker, I granted that. But some of 'em weren't very wholesome types at all. I could see our nice clean reputation taking a sudden dive. That finished when her mother turned her out the bar one night. "Get upstairs," I heard her say, "you're not coming in here like that." After which there was a constant grinding of rock from her room till suppertime, at which we had the row to end all rows.

That was also the first time in my life I saw Pete really lose her temper. She didn't stop at one either, she beat the daylights out of her.

I'll admit it, I got out. Made myself a John Collins, went and sat in the snug and had a smoke. There's something about voices raised in anger that I've always found chilling. Not so much the violence, the pointlessness. We act, sometimes, as if we're all immortal. It reminds me, or reminded me, of the shortness of life.

Pete came through about half an hour later, got herself a drink as well. She looked at me a minute, then came and put her hand on my shoulder. "Sorry," she said, "but it had to come. I wasn't being spoken to like that."

I said, "What's happened?" and she smiled. "Nothing," she said. "She'll be all right. She's gone to bed."

I said before, sometimes you seem to cop for the lot. Then you come through it and it all seems to sail along again. Just as suddenly, or so it seemed to me, Kaeti was a young woman. Taller than her mother, couple of inches with her heels on, and just as pretty. Same mannerisms, same turn of the head, same po-faced sense of humor, like turning the clock back somehow. All the rest was behind her. She was smoking but not too much, she liked a drink, she was going to Sixth Form College. Knew just what she wanted and how to get it. Mornings when she had a free period, Pete would nip down to Camberley, have coffee with her there. They'd come back together. Two women, joking and laughing. Close. I suppose we were a family again. Though this time we didn't have very long to enjoy it.

April it was, when she first got ill. She'd been looking off-color for days; finally she didn't come down to breakfast. Said her throat was bad, she couldn't hardly swallow. Didn't clear up either. So finally I called Doc Jamieson. He came down shaking his head. Said it was thrush, first adult case he'd seen in years. He left her some stuff, but it didn't seem to do much for her. She was off a couple of weeks. When she finally went back she just seemed listless. Preoccupied. You'd speak to her, and odds she wouldn't answer. Sometimes have to speak two or three times, then she'd come round with a jump. But she wouldn't know what you'd said. The other thing was starting by then of course. But at the time we didn't realize.

It was the most perfect summer I can remember. Day after day cloudless, the nights warm, with the breeze bringing the scents in off the common. Made it even more ironic. Kaeti lying upstairs there, dozing or staring out at the sky. I rigged a television for her, put the control where she could reach it without moving her arm. But she never bothered with it. "I'm all right, Dad," she kept on saying. "Just a bit tired, that's all. Don't worry, I'll be all right." She wasn't all right though; she was far from all right. She looked bloodless somehow. Like a marble statue.

Doc Jamieson was worried as well. I could see that. Had a drink with me one night just before we opened. Said it was the listlessness that had got him bothered more than the rest. There wasn't much physically wrong at that stage. Touch of anemia certainly, but that did sometimes happen after a bad infection. He finally said he'd like her taken in for tests. Asked him what sort of tests but I might as well have saved my breath. Lawyers and accountants can both be vague enough when it suits their book. But the medical profession leaves 'em at the post.

I don't know how many tests she did have. We both lost count. They were all inconclusive. Or maybe there were too many conclusions. Agranulocytosis without ulceration. She'd got the experts thoroughly baffled as well. So I did a bit of reading for myself. Afterwards I wished I hadn't. There's a lot of words for it but they all add up to one thing. If it goes on long enough, the blood turns yellow-green, like pus. I still don't like to use the phrase they have for it. Even though I know by now they got it wrong.

The mist came back with the autumn. Long white tongues of it, creeping round the pub. Even then though she wouldn't have her windows closed. It was the only thing that roused her. The Doc shrugged finally and said to let it be. The rest was left unspoken but I had a horrible feeling I knew what it was. Nothing would do much harm now; she was past any help he thought he could give her.

The locals were very good. There were always thins being left for her, jam, preserves, whole load of stun. We'd got a cupboard full. Not that she ever touched it. Wasn't eating enough to keep a mouse alive. She'd ask sometimes how they all were, Jesse and old Teddy and the rest. And they'd ask after her of course. All except Frank Smith, which was odd. Funny little bloke he was, a lot of gypsies are. But he'd always been one of the most concerned. Till I told him, quite early on, there was a touch of anemia but the Doc thought she'd be fine. After that he didn't come in again. I didn't give it much thought for a couple of weeks; then I asked Jesse if he was bad. I thought he gave me a funny sort of look. He said no he was fine, been talking to him that morning in the village. Saw him myself a couple of times after that, out on his rounds, but he wouldn't speak. First time he looked the other way; second time he whipped the horse up. Which was a thing I'd never seen him do. His place was put up for sale a Tew days later; we didn't see him again.

Last thing they tried was x-ray treatment. I didn't like the idea of it, neither did Pete. But Kaeti just laughed. "That's all right," she said, "it won't matter, I shall be back for Christmas, you see." Funny, but she looked really perky. Sitting up with a woolly on, brighter than she'd been for weeks. Made a fuss about having all her bits and pieces, books to read and such. Even got her mother to do her hair. Two days later the hospital phoned. I knew It somehow before I picked the damned thing up. Our daughter was dead.

