Cold War in a Country Garden

by Lindsay Gutteridge

  He called Henry over.

  Henry was sceptical about DeMin. “I haven’t heard of it. It must be an extremely long business and might take years. It would be an additive process, and putting on weight is vastly different from taking it off.”

  A new routine started. Dilke, Henry and Olsen left each morning and returned in the evening to supper prepared by Charlie. Apart from occasional moods of depression Charlie seemed to have cheerfully accustomed himself to the role of radio operator and cook/housekeeper. But Dilke was concerned about the restless nights which he endured, for his sleeping mind was full of nameless terrors. More disturbing was a deterioration in Charlie’s health; his breathing became asthmatic and he developed an ear-ache which finally caused him to give up his telephone duties. To shut out sounds to which he had become painfully sensitive he wore a clumsy Balaclava helmet made from several thickness of blanket. His appetite diminished and one evening he left his supper untouched to go to bed. Stepping towards the open door of the chamber he stumbled and veered sideways across the platform. Before he could reach the edge and fall Bill Olsen rose swiftly from his place by the fire and took his arm. “Look out, Charlie, you’ll take off!” He led him away and Dilke, who had finished eating, took him in to bed.

  Olsen returned to his supper.

  “Henry.” He paused thoughtfully between blows on the casing of a baked insect’s leg. “How long a life will miniaturization give us?”

  “Why do you ask, Bill?”

  “I wondered if size affects how long you can live.” He pointed up to the trophy head which they had taken from the corpse of the spent saphire fly, “Lover boy didn’t last long, did he?”

  “Lover boy is a special case,” said Henry. “It’s true that life span is usually related to an organism’s size, but there are exceptions: a pike can live for two hundred years while the much larger horse has a life expectancy of only thirty.”

  “And what would happen to a bloody horse if he were brought down to our size?”

  “He should be all right. An animal’s life span is usually five times as long as it takes it to reach maturity, the Greeks thought it was eight times but Flourens has revised that.

  “Our physio/chemical time-clock was set before we were reduced so we should follow the proper pattern—maturity, times five.”

  Henry smiled up at the fly’s head mounted on the wall above them, “Anyway, you aren’t subject to such strain as he.”

  “The chance would be a fine thing!” Bill Olsen split open the leg and dug at the meat within.

  The weather was good for several days, but one morning they woke to see an overcast sky through the shed window. The walls of the chamber were wet with condensation and the atmosphere was humid and sticky.

  Dilke decided to join in a hunt along the southern boundary of the allotment. They waved to Charlie from the shed floor and set off due west to a huge forest of rhubarb on the horizon. The day brightened a little but by mid-morning blue-black clouds had crept over the horizon and there were a few spots of rain. Insect life was subdued by the heavy atmosphere; cicadas were silent, the men looked up and saw that the green-and-black fly had stopped their normal slow browsing and were quite still, clustered in herds beneath the leaves.

  They had nearly reached the rhubarb forest and Dilke had almost decided to turn back for home when thunder growled overhead and the first big raindrops fell. They could hear the distant roar of approaching rainfall and they ran together to the shelter of the first rhubarb plant. The drops thudded into the dust around them, each one big enough to knock them to the ground.

  They reached the shelter of the leaf just as the rain fell in sheets. They settled themselves at the foot of a huge stalk and looked out on a landscape obscured by drifting clouds of rain. Bill Olsen lay on his back and looked up at the enormous umbrella of the leaf with its ribs arching away from the main stem like the roof of a Gothic cathedral. The whole canopy trembled with the force of the falling rain, the noise of its drumming deafened them, they could feel the great trunk of the vegetable throbbing, and sheets of water cascaded from the undulating edges of the leaf.

  The rain stopped as if a tap had been turned off, but the atmosphere remained oppressive, and lightning flickered all round the horizon. Bill Olsen lay a little apart from Henry and Dilke, the heavy atmosphere started an ache in his head and he closed his eyes, spanned his forehead with a hand and pressed on his temples with thumb and forefinger. The air was stifling.

