The Flood Page 7

  “If the octi are made, or if they’re controlled by man, we need to know who it is. We don’t yet. We think it might be Sir Gabriel Davos. We could kill or imprison Davos and break up the Castle, and we could go after all his known employees; but we still wouldn’t know what the octi are, how they breed, how many parts of the world are infested.

  You could help us to find out, Woburn. Of course—”

  he gave a little shrug. “You might be killed, but you might also say ‘no’ and go for a walk in a London street and be run over by a bus. Or you may have coronary thrombosis.”

  He stopped again.

  Woburn said slowly, heavily: “If he’s behind this, won’t he guess you’ll be after me?”

  “Oh, yes,” Palfrey said. “Didn’t I say so? He won’t know what’s passed between us, though. You’d have to learn off by heart a variant of what we’ve actually said. You’d tell Davos that we asked you questions by the hundred, but didn’t tell you anything. That wouldn’t surprise him. The essential thing is that you should decide quickly, so that you can get to work at once. You could learn a version of this interview tonight, for instance, for repeating later if necessary. Possibly for repeating under some form of torture. I don’t,” went on Palfrey with great precision, “want to minimise the danger.”

  After a moment, Woburn said: “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “In general – just find out anything that might help. Will you?”

  There was a long pause, but although he hesitated, Woburn knew that there was only one thing to say.

  “I’ll try,” he said, gruffly, “but don’t get the idea that I’m so tough that I wouldn’t crack under pressure.”

  “We know how tough you are,” Palfrey said, with deep satisfaction, “and we’ve good reason to believe that you’re reliable. At the moment, you’re very nearly our only hope,” he went on, with a cheerfully candid smile. “As for your job – well, some of it you know about. Find out everything you can at the Castle, find out if Davos can control the octi. And find out where the creatures are. I mean,” Palfrey added, and it seemed hardly possible that he meant exactly what he said, “if they can undermine a cliff in Scotland and an island off the Isle of Mull, they could undermine all of this island, couldn’t they? That’s the most frightening question: how many are there, how strong are they, where are they, what damage can they do next and – is there any way of controlling them?” He gave an odd little laugh. “Tall order, but you’ll get help of a kind. The first thing is to play your luck, by going to the Castle. We might wait until morning, to find out if anyone from the place contacts you. If they don’t, it’s reasonable enough for you to call and inquire after Miss Davos, isn’t it? Especially after the message you received.”

  Woburn nodded.

  “Good,” said Palfrey, more briskly. “How I wish we could give you a more precise and helpful briefing. We can’t. Your job is to pick up every piece of information that you can, and try to get it out. Our other agents have had to fall back on the oldest and safest method – carrier pigeons. There should be two pigeon houses, and all the pigeons are marked with red feathers at their necks. Dyed. Ever handled carrier pigeons?”

  “No. But I know the theory,” Woburn said.

  “They’re tame and easy to catch, you’ll find a ring on each bird. Just scribble a message, and put it inside the ring.” Palfrey slipped into a mood of authority, somehow became much more impressive. “Incidentally, we can tell you that you’re right about one thing – the force of the water ejected by one of the octi. That dog was found dead this evening. Its jaw was broken.”

  Woburn felt cold.

  “Another thing,” Palfrey said. “Our man at the Castle will contact you – as he will any newcomers. He’ll ask you if you’ve ever seen the Battle of Flowers at Nice, and when you say yes, he’ll ask if you’ve seen the Fete des Citrons, at Menton. You’ll say yes – but your photographs didn’t come out. Got that?”

  “I’ve got it,” Woburn said. “When’s he likely to contact me?”

  “He’s the only judge of the timing,” Palfrey said, “and he may keep quiet. It’s up to him.”

  “Wouldn’t it help if I knew who he is?”

  Palfrey spoke very slowly.