They all said afterwards how good we both were. You know, carrying on. It wasn't like that at all though; there was nothing good about it. When a thing like that happens, it turns all your ideas upside down. You carry on because you've got to. Would you mind telling me what else there is to do?

It was a big turnout. Sis came down of course, and Auntie May's Tot, and some other cousins I hadn't seen for years. Plus the brewery outside manager, and nearly everybody from the pub.

It was raining. People always say it rains on days like that. And somehow it nearly always seems to. I don't remember very much else about it. I know I stared at the wreaths laid out on the grass and caught myself wondering what I was doing there. And there was a little chapel set among the graves, and a trolley with rubber-tired wheels that didn't squeak. That didn't get to me either though. It was like acting in a film somehow, it was nothing to do with us. Me and Pete and Kaeti. I was waiting for somebody with a megaphone to jump up and shout cut. Then we could all go home. But the film kept grinding on.

Sis stayed a fortnight, helped out with the bars. Then she had to get back. I didn't blame her. She'd already done more than most.

Hardest thing was convincing myself it had really happened. I knew I'd got to of course, but in a queer way I still couldn't believe it. Kaeti's life just stopping like that, a breath that went in and didn't come back out. And letting the box down on its webbings, and going home for tea. It couldn't be all there was to it; it just wasn't possible. So none of it had really happened; I was in some sort of dream. I kept trying to wake up but I couldn't. Coming to terms, they call it. What a bloody phrase. Though you can't blame them for that. Like I said before, words are all we've got.

Nights were the worst. I was tired and getting tireder, but I wasn't sleeping worth mentioning. I'd doze off sometimes toward dawn, get an hour or two. Then it was daylight, and I'd wake up and realize the dream was still going on and just want to go to sleep again, and sometimes I'd manage it. Then I'd be late for the dray or the Cash and Carry, and the bottling up wouldn't be done by opening time. I remember thinking sometimes it had to have an end. But there's never an end to anything. Any more than there's a beginning. We went to London for the Christmas, just one night. Then back again first thing to open up. Another year would be starting soon. That was beginning to get to me as well.

Pete was worrying me too. The day after the funeral she stripped the display units in both bars, washed them down. The morning after she did it all again. And the morning after that. We always used to do them pretty often. You've got to, the smoke gets to them mirrors. But not every day God sent. Then she shampooed the carpets. Scrounged one of those big industrial units from a little bloke who used to come in now and then. After that it was the kitchen's turn. She scrubbed it down, walls, floor and ceiling. Then the upstairs bathroom. Then a load of paint arrived from the brewery. I thought the van driver looked a bit shifty. Turned out she'd fixed it without telling me. The upstairs had to be done up. All of it, right through. She started on it in the afternoons. Which meant she was working eighteen hour days. And she wasn't sleeping either.

I thought at least she'd leave Kaeti's room till last. She didn't though. Went up one day, found all her things parceled in heaps. Ready for the jumble. She just shrugged when I said about it. Asked what was the point of keeping them, they weren't any use to us. I said, "But, Pete," and she turned and looked at me. Nothing behind her eyes, not any more. They looked—well, sort of dead. So I didn't say anything else. But it still hurt plenty.

It had to end of course. Nobody can just keep on going like that, week after week. I was in the Public when it happened, talking to Jesse and one or two more. Dick Stanton had come down with his sister-in-law, the one who used to be an opera singer. I could hear his distinctive voice in the saloon. There was quite a crowd in, mostly youngsters from the college, but Pete had shoved me out. Said she could cope. So I left her to it. She was always better working on her own; we saw too much of each other the rest of the time.

I wasn't really registering the buzz of voices till it stopped. There was a crash then, like a bar stool going over. I half turned, and Pete was standing in the doorway. I've never seen a face like it. There's a phrase for it they use in lousy novels. Blazing white. Well, it was. She opened her mouth, sort of half pointed behind her, then she just crumpled. I jumped forward, but I was nowhere near quick enough. Bottles went flying, then Dick ran through. He said, "My God, Bill, what happened?"

We got her to the bedroom somehow, and his sister-in-law came up. I left them, ran to call the Doc. I thought she was a goner, straight. But by the time he arrived she was sitting up. Still looked pale as death but she swore she was all right, she just passed out. He left her some stuff, and I followed him down. "Doc," I said, "what's wrong?"

He shook his head. Nothing, apparently, that he could find. He said, "How's she been? Since…"

I told him what had happened and he nodded. He said what I'd been thinking, that nobody could keep on indefinitely. It catches up with them. He said, "Can you get some help in?"

"Sure," I said, "George Swallow will always do an extra night. Glad of the cash."

He opened his car door. "Get him then," he said, "and try and keep her in bed. It would do you both good to get away for a few days. I'll look in again tomorrow." He drove off and I went back inside. Good bloke, is Doc Jamieson. After all, we were only ever NHS.

I got the bars closed finally and went upstairs. I thought she was asleep but she opened her eyes when she heard me. They were huge and dark. "No, Bill," she said. "I don't want no pills." She grabbed my wrist. She said, "Bill, I saw her…"

"What?" I said. "Saw who?"

