Exhausted, the spyder entered the water, moved clear of the shallows, and sank into the depths.
At least Vikki was now safe.
So the Visitors thought.
Chapter 35.
BOB HARDING WAS UP EARLY THE next morning, busy working on his `box', as he called it -- an old lever-arch box file filled with notes and reports that Diana Sheldon had prepared for him to take home the previous evening. Instead of reading everything with his customary care before initialling the documents, he skimmed quickly through them. He wanted everything out of the way so that the day would be free for the test submersion of the bathyscaphe. He had already phoned Tony Selby who had reassured him that the converted swimming pool filter was already on its way to Pentworth Lake. His desk was a cleared area of workbench in his crowded workshop at the back of what had once been his electrical repair shop. Even his prized Newtonian telescope had had to go to make room for the assistants that now worked here during the day, keeping Pentworth's valuable stock of portable radios in working order. He heard the telephone ring but left Suzi to deal with it. She intercepted all his calls these days otherwise he'd never get anything done.
She came into the workshop wearing a transparent negligee that had Harding yearning for the day when he could step down from this latest responsibility that had been thrust on him so that he could spend more time with his family -- a family that consisted solely of Suzi: a lovely 20-year-old brunette -- a former student at a college where he had lectured part time. Both had been disappointed by the lack of a scandal that their marriage had provoked -- they had expected better of Pentworth.
"You've got another woman after you," she said reproachfully, working her seductive fingertips into her husband's collar bones.
"Give her a number and tell her to join the queue," said Harding.
"A nun. Is there no end to your depravities?"
"Not Sister Mary Thomas?"
"Ha. So she's still fresh in your perverted mind?"
"Suzi, angel. She's over 90."
"She's nearer your age than I am."
"What did she want?"
"Have you heard the one about the Essex girl who was asked during a survey if she smoked after having sex? She replied that she didn't know because she had never looked."
Harding laughed. "What's that got to do with Sister Mary?"
"She's worried about smoke. Farside smoke.”
Chapter 36.
IT WAS A GLORIOUS FARSIDE morning. By ten o'clock the sun was pleasantly hot as Ellen discovered when she threw back the hut's hide flap and gazed out at the scene before her. The stream that she had struggled to find in the dark the previous night turned out to be a broad, fast-flowing shallow river that tumbled cheerfully down to a thickly wooded valley. There was a sharp bend in the river where bones and branches, and even complete trees, barkless and scoured white, had piled up -- probably accumulations from flash floods. That was something -- no need to worry about the fuel they were using.
Himmler's indignant howls of profound grief concerning the lack of his customary four breakfasts woke Vikki and Claire. From their raised beds at the far end of the hut, they voiced complaints about the bright light flooding into the hut, and the smoke as Ellen made up the fire that had nearly gone out.
She ignored them and took a proper look at the hut. Around the outside deep drainage gullies had been dug to deflect rainwater towards the river. The width and depth of the gullies and that they had been lined with tessellated flat stones to prevent floodwater erosion suggested that rain storms here could be quite something. The same had been done with the other huts. Around the outside opening to the underfloor forced draught duct was a funnel-like wind scoop made from thin hide stretched over a framework of lashed saplings. It was angled to catch the prevailing wind. The wind scoop was the simple but outstanding invention that enabled bone to be used as a fuel in areas where wood was scarce. The high temperatures that could be achieved by burning bone had laid the foundations of ceramics and metallurgy, and given Europe a technological lead that it had never lost.
She turned her attention to the hut's covering and guessed that the heavy material was mammoth or bison hide. It was as thick as her finger and hung slack and somewhat untidily from the ivory frames. The stitching used to join the heavy material intrigued her. The individually knotted stitches were visible on the inside of the hut but not on the outside. A close look where a loop stitch was coming loose revealed the secret: the fine leather thong did not break through the outside of the outer, overlapping hide but went halfway into the thick skin and doubled back inwards, through the inner hide, and was knotted on the inside. The result was a sound, watertight joint with no likelihood of water being able to leak into the hut. It was something else to commit to memory about the remarkable skills and ingenuity of the Cro-Magnon.