  “Woburn, you don’t know these people; we know a little about them. Once you’re in the Castle, you’ll be in danger. They may decide that you’re from me. They may use torture, to make you tell them if anyone else from Z.5 is there. If you don’t know, you can’t tell. Our man there, if he’s still free, will wait until he feels sure it’s safe to let you know who he is. Is that all clear?”

  Very slowly, Woburn said: “Yes.”

  Then he heard the sound of a car engine, and looked at the window. In a way, the respite was welcome. Headlights were approaching, swaying up and down. One of Palfrey’s men stepped into the light, with his hands raised. The car slowed down. For a split second, Woburn felt the fear that he had when the two men had sprung at him in the lane.

  Next moment, he saw Bill Robertson get out of the car, a hand against his eyes to shut out the light of a torch. Woburn’s thoughts were switched right away from Palfrey and his grim briefing.

  Bill was here without Jenny!

  “There’s my brother-in-law,” he said sharply, “let’s get out to him.” He was already moving towards the door. “He wouldn’t have left Jenny behind, unless—”

  He didn’t finish.

  He hurried along the drive towards Bill, who was coming at a steady pace, with Palfrey’s man just behind him. He saw Woburn and the other men; and although he must have seen the huge Russian, he didn’t seem to take any notice.

  “Bill, what’s up?” asked Woburn; and then jeered at himself. Bill had come back for some forgotten trifle; if he rushed into panic over everything—

  “I’ve come for my gun,” Bill Robertson said, and his harsh voice gave the lie to ‘trifle’. “Couldn’t get here before, I had to stay with Jenny.” His voice was jerky, like his manner “Driving into town I saw the sheep in Lairg Glen. They looked as if they were going mad. Jumping about, snapping, snarling. Sheep. As soon as I got the chance, I came back. A dozen of them are dead – broken legs, broken necks, some have actually been torn apart. The others are stampeding. Dreadful sight. Dreadful.”

  8

  Woburn had never see a man move more quickly than Palfrey then. One moment he was in the porch, watching Bill. The next, he was running towards them, then on towards his own car. Even Bill turned to stare as Palfrey opened the door of the car and slid in.

  They could hear his voice.

  “Has he gone crazy?” Bill asked.

  “He is giving instructions over the radio telephone,” said the Russian, and there was tension in his voice. “Where is this glen? Quickly.”

  “Between here and Scourie, not far from the road,” said Robertson.

  “How near a village?”

  “A mile or so, perhaps. I don’t understand—”

  “Take it easy, Bill,” Woburn said, “this pair know what they’re doing. Isn’t that the glen over by the waterfall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” the Russian said, and moved in the darkness towards Palfrey and the Jaguar. He began to call out, repeating what he had learned. The man who had been guarding the Jaguar now watched Woburn and Robertson.

  “You may understand it,” Bill said, “but I don’t. I’m going to shoot those sheep, put the damned things out of their misery. Coming?”

  “I should wait until Palfrey—”

  “Damn and blast Palfrey and you and everyone with you!” Bill erupted, and thrashed the air with his fists. “Don’t you think I’ve stood enough bloody nonsense for one day? My only son drowned, acres of mv farm fallen into the sea, and now my sheep going mad in the pasture. And you talk about a— Oh, get out of my way. Go and do whatever you damned well like!”

  He pushed roughly past Woburn, and strode into the house.

  Woburn moved a
fter him.

  “I shouldn’t follow him, you know,” said the guard, in a quiet, casual voice. “Do him good to let off steam. Hell of a day. Palfrey’ll help him, soon – Palfrey won’t lose much time over this. Just stand by.”

  Woburn said: “I’m going to see Bill,” and went into the farmhouse.

  He heard Bill stamping about as he went through the unlit hall towards the passage and the kitchen. A light was on there. He took two steps forward, then heard a sound which was vaguely familiar; rather as if someone had trodden on a matchbox. Next moment, there was a sharp hiss of noise, and a shout from his brother-in-law: “What the devil— oh, my God!”