  He lay for a minute, conscious of an intense and electrically charged atmosphere. He yawned, removed his hand from his face and opened his eyes. A few paces from him stood a huge ant, twelve millimetres long, bright crimson, like the rhubarb stalk near which he lay. An intense, whining sound like a dentist’s drill came from its interior. The huge mechanical beast seemed to be under stress. It stood stiffly, throbbing; its antenna twitched and jerked, the sound which sent Olsen’s teeth on edge fluctuated in volume and suddenly the ant jerked forward several steps then stood still again. Olsen realized that it was either unaware of or cared nothing for his presence, and he slowly edged round the plant to where his companions sat against the rhubarb trunk.

  Henry turned his head and was silenced by Olsen’s strained face and the curt gesture of his hand. Olsen jerked a thumb behind him and Henry leaned forward and looked over his head. “By God! Formica rufa!” he swore. Fifty millimetres away a second ant, which was similar in every respect to the first, ran forward.

  All three men now sat motionless and stared across the forest floor into its dark interior. The shadow was broken in places by light filtering down through gaps and occasionally a sluice of water cascaded down from above, sparkling like silver against the dark leaves.

  They all now felt the electric tension in the air and, as they watched, more ants appeared, running forward in short epileptic bursts under the vaults of the leaves, mostly dark silhouettes in the shadows but gleaming ruby-red when they ran through clearings. They moved in one direction, travelling from the interior towards the forest’s edge. The men turned and looked outwards to the open plain.

  Approaching the rhubarb forest in the same epileptic fashion was an army of huge black ants. The red ant which Olsen had first seen stepped out from the shade of the leaf. It stood on the edge of the plain, twitching and whining, facing the forerunner of the black ants. Suddenly both ants went into reverse, backing stiffly away from each other for a dozen paces; then they sprinted forward and met head on with a crash of armour. Each monster tried to overturn its opponent, their jaws locked on each other’s shoulders, their legs straddled. Their struggles took them back and forward, first out on to the plain, then struggling in a cloud of dust under the roof of the plant where the three men crouched. The black ant slowly overpowered its opponent; it shifted the grip of its huge jaws to the foreleg of the red ant, almost severing the limb where it joined the body. With one leg useless the injured ant was forced sideways, its scrabbling feet kicked up clods of earth and air whistled through its breathing tubes. It was crushed to the ground twenty paces from the trunk of the rhubarb, it fell on its side, blowing up dust in spasmodic bursts. Instantly its conqueror transferred its grip and bit at the gap between head and thorax. The teeth of the black ant chewed with a grinding sound, forcing back the red ant’s head. The faces of Henry and Dilke twisted with disgust; a crossbow twanged behind them and a bolt vanished into a breathing tube of the victor. It reared up and fell with a crash on its dying victim.

  Bill Olsen smiled blandly at his startled companions.

  They saw that they were witnesses to a full-scale war.

  The plain was covered by a swarming pattern of red and black; some ants fought singly, but sometimes several ants from one army attacked a single opposing ant. The battle continued throughout the afternoon. The men’s ears were filled with the sound of collision, of breaking limbs of grinding jaws and of the unnerving electronic screaming. The stench of formic acid lay on the air as the beasts injected it int
o their opponents and clouds of dust floated across the battle area. The rattle and crash reminded Dilke of tank exercises on Salisbury Plain.

  The afternoon passed, the electric storm which had precipitated the war passed away and the sun slanted low, sparkling and gleaming on the grotesque fighting insects. In the late afternoon the fighting reached a frenzied climax and then slowly it grew quieter and the dust-clouds diminished. The black ants were victorious; the red ants retreated into the forest, trailing useless limbs, falling and dying in their tracks. One with a deep head wound crept to the foot of the rhubarb where the men stood and climbed blindly up it. It stopped after a few jerky climbing movements and remained stationary, its body pressed to the trunk, its feet clutching the ribbed column.