She swallowed and tightened her grip. "Kaeti," she said. "She was in the bar…"

Things seemed to spin round a bit for me as well. I sat on the bed. "Look, Pete," I said, "you've got to face it. Kaeti's dead…"

She pushed her hair back. "You don't understand," she said. "I saw her, it was her. Don't you think I know my own daughter?"

I got her a bit more settled after a while and went back down. I got myself a stiff drink and sat and smoked a fag. I didn't know what to do. Or think. But I had to talk to somebody. Finally I rang Dick Stanton. He's always been a late bird. I didn't think he'd mind. He said at once, "How is she?"

I hesitated. I said, "She's fine, the Doc thinks she'll be OK. Just been overdoing it, you know what it's been like."

"Yes," he said, "I think I've got the picture."

I hesitated again. "Look, Dick, did anything happen? In the other bar? The way she came through…"

He didn't answer for a minute. I sensed he was puzzled as well. Finally he said, "Not that I saw. She was talking to us, seemed quite OK. Then suddenly… it was as if she'd seen a ghost."

Level-headed man is Dick. I've always had a lot of time for him. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut. I swallowed and took the plunge. I said, "She did."

The phone said, "What?"

I said, "She thinks she saw our daughter. She saw Kaeti."

A pause. Then he said, "Just a minute." I stood and listened to the atmospherics on the line. They were bad that night. like voices nearly, whispering and hissing. Finally he said, "Hello? You still there?"

"Look, Bill," he said, "there was one funny thing. There were some youngsters in, looked like students. Over in the far corner, I didn't pay 'em much attention. They'd just got up to leave. Jilly says there was a girl with them. Tall, brown haired."

So that explained it.

"No," he said, "not quite. When Pete ran through like that, Jill went out after them. She thought they might have done some damage or nicked something. She was only a second or two behind. But there wasn't anybody outside. No cars moving either."

"What?" I said. "There must have been."

I could sense him shrugging. He said, "It's probably not important. Like you said, she just made a mistake. She's been under a lot of strain." Another pause. Then he said, "Look, Susan's at the college. My eldest. I'll get her to ask round on the quiet. See if anybody was there. If they remember."

"Thanks," I said, "thanks a lot. And, Dick… keep it under your hat, will you? I wouldn't want it getting about."

He said, "I didn't hear a thing. Take it steady, Bill. I'm sure she'll be OK."

Oddly enough, for once I got a good night's sleep. When I woke up, Pete wasn't in the room, I ran downstairs but she wasn't in the pub either. I was just starting to get really worried when the side door clicked. She came in looking different somehow. Brighter. She said, "I went for a walk on the common. It's a lovely morning. I think spring's coming."

I've never seen anybody perk up the way she did. She went down to Camberley that same day, came back with an armful of flowers. She made up bowls for each of the bars, and one for the sitting room upstairs. When Doc Jamieson arrived she was dashing about like a two-year-old. He raised his eyebrows but he didn't say anything. I'd have given a lot to know what he was thinking though.

That night I heard her laughing in the saloon. Just like the old times. That hurt as well, deep down. She couldn't have forgotten Kaeti already. Not as quick as that.

She didn't touch her bedroom again. The fad seemed to have ended as quickly as it started. The clothes she'd sorted out had vanished, but I hadn't seen her take them anywhere. I slipped in on the quiet one morning. They were all back in the chest of drawers, and sprigs of lavender to keep them fresh. Apart from some she took down to the kitchen. She washed and ironed them, did some mending; then she put them with the rest.

She didn't stop the redecorating. Instead she worked harder than ever. Seemed to have got fresh strength from somewhere. I argued with her about it once, but she just smiled. "Got to nave it looking nice," she said. "Never know, somebody might come."

"Who?" I said. "There's only us." But she carried on regardless. So I got stuck in as well. It was April by the time we'd finished, nearly May. And the common brightening with the new spring grass.

I thought she'd forgotten our daughter. She hadn't though. Far from it. After we closed one night, I caught her taking a cup of tea upstairs. I asked her where she thought she was going and she grinned at me. "Where do you think?" she said. "It's for Kaeti."

I opened my mouth and shut it. Couldn't think of anything to say. Next day I made an excuse to go out, called on Doc Jamieson. After that the pills changed color. She said she didn't need them. She took them sometimes, when she couldn't get out of it, but most of the while she just flushed them down the loo. Those were the nights she took to wandering. I'd see the light on under Kaeti's door, hear her talking inside and laughing. I never interrupted her, because I couldn't face what was happening.

I won't say that was the worst part of all because it wasn't. But it did come near to being the last straw. She was in a private world of her own, somewhere I could never go. We were drifting apart as well, and there wasn't a single thing I could do.

It's been a funny old year for weather. Trees didn't drop their leaves till near on Christmas. Fields were still green too. Vivid. Sort of sickly.

The mist we sometimes used to get hung round right through the summer. Mostly by the pub. Jesse remarked on it more than once, said it was clear up by his place. Which was only a couple of hundred yards along the road. Teddy noticed it too. Only he wasn't coming in so much. He'd had a bad go of asthma; he said it played his chest up.