  Nothing that Woburn had ever heard equalled the horror of that exclamation. Bill’s voice rose upwards, to screaming tension. He seemed to stand in shocked stillness. Woburn caught his breath and went hurrying but fearful. He reached the open kitchen door. Half-way across the room, Bill Robertson was standing, one arm raised. A pool of water shimmered on the stone-flagged floor, a foot away from him, but he wasn’t staring at the water. He was staring at the yard door. It had been left ajar. Octi were coming in by the dozen, slowly, crabwise. A few were half-way across the room.

  “Look at them,” gasped Bill. “Look!”

  He picked up a chair, raised it and flung it before Woburn could stop him. It crashed on to the nearest octi’, there was a moment of uncertainty, before water spurted. The chair was thrust upwards towards the ceiling, and then a dozen or more of the creatures burst. Jets of water shot in all directions. Plaster fell from the ceiling, more from the wall. The stream struck the fireplace, forced its way into the fire and started the steam, hissing and crackling. Other octi, unaffected by the loss of a dozen or more, moved slowly, blindly, about the room.

  “Let’s get out of here and shut the door,” Woburn cried, “Come on!”

  He dragged Bill away. They reached the hall. He slammed the door, and they stood for a moment in the dim light from the front room, panting.

  Then, almost fearfully, Woburn put on the light.

  He scanned the floor.

  There was no sign of the octi; and yet he seemed to see them, advancing from the farmyard, streaming in, swarming about the kitchen.

  Palfrey came hurrying.

  “What’s on now?” he called.

  Woburn tried to keep the panic out of his voice.

  “They’re here. All over the kitchen. They—”

  “On the spot?” exclaimed Palfrey, and he seemed almost jubilant. “Stefan, hurry!” His matter-of-factness was a positive help. “Woburn, have you some tins we can get a few specimens in? Perhaps Mr. Robertson can help us.”

  Bill was fighting for his self-control.

  “Tins? I— yes, I should say we can help. How about small milk churns?”

  “Just the thing,” said Palfrey. “Line ‘em with paper and put some of the little johnnies in. Will you lay on the churns, Mr. Robertson? You help him, Woburn. Bring them to the kitchen. We won’t open the door until we’re ready to collect.” He paused, as the Jaguar’s engine sounded. “Micky’s bringing the car to show some light,” he said. “We want to see how fast they travel, and whether they react to light.” He talked about it all as if it were one of the most normal things in the world. “Mind if we have freedom of the house for the time being, Mr. Robertson?”

  Bill made himself say: “You’d better do what you think best.”

  “Thanks. Those churns, and a few smaller tins if you can.” Palfrey turned to Andromovitch, who was in the doorway, looking along the passage towards the kitchen. “Any sign of them?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Be careful round the back yard,” Palfrey called to Bill.

  The farmer didn’t answer.

  There was no moon, but outside here it was not truly dark. The stars were out. A long way off, bright lights showed against the sky, but Woburn didn’t give that a thought. All he could think about was the ground about him, the possibility of treading on more of the octi. He sensed that Bill felt the same, but they walked steadily towards the dairy, at the side of the yard. Doors led to it from this side, another from the yard itself.

  “Wish to hell I had a torch,” said Bill, “I — ugh!” His foot crunched on something. “Look out!” He jumped to one side, but nothing else happened, and next moment he sounded almost foolish. “False alarm, Bob. Sorry I’m so jittery. There’s a torch in the dairy, always keep it there. Storm lantern, too. Careful as you go in.”

  He opened the door.

  The door into the yard was closed, as far as Woburn could see here. He struck a match. It flickered about the white walls, the stainless steel of the separator, the galvanised milk cans, the rows upon rows of bottles, the washing and the bottling machines. The dairy had the clean, sweet smell of fresh milk.

  The floor seemed quite clear.

  Bill reached a shelf, and snatched a torch off. He switched it on, and the white beam swept the floor.

  “None in here,” he said, with sharp relief. “You get some small milk cans. I’ll roll come churns out.”