  Dilke, Bill Olsen and Henry walked slowly out into the field. They were dazed by the immensity and the ferocity of the battle they had seen. The plain was littered with mounds of broken insects piled high like dead cars in a breaker’s yard. The vaporized acid stung their eyes and there was a steady drip, drip, dripping sound from within the mounds. The sky was a flaming shepherd’s delight lit by the setting sun; the highlights on the metallic armour of the black ants gleamed as red as those on the opposing army. Everything was as red as death. They started their journey home, trotting between the mounds which made jagged silhouettes against the dying light. The leg of an ant, half-buried under a pile of insects, was steadily jerking as if someone had forgotten to switch off its motor. Dilke shot it in the head and the limb slowly extended and relaxed.

  There was no moon that night and they returned to the hut at a fast run, trying to reach home before dark because of night predators. But it was dark when they entered the hut, the fire glowed on the high platform.

  “Dear mother’s kept a candle lit,” quipped Olsen.

  The Kremlin had never seemed more safe and welcoming.

  A week later Dilke returned home in the early afternoon. The three men had been hunting together but Dilke went on alone leaving Henry and Bill Olsen behind to take a cooling swim. He climbed on to the platform: the fire was out, the door was shut tight. He looked with surprise at the thick brass door shining in the sun, then he pushed it open and stepped inside. At first he could see nothing; the hammocks were empty; the equipment was stacked neatly on the racks which Charlie had made; but there was no sign of Charlie. Then a slow movement from the farthest corner of the room caught his eye. From a wad of blankets lying against the wall, Dilke saw a white hand surreptitiously pulling at the topmost blanket. Charlie had taken blankets from the hammocks and wrapped himself in them from head to foot. Dilke quietly approached the blue cocoon.

  “Charlie? Charlie? Are you all right?”

  The hand vanished. The cocoon listened.

  “Charlie. This is Mathew,” he touched the shoulder of the figure and gently pulled at the blanket which covered the head. The hand came out and helped to pull the cover aside, then Charlie Wallis struggled to a sitting position with his back against the wall.

  “Are you all right, Charlie?”

  Charlie did not answer, but he smiled. He was not wearing his glasses, his eyes were wide and bird-bright. In recognition of Dilke’s presence one side of his face gave a greeting; the cheek rounded out in a curve, the eye half closed, a fan of wrinkles appeared at its corner and the mouth curled upwards.

  Charlie smiled with only the right side of his face. The left side was like wax: stiff, white and quite motionless.

  Dilke’s heart sank.

  He looked down at the man’s hands. Charlie sat with his weight resting on his right hand, the other lay stiffly on the blanket like the hand of a corpse.

  When Dilke raised his eyes Charlie was staring past him; the half-smile was replaced by a grimace of terror, the one good eye was screwed up, the head averted as if to escape a blow in the face. Dilke turned quickly; the sun shone through the open door and the grotesque shadow of the ant lion’s head lay on the floor. He lifted the man to a place where he could not see the horned shadow and settled him comfortably.

  “How’s that, Charlie? What have you been doing? Do you feel like supper?”

  The look of fear had been switched off; the expression was alert, birdlike, the head held on one side, as if he could hear but not comprehend.

  “Wait till Bill gets back and finds no supper!”

  The half-face smiled at Dilke’s teasing manner, an infantile chuckle jerked from Charlie’s throat.

  Dilke heard voices and he met Henry and Olsen on the platform.

  “Something’s happened since we’ve been away. Charlie’s sick, he’s half frightened to death and he’s had some sort of stroke. He may not understand, but talk to him in the normal way.” They entered and looked down on him and chatted. Charlie heaved with baby laughter and they responded with smiles.

  They returned to the platform to decide what to do.

  “I think this must be the drugs,” said Dilke, “it’s sparked off by something which has shocked hell out of him. What do you think it could be, Bill? He had shut himself in when I got here.”

  “A fly has been up here.” Olsen walked to the brass door placed his finger on a number of points where the old crossbow drawings and calculations were smudged. “You can feel the sticky stuff from its feet, and anyway I can smell the dirty bastard. And look, you can see where its wings have blown most of the fire off the platform.

  Dilke decided that Charlie could not safely sleep in a hammock and he set Olsen to making a bed. He got Henry to prepare some food and look after the sick man and he lifted the radio phone out on to the platform and rang up head office.