The hut itself was built on a slope yet the sunken floor had been excavated level and covered with matting made from woven reeds. Ellen guessed that this was the first type of artificial floor that mankind had ever walked on. The symmetry of the pairs of mammoth tusks that formed the hut's U-frames intrigued her. Most mammoth tusks recovered from the Siberian and Alaskan permafrost were misshapen. Had these early homo sapiens killed so many mammoths that they had a choice of tusks? Or had they found a way of removing unwanted twists by steaming them? She made a mental note to discuss it with David, and checked herself. When would she see David again? Were they condemned to live out the rest of their lives in this Farside world? Further exploration led to the discovery of a bulky roll of chamois leather. She untied the loose knot and marvelled at the collection of tools inside the roll: flint burins, awls, some razor-sharp flint blades with their tangs set into antler handles, and a collection of bone needles ranging in size from large bodkins to fine embroidery needles. All were individually secured in place in the roll by neatly stitched loops of chamois, just like a modern toolkit. She marvelled, not only at the practical beauty of the implements, but at the hours of painstaking work that must have gone into making them.
An itch in her scalp reminded her that there were other, more immediate matters to deal with. She stripped off, and raced naked down the grassy slope to the river. She hadn't had a proper wash in a month and the attraction of the river was too much. The water was not as cold as she had expected although it took her breath away when she found a deep eddy pool and immersed herself up to her neck. She spent a blissful ten minutes rubbing herself vigorously with a T-shirt. She emerged, her skin tingling, and was about to stretch out on an outcrop of sandstone to dry herself in the sun when she noticed pug marks in the soft mud near the water's edge.
She stooped to examine them and felt a prickling of alarm at the nape of her neck. The paw marks were large -- almost the width of her hand. A big cat. In fact, she thought to herself, a fucking big cat. A cave lion? The thought tightened the knot of fear in her stomach. From what she remembered of cave lion remains, they could grow to four times the size of their African counterpart. A search revealed plenty of small hoof marks, probably deer or antelope, and what were definitely the paw marks of wolves. She eyed the 200 metres distance between herself and the group of huts and told herself that the village had been built here for the same reason that animals came visiting -- it was a convenient watering place. The chances were that any big cats that drank here avoided the humans and vice versa otherwise the Cro-Magnon would not have sited their village here. She had read about watering holes in the African bush being neutral territory. It was a comforting thought but bought home the risk she had taken in coming down here at night.
A movement in the water caught her eye. A fish was trapped in shallow water between a spit of sand and the far bank, and couldn't find its way back to the main channel. A big fish, too, judging by its heavy splashes.
Ellen dashed across the river. At one point she was wading in water that reached her breasts, but she pressed determinedly on. The river bed shallowed rapidly underfoot and she raced into the narrow c
hannel to cut off the fish's escape. Her nerve nearly failed her when she saw the carp's size. It was close to a metre in length and had a mouth that looked capable of swallowing her arm -- sideways. Twice it nearly bowled her over as it darted between her feet. Ellen saw that it was likely to escape so she threw herself on the creature. In one smooth movement she grabbed it by the tail, braced herself, and swung it out of the water with all the arm-wrenching strength she could muster. She succeeded in landing it on the sand spit. The huge fish gave several mighty spasms that threatened to flip it back into water but Ellen was upon it with a rock. Three heavy blows and the struggle was over. She threw back her head and uttered a primeval yell of triumph.
Whatever an uncertain future held in store for the three women, they would survive.
Chapter 37.
"YOU SEE, MR HARDING?" SAID SISTER MARY.
Harding lowered his binoculars and stared at the pall of white smoke rising above the fold. He was standing at the nun's upstairs landing window. "Indeed I do, sister. Perhaps it's a bush fire?"
Sister Mary snorted. "A bush fire would spread. That smoke's been coming from the same place ever since I first saw it two hours ago. Animals don