Used to sit and watch it sometimes. When I didn't fancy sleeping. Long tendrils, white as milk, and always moving. Flowing. Organic almost. I'd moved my desk into the sitting room, so I could hear if Pete got too restless. I'd finish the day's booking, then put the light out, just sit and smoke a cigarette and stare. Get hypnotized almost. Sometimes I'd doze. I'd always have bad dreams then. Only they weren't bad at the time. Just when I woke up. I'd be talking to Kaeti, remembering little things. All sorts of things. Then I'd sit up and the room would be empty again. Sometimes I'd think I could still hear her voice, that she was still there. Sitting across from me, curled on the settee. But it was only patches of moonlight on the wall.

Pete bought her a skipping rope once. Just after she started college. Kaeti swore she was getting fat, went on and on. I even dreamed about that.

Real jute it was, it said so on the carton. With handles made from old loom spindles. There was a booklet too, all about children's rhymes. It became her prize possession. She'd play with it for hours, up in her room. Clear all the stuff away first so she could get a good swine. The bumping and thumping would echo right through the pub. Like the old clock ticking. And you'd hear her chanting, getting steadily more out of breath. "Salt-mustard-vinegar-pepper, salt-mustard-vinegar-pepper…" Then an extra thump as she tried for the big one, four turns under, and usually a faint "Damnit…" After which she'd start all over. Right nut case she was, I told her so more than once. But it never had any effect.

When I opened my eyes that time, I could still near the scuff of her feet. Even the faint whistle of the rope. The sounds took ages to die away. When I went out onto the landing, the door of her room stood ajar, and the light was on again. I reached in, turned it off and pulled the door shut. I didn't look back, because if it came back on I would have to go and see. I did turn by our bedroom. The room had stayed dark of course.

Next night I was seeing to Chota. I'd got her her bits as usual, saucer of milk and that. She had a good drink, thought about the meat, then changed her mind and ran to the back door. "Oh, no," I said, "you can't want out this time of night." But she was mewing, scratching at the frame as if her life depended on it.

"All right," I said, "be quick then." I was wasting my breath though; I opened the door a few inches and she was through it like a streak and away.

I swore and went to fetch a torch. I walked outside and called but there was no sign of her. The mist was moving fast, streaming toward the pub. I flicked the torch about but it was useless, the beam just refracted back. I thought I heard her again somewhere ahead. I walked till I could see the common stretching out vague and blue-white. Then I heard the door slam shut behind me.

I gave up and went back. First thing I saw was the cat, finishing the saucer as if nothing had occurred. Ears laid back, really tucking in. I called her a few names under my breath, shot the bolts on the door and went upstairs. It was late but I didn't want to sleep. I went into the sitting room instead, sat down at my desk. I watched the mist flow in after me under the door. For some reason I wasn't really surprised.

There wasn't much of a crack but it had found it. It swirled round my ankles, spread across the room. Once I put my hand down to it. I expected it to feel cold but it didn't. Not much sensation from it at all.

More came, and more. There seemed no end to it. I thought for a while the room would fill right up. It didn't though. It was as if it was congealing somewhere, out of my line of sight. I watched the pattern on the carpet become visible again, heard the soft footsteps pad across the room. My old dressing gown was slung across a chair.

I heard it rustle, then the steps came back. Finally I looked up. Kaeti was sitting on the settee with the dressing gown wrapped round her. It was too long by a foot or more. She said, "Hello, Dad." Then she smiled. She said, "You always was a gent."

My cigarettes were lying on the desk top. I picked the packet up and opened it. But I didn't really want it. So I put it back. When I looked up again she hadn't gone away. I said, "What's happening?" I don't know quite what I meant by that. Some sort of a time-slip idea I think.

She pushed her hair back. She said, "Don't tell me you didn't know." She got up, walked toward me. She said, "Hello" again and held her hands out. I took them. They were warm.

I said, "It is you, isn't it?" and she said, "Yes." Then she scotched on my lap, put her arms round my neck. She hadn't done that since she was about eight. She said, "I know it's a bit of a shock. But I did try and warn you. You must have heard me the other night."

I said. "I couldn't be sure." Then it got to me. "Kaeti," I said, "it was raining," and she said, "I know," and hugged me. "Don't, Dad," she said, "it's all right," and I said, "Kaeti, oh my God." We said a lot more then, the both of us, but I don't remember any of it. Neither did I care. I'd got her back, you see, I'd got my kid back. And she was warm.

Afterwards I said, "Kaeti, what about your mother," and she put her head back and laughed. "She knows," she said, "she's known for ages. We were only worried about breaking it to you." I did pull away a bit then because I'd seen the faint hypertrophy of the eyeteeth, the lovely little pearly fangs she'd grown. But she only laughed again. "Dad," she said, "you are a twit. I'm not going to chumph you, that's only on the films." She sat up then and looked at me solemnly. She said, "You look as if you need a drink. And I'd like something too, it don't half make you thirsty. Can I make some tea?"

I said, "Can you drink?" and she giggled. "What do you think I do," she said, "pour it in my ear?" She got up and I caught her hand. I said, "I'll get it," but she shook her head. "It's OK," she said. "You've been dashing about all day."

I still didn't want her out of my sight though. I stood outside her bedroom and waited. She came out pulling a woolly over her head. "I'm sorry about Mum," she said, "I gave her a right turn that first time; you'll have to make it up to her." I said, "I thought you'd killed her," and she turned back looking troubled. "I know," she said, "but there was nothing I could do. I had to stop her getting rid of all my things. I wouldn't have had anything left to wear…"

She put the kettle on, fetched the bottle of Paddy I keep for special occasions. Broke me up a bit that she'd remembered. She mashed the tea, stood the pot on a tray, then scooped Chota onto her shoulder. "Let's go back upstairs," she said, "it's warmer." And so we sat and talked, till there was grey light in the sky. And that was the first of Kaeti's nights.