  Only the night operator was on duty. “Major Price will be here in the morning, sir. Who shall I say called?” Dilke said it was an emergency and that he needed Major Price immediately. The operator said that she could not give private phone numbers. Dilke used some quiet words of vulgar abuse and within an hour Price had rung him back. He listened to Dilke and said he would get advice from the head of the labs and rang off. Henry was spooning soup into the patient’s mouth with 50 per cent success and Bill Olsen had dismantled Charlie’s storage racks and reassembled them in the shape of a bed. The legs at the foot of the bed were longer to compensate for the slope of the chamber floor and half a dozen gnat’s wings gave a spring base for the blankets.

  They got Charlie to bed. He lay with his head muffled in his Balaclava, breathing with little gasps of pain, sweat bathing his face and mucus oozing from his nose.

  None of them slept well. Charlie tossed restlessly, his eyes shining feverishly in the firelight, and, even when he slept, the sound of his laboured breathing filed the chamber. The men lay awake in their hammocks listening. Dilke looked down from his hammock; Charlie looked like a dying man.

  At eight hundred hours Major Price told Dilke that the laboratories were producing an anti-allergy drug. It should be ready within twelve hours and he would let Dilke know when to pick it up.

  “Major Price, it will take me a day to collect this drug and get it back here. I can give you clear directions to deliver it on my doorstep.”

  Price’s reply had a note of official regret.

  “I’m afraid my instructions are to deliver at the prescribed place, Captain Dilke.”

  “Sergeant Wallis will die if he’s not treated quickly.”

  “Lord Raglen has instructed that your exact position is not disclosed—even to this office.”

  Dilke slammed down the transmission lever and dropped the microphone.

  Bill Olsen sat with his legs overhanging the ledge.

  “Who is Lord Raglen?”

  “Lord Raglen is head of M.I.5,” Dilke turned and stalked into the chamber.

  Bill Olsen spat between his knees and watched the gob fall, then he lifted his head and smiled down the length of the shed.

  They carried out the bed on to the platform. It was a lovely September day; sun shone through the shed window and the scent of honeysuckle drifted through a broken pane and filled the
air.

  Charlie dozed and rubbed fitfully at his nose and his breath rasped in his throat.

  Henry sat at the foot of the bed. “He’s having trouble with smell as well as his other senses.”

  “They’ve made a real cock-up of his treatment,” said Olsen, “that’s for sure.”

  At sundown they carried him indoors and at ten o’clock Dilke was informed that the drug was waiting for collection. He went into the chamber. The breathing of the sick man was slower, his features were relaxed, his eyes closed. Dilke spoke quietly to him, “Charlie. How are you feeling? We’re collecting some stuff which will make you feel better. We’ll be back soon.” Deep furrows marked the brow and slowly the eyes opened; they were weary but intelligent.

  “We won’t be long, Charlie. Henry will stay with you.”

  “I feel the cold, sir.”

  Dilke put a hand on his forehead; the skin was wet and fish cold.

  “Keep him covered,” he said to Henry.

  Olsen handed Dilke his crossbow and the torch and they clambered over the side of the platform into the dark. They needed the torch until they entered the garden, then the way was bright with moonlight. They moved fast, alternately walking and trotting; the way was familiar and well lit; in three hours they reached the window seat and Dilke swept its length with the torch. Two long chalk marks had been drawn on the wood forming a huge cross; at its intersection Dilke found a bottle. It lay in the powdered chalk, the capsules inside sparkled in the torchlight. Dilke picked it up and they turned and ran, leaving two lines of chalk footprints to the edge of the seat, fading to nothing as they descended the black cable.

  In two hours they had reached the carrot plantation and the breeze which came before dawn swayed the carrot tops. They paused halfway up the hill to regain their breaths. The wind subsided, the rustling overhead stopped, then from behind them and to the east of the track there came a curious sound. As it became louder they could distinguish it more clearly as a crash of feet and the rattle of disturbed stones and rubble. They saw flickering movements in the shadows of the plantation. Both men leapt off the track and stood behind the bole of a carrot. The long shape of a centipede suddenly appeared on the track along which they had travelled, its articulated body metallic in the waning moonlight.