  “Right.”

  “Can’t believe—” began Bill, and then stopped. It was impossible to guess what had passed through his mind. Perhaps he had been suddenly, vividly reminded of his son. He seemed to choke.

  Woburn put small cans into the basket. Bill wheeled three small churns out into the dairy yard, with its cobbles, its runway, its small wall. The lights in the distance seemed much brighter. A searchlight flashed into the sky, and then seemed to settle down and level itself towards them. Sounds travelled across the still night air.

  “Wonder what’s happening over there?” Bill said, jerkily.

  “We needn’t worry about that,” Woburn growled. “Let’s get round to the front.”

  He wheeled a churn round. Light was streaming from all the windows. Men could be seen moving about inside the house. Two more cars had drawn up, presumably in response to the radio messages. As he hurried towards the kitchen, Woburn saw flashes of light. It wasn’t until he reached the hall that he realised what was happening.

  He caught his breath.

  Palfrey had broken down the top half of the door. He’d simply split it – or someone had – with an axe, then broken pieces off. A man was leaning over the door, which looked as jagged as broken glass, taking photographs. Flash after flash came, and the camera clicked.

  Palfrey and Andromovitch were waiting.

  The photographer stopped.

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  “Good,” said Palfrey abruptly. “Now we can get those specimens. Cans handy, Woburn?” He hadn’t given any sign that he had seen Woburn come in. “Ah, thanks. We’ll get in cautiously. Better build some kind of barrier here to stop them from having the run of the house, if we can save some of it—”

  He broke off.

  “I can get them without opening the door,” said the Russian. He simply stepped past Palfrey, and leaned over; and his long arm almost touched the floor. “Hold the cans, Sap. One in each, for the time being?”

  “Yes.”

  Palfrey’s hands were steady. Andromovitch drew his hand up, and one of the octi was in his large fingers. He held it upwards, the little tentacle-like feet wriggling. He put it into the mouth of a half-gallon can, and Palfrey held the can on one side. The octi went wriggling about the bottom, and Palfrey stood it up on end and put on the cardboard top.

  “All right provided we don’t jolt the cans,” he said. “Another.”

  The churns were being rolled in.

  “Scoop up a few dozen and put ‘em in here,” said Palfrey. “Then, one churn in each luggage boot. How many cans?” There were twelve. “Four in each car, then, one of us is bound to get through.”

  He spoke as if they were going through the firing line.

  “Everything we can do done here?” he asked, suddenly, and turned round to Bill Robertson, who was staring at the hooded creatures now still and silent at the bottom of the milk cans. “Mr. Ro
binson,” he said, “I think you’d be wise to remove anything of real value, quickly. I’ll get this stuff away, and send men to help you. They’ll bring a van. If there should be any subsidence here, the house might sink.”

  Bill didn’t speak.

  “I’ll stay and lend a hand,” Woburn said.

  “No,” said Palfrey. His voice was very firm. “We can’t take risks with you, Woburn. Sorry.”

  Woburn caught his breath.

  Then he realised that Palfrey meant exactly what he said. In the same moment he realised that in agreeing to help, he had given up his freedom of action.

  He turned to Jenny’s husband.

  “Bill—”

  “I’ll manage,” Robertson said, gruffly.

  “Bill,” Woburn said again, “do something for me. Grab what you can now, and then get out. Palfrey will try to get the rest of the stuff out later. Don’t take any more chances. Don’t give Jenny anything more to mourn.”

  There was silence.

  Then: “All right,” said the farmer. “I won’t be five minutes.”

  Woburn sat in the back of the Jaguar, squeezed up in one corner, because the Russian was with him, so there was hardly room. Palfrey drove carefully along the country roads towards the lights in the distance. It was a glow in the sky, relieved every now and again by a searchlight which swept round, and then seemed to reach ground level. The sound of the engine was so soft that they could hear other, harsher noises; noises which reminded Woburn of what had happened that afternoon.