Those teeth were the only thing that worried me. But that always sent her into fits. "Come on, Dad," she used to say, "they're kinky. Don't you think they suit me?" They did too, in a funny sort of way. Made her look, I don't know, like a healthy young animal. Which I suppose was what she'd always been. I think I was seeing things clearer. A lot of things. Hard to see straight, when you're trying to earn a living. Deal with bloody VAT and all the rest.

That's what I mean, about seeing straight. We had the VAT boys in a few days later. Played hell because I'd been supplying Dick with spirits by the crate; it had knocked my profit margin back a bit. Part of their job is keeping inflation on course though. Or perhaps you knew. There was a time when I'd have blown my stack. But not any more. I don't think I even listened very much; they were like radio static a long way off. All I could think of was Kaeti was coming back; it was going to be another of her Nights. Horses in blinkers, that's what we'd ail been. Anger is for mortals.

She told me early on, the legend's wrong. Cocked up from start to finish. It's not what's taken from you, it's what they give. And they don't leave marks, any more than an acupuncture needle leaves a mark. "It's a sort of Contact really," she said. "It changes the flow. It all goes on from there…" I asked her what flow she meant, but she only grinned. "Ask a Chinaman," she said. "They knew a bit as well. Everybody knew bits. Even the bloke who wrote the book. But nobody ever got it all together." She pulled a face. "Then they found out about those grotty little bats in South America, the ones that bite the donkeys, and that was that. It's just a different lifestyle, Dad, that's all…"

It did take a little while to get used to. But that was OK too; she said I'd got a million years of prejudice to get rid of. Atavism, that was the word she used. Her vocabulary was going up by leaps and bounds; she'd left me standing. "Bashing saber-tooths over the head with hatchets," she said. "That's why you're scared of the night. It's the days you ought to be frightened of though really. That's when the bad things happen…"

Sometimes she'd come three or four nights together. Then we wouldn't see her for a week or more. She said there were long resting periods, there had to be; but she was never too clear about that. I don't think myself it was that at all. She was being considerate. After all, we'd still got the pub to run. It worried me a bit sometimes. Her not being there. I'd sit and stare out at the common and watch the rain and wonder what she was doing, where she was. But she put me right about that as well. "Look, Dad," she said, "if I'm not here with you I'm not anywhere. Well, nowhere you could understand just yet. What do you think I'm doing, running about getting soaked?" In any case, they don't experience Time the way we do. "I'm always here," she said to me once. "I never went away. Think of it like that…" Also, she warned me about Desire. It seemed a queer word somehow for her to use, but she didn't mean it quite the way I thought. "You mustn't want me to come every night," she said. "You mustn't want anything. Then I'll be here." That's what she meant, about going on from the Gotama. "He knew as well," she said. "They all knew really…" After that I'd go down to the kitchen afterwards and pick her clothes up where they'd fallen and bring them back upstairs and put them away and just not think of anything at all. I reckon I'd reached stage one of the Enlightenment.

She never let me see the transformation except for that first time. Not that there was anything horrible about it; she was very clear on that. It was just that there were certain things I wasn't ready for. And watching her turn to protoplasmic mist was one of them. "It might give you the wrong idea," she said. "You might start thinking about those grotty films again…"

That was funny too, coming from her. She always used to be a sucker for them. Even badgered us into getting a color telly so she could see the blood better. Gruesome little devil. But now it just seemed sad. I mean, that anybody had bothered with rubbish like that. "Think of a chrysalis," she told me once. "You crawl out on a branch and hang yourself up and squidge down into a sort of porridge. Then you wait a million seconds, and out you come a butterfly. Those were the things we should have been looking at…" It was one of her metaphors; she'd developed quite a knack for them. She was the butterfly now, riding high night.

I'll tell you what it was like. It was like being in love. I don't mean with her, that sort of thing. It was like the first time ever, waking up and seeing colors, the atoms of things vibrating. And knowing there are textures, your feet are pressing the ground, things are real. And you send up thanks. Not unto the Lord, that sort of stuff, just thanks. For being. That's when you see the One. Only there's gravity, it all falls away. And you can never get it back. I lived it every day though. Like a dream that didn't stop. I told her that too once, and she grabbed my hand. "That's right, Dad," she said "You're coming on. Everything's a dream, they all knew that. Jesus, the Gotama, everybody. They're all One." I said, "The One?" and she nodded. "That's right," she said, "The One..."

They know so much more than us of course. They're homo superior, they have been all along. The next stage on. Only we got confused. Couldn't see the wood for a few spooky trees. We hounded them, wherever we thought they were. That's why there's still so few of them. But mats going to change a bit. She made that very clear.

She raised the subject herself one night. Her birthday, it was. We hadn't forgotten, we were hardly likely to. But she made sure anyway. Talk about nudge nudge, wink wink. Pete made her a cake, and didn't she tuck into it. I'd seen some healthy appetites before, but that was a classic demo. No weight-watching problems any more, you see. They trade oft excess molecules the same way they take in nutrients, usually while passing through earth. The age enzymes go with them, which is why they're immortal. They don't really need to eat at all, not in the ordinary sense. She finished with a cuppa nonetheless, then asked if she could have a cigarette. She was looking thoughtful. "Dad," she said, "I want to talk to you. It's a bit serious."

I didn't have much doubt what it was about. I'd been reading the papers, watching the whole world getting ready to tear itself to bits. We hadn't got very long.

I thought when she did finally raise the matter, I'd at least need time to think. I didn't though. Funny. Or maybe it's not really so odd. I didn't want to be parted from her again, you see. But now it was me that was at risk. The only thing that worried me was having to go through what she'd had to first. And that was honestly more for her mother's sake than mine. But she shook her head. "It's nothing, Dad," she said. "It looks worse than it is; you really don't feel a thing. I was a bit scared right at the start, but you'll know what's happening. Anyway, it takes different people different ways. You won't have the time I had." They remember the future too of course, in bits and pieces; so I knew she wasn't talking without a book.

There was still one other thing though. I didn't know quite how to put it. She waited, grinning, and finally I said, "Kaeti, will it… be you?" The grin got broader then, and she shook her head. "No, Dad," she said, "it won't be me. Be a bit intimate, wouldn't it? Don't worry about it though, somebody'll come."

Nice young kid she was too. A few years older than Kaeti. And really pretty, jet-black hair all done in sort of ringlets. Looked up-to-date enough apart from that, jeans and a sweater. But they were Kaeti's things of course, picked up from just next door. She knew a lot about the Thirty Years' War, said they tied one of her brothers across a cannon mouth. She wasn't bitter about it though; she wasn't bitter about anything. Of course she was looking at things from a different point of view.

I didn't really know what was expected of me. Not till she suddenly popped a finger into my mouth. It went through me then like an electric shock. She needn't have done it that way, I'm pretty sure. It was just to make things easier. Maybe she kissed me sometime, I can't remember. I think she must have, because suddenly I wasn't on the earth at all. I was out in space, and there were stars and suns, and mountains and a rubber-tired trolley going by, and a bank of flowers bigger than a planet. Everything was expanding, but it was shrinking too, all at the same time, reducing to a tiny shining dot. That was the One as well.

She talked a lot afterwards about love. Said what we know can only be a shadow. When two clouds merge, that's Joining. I said they must be Gods and Goddesses then, but that was muddle-headed. She said there was still something outside, they were still looking. So nothing really changes. Afterwards I laughed so loud I woke Pete up. Because I'd never left my bed, that was for sure. So it was still the dream. There was a disco running. Somewhere in the village. Been thumping and crashing nearly all the night. I ask you, when Folk nave to be up by six.

But that's the human race all over for you. I sometimes think it deserves what it's going to get.

We had a letter in the post next morning. First time I'd actually seen copperplate handwriting, it was just a phrase before. Done on some sort of parchment too, though the English was modern enough. It begged an interview on a most urgent matter, said that the writer would call that afternoon at three.

I know what I'd have said about that in the good old days. Afternoons are sacred for a publican; it's the only chance the poor blighter has to get some kip. But the way we were living that sort of thing had ceased to matter, and Pete was curious as well. Mainly because of the writing. She asked who it was from, but we could neither of us make it out. Address was a good class London hotel, but the signature was the only indecipherable part. It was just a florid scrawl, it could have been anything.

He was punctual to the minute. I heard the taxi pull up and went to the door. Tall, bony-looking bloke he was, wearing one of those funny old-fashioned Inverness capes. His suit looked dated too; good tweed, but with a queer-looking cut to it. And he was wearing a cravat and one of those high stiff collars, the sort you only see now on the films. "Good afternoon," he said, "it is kind of you to see me. My name is van Helsing. You may perhaps have heard of my great-grandfather. He was a man of some renown, in his own highly specialized field."

It didn't ring a bell with me at all. Not to start with anyway. I sized him up instead. His hair was pale, so pale I took it to be white at first. Then I decided it was the color of bleached-out straw. His eyes were indeterminate too, pale-lashed and with an odd sort of sunken gleam. I started to wonder just what sort of a nut case we'd lumbered ourselves with. His voice was pleasant enough though, deep and well modulated, and his manners were impeccable. As old-world as his style of dress.

Pete looked at me. She said, "Van who?" and he said "Helsing" again and gave a little bow. She glanced back to me, then shrugged and turned away, got busy with the teapot. I said, "So what can we do for you?"

He was staring round, chin raised in a searching sort of way. And snuffing, for all the world like a dog looking for a scent. Finally he nodded. "Yes," he said, "this is indeed the place. I sense it…"

I toyed with the idea that he might be from the Council after all, that somebody had made a complaint about the drains. I dismissed it straight away. He just hadn't got the right air of petty officialdom. There was something about him though. Sort of an authority. He turned to me gravely. "First," he said, "let me commiserate with you in your time of loss."

Pete froze in the act of pouring a cuppa. She said, "We don't want to talk about it. It's over and done with."

He leaned forward earnestly. "But, Mrs. Fredericks, it is not over," he said. "You know, and I know, that it is far from over…"

"Bill," she said, "have we got to listen to this?" But I shushed her. "All right," I said, "let him have his little say." I turned to the van Whatsit bloke. "And you'd better make it good, my friend," I said. "Wishing yourself on us like this, upsetting my wife. Who the hell do you think you are anyway?"

He said, "I have told you who I am." He shook his head, and I swear his voice was vibrating with sympathy. "Believe me," he said, "I do understand. Nothing would normally induce me to intrude on such a time of sorrow…"

"Look," I said, "get to the point, or get out." The name was still going round in the back of my mind. I was beginning to have a nasty feeling I had heard it before.

He got to the point. His way. It took a bit of time. He used a fair few high-flown words, but phrases like "the undead" were never far away. "To bring peace to that poor tormented soul," he said finally, "that is truly my only aim. It will be unpleasant, I realize that. Repugnant perhaps to any thinking being. But mercifully it is soon ended, and your child will be at rest. My apparatus is in the village, but I must have your consent…"

I think it was the word apparatus that did it. I remembered all the films I'd seen then. The mallets and pointed stakes. I didn't think I was hearing right at first. I couldn't speak for a minute; then I was on my feet. "Let's get this straight," I said. "You want to open our kid's grave. …"

Pete was ahead of me though. She was always quicker on the uptake. A knife lay on the draining board; she snatched it up. "I'll give you graves," she said. "Get out that door, you bastard—"

He'd jumped up himself. "Mrs. Fredericks," he said, "you are making a terrible mistake—" That was as far as he got though. I yelled at her, but she'd already lunged.

How it missed him I shall never know. He eeled back somehow; then he was making for the door. "Deluded souls," he said. "You poor deluded souls…"

I grappled with Pete but she wrenched away. He didn't wait for anything else; he was through the door like a long dog. Next minute he was legging it down the lane. He didn't look back either, not till he turned the corner out of sight.

I went back. "It's all right, love," I said. "We shan't be seeing any more of him." Pete threw the knife down, sat back at the table. She put her face in her hands, then and started to cry. Later she said, "Bill call the police."

"The police," I said. "What do you think they could do?"

"Stop him," she said. "There must be something they can get him on. Whoever he is."

"They wouldn't believe us to start with," I said. "Just think we'd been watching too much late-night telly. Anyway, think what he could do us for if they did catch up with him."

She stared at me. She said, "What do you mean?"

"Well," I said, "assault with a deadly weapon for a start."

"But it wasn't like that," she said, "It wasn't…"

"So you got upset," I said. "That's no reason to start waving knives about though. Leastways, that's how they'd see it."

She sat and looked at me miserably. "It's Kaeti," she said. "I was only thinking of Kaeti." Then the tears welled up again. "Bill," she said, "I'm afraid. I've never been so afraid…"

Kaeti laughed about it when I told her. "Oh, him," she said. "We know all about him; he's been mooning round for days. He's out of his tiny Chinese; there isn't a van Helsing. There never was. His real name's McMorrow or something. He's cleared off now though; we don't know where he went. I reckon Mum put the frighteners on him for good."

I hesitated. "Kaeti," I said, "you know what you told me once. About everybody knowing little bits. Would it… is it a sort of formula? The stakes and that?"

She looked me straight in the eye. "Well," she said brightly, "look at it like this. If somebody rammed a dirty great spike through you, then cut your head off, you wouldn't be feeling too chipper, would you? Not to mention the garlic…"

I must admit I'd never looked at it like that.

After she'd gone I watched the dawn come up. I knew if I went to bed I wouldn't sleep. She'd been airy enough, dismissed the whole affair; but there was something at the backs of her eyes that I just didn't like. She was scared as well.

I went down to Camberley in the afternoon, had a look at the grave. I'm ashamed to admit I'd never been near before. At first I couldn't face it; then later there never seemed a need. Everything was neat, the marble curbs in place and the new lead lettering, KAETI LINDA Fredericks, it read. 1962—1979. And on the other side something Pete had dreamed up later, a line from a Roman poet, lie lightly on her earth, she never lay heavy on thee. It brought it all a bit too close again. Even—well, knowing what I did. I walked back into town, bought a bunch of flowers, arranged them for her in the little zinc pot. The sun was shining, there were birds all over. Bit different from last time. I wondered if she—no, I didn't wonder anything. Anything at all.

It all seemed ridiculous, going back to the car. People with spades and dark lanterns. I mean, not in the twentieth century. I had a word with the old boy in the gatehouse nonetheless. He said the gates were padlocked seven sharp, he saw to it himself. There were nigh stout railings, and, anyway, the main road ran outside; there were streetlamps every few yards. Nobody would break in there.

All the same, the unease didn't go away. It stayed with me right through the day. By the time we got the bars shut I felt flaked out. Pete was looking tired as well; we decided we'd have an early night. Well, early for us. I was asleep as soon as my head nit the pillow.

I had the most appalling dream. About van Helsing. He was stooping down, doing something near the ground. I couldn't see what. I shouted at him, but he didn't take any notice. So I shouted again. It seemed my voice went rushing out over a huge empty space. He turned at that and held something up. I still couldn't see. So he clicked a torch on for me. It was Kaeti's head. She was grinning, but her eyes were terrified. Her mouth was stuffed full of what looked like leaves, and a dreadful vivid beard ran down her chin. I grappled with the bastard then, tried to choke the life out of him. He fought back. He was stronger than he looked. I threshed about; then Pete was yelling at me. She said, "Wake up, for Christ's sake. Bill, wake up!"

I sat up. I felt groggy. I said, "I had this Godawful dream," and she yelled again. "It wasn't a dream, don't you know anything yet? Bill, for Christ's sake. …"

She was dressing already. I said, "What is it love, what's wrong?" and she glared at me. She said, "She's in trouble. He's already there. The bastard's there. …"

That sort of fear is infectious. I grabbed for my trousers and a shirt, flew downstairs and rammed a pair of shoes on. I still didn't believe it was happening to me. I ran the car back and she dived onto the front seat before I'd finished braking. She'd got the big old shotgun I bought once from Dick Stanton when I fancied trying my hand at a bit of rough-shooting. I said, "Jesus, what do you want that for? We can't take that…" But she just shouted at me. "Bill, get going. . . !"

The main gates of the cemetery were standing open. Padlock hanging from one of them, and a length of chain. I slewed the car through thinking I'd woken the street. The headlights jizzed on obelisks, stone angels. I hauled the wheel again, slashed beneath an overhanging tree. Then I was running two wheels up on grass, along a tarmac path. She yelled, "Right, go right. …" A wire basket flew up in the air, a watering can went bowling across the path. Then I saw him. Just a glimpse, his head and shoulders as he straightened. Behind him the headlamps lit the mound of fresh-turned earth. He took one look and ducked out of sight again. I knew what he was doing somehow without seeing. He was wrestling with the fid.

Pete was out again before I'd stopped, and running. Her shadow went jumping ahead across the grass. I followed, leaping over graves. A curbstone caught my foot and I measured my length. It knocked the breath out of me for a minute. I could only watch.

It was as if it was all happening in slow motion. She yelled at him, just like I'd done in the dream. He showed his teeth but he didn't stop what he was doing. He raised the mallet; then the gun exploded. Both barrels. Among the echoes there seemed to be a tinkling. He was flung backwards, and the lamp that stood at the grave rim went out abruptly. Which was just as well. I'd never seen anybody hit at close range with a charge of shot before. I don't want to again.

I jumped down. God, but she was looking pretty. Like a rose, complete with scent and thorns. I lifted her. She was limp and warm. I looked at Pete and we didn't have to speak. No way was she going back down there again. Not ever.

One thing you can say for graves. They're great for getting rid of bodies in. Neither did I feel too much remorse. I reckoned he'd got about what he deserved. Even to the second-hand coffin.

We worked like demons, the pair of us. I knew we couldn't possibly fill it all back in, get it squared off by daylight. There wasn't a chance. We did it though, somehow.

Pete drove us back. I was seeing to Kaeti. I kissed her once and she opened her big eyes. She said, "Thanks, Dad," and went to sleep again.

The roads were all deserted, no lights showing anywhere. The one car we did meet had its headlamps masked to slits. I wondered what they must have thought of us. I didn't pay that much attention though. Not till we got back in sight of Blackwell. I did look out then. Dawn was in the sky, sort of a pale grey flush. It showed me the outlines of the ack-ack guns, the long slim barrels pointing up. I looked the other way, to the sullen glow low down that meant London had had its nightly pasting again.

I went back in the morning. Didn't know quite what I would see. It was all right though. Just the lines of graves, the bright, tidy grass. All signs of the disturbance had long since gone. Nor did the gatekeeper say anything about the padlock. But I hardly expected he'd remember a little thing like that. After all, a lot of stuff went missing in the blackout.

She woke a few times crying after that. There was always one of us on hand to soothe. She tried to tell me once what it was like. Hearing the spade, from wherever she had been. Scraping coming closer, then the thumping on the lid. "I never did no harm to him," she said. "None of us did…" I held her till she was quiet. "It's all right, love," I said, "it won't come again, not ever. It's over…"

Next night she wasn't there. Gone out to recharge. Only now she had her own place to come back to, a room where we always kept the curtains drawn. The locals thought it was a sudden sign of mourning. Only Dick Stanton guessed. Or maybe it was more. He hasn't been too well this last couple of weeks. Throat infection that doesn't seem to clear. I heard they had the Doc the other day.

I think Time's wearing thin for all of us. Sometimes I hear the guns now, from a war I don't remember. Sometimes there's other things. The mushroom clouds all rising, and the fireballs. The walls of the pub all glow then, like bright glass. It happened a minute ago. In the old reckoning of Time. It didn't worry us though. I took Pete by the hand, and Kaeti, and we floated down, stood and watched the common light up and burn. There were others coming and then more, a great big crowd. There was one we called the Master. Not Vlad the Impaler though. He'll give the signal, when he's good and ready; and we'll all be away and gone. Headed for the dark side of another World. It won't take long. Because there isn't really Space, any more than there's Time.

There. It happened again. The paper I was writing on was burning, curling and blackening at the edges. But that don't matter either. All it means is that the One has grown a bit bigger. By something short of fifteen thousand human words. And a boat is setting sail, but not for Norway. And we stand on it and see the atoms dance, locked in a sort of brilliant, breathless Now.

Table of Contents

Short Stories

The Inner Wheel

Sub-Lim

The Deeps

Susan

The Passing of the Dragons

Weinachtabend

The Lake of Tuonela

The Lordly Ones

Kaetis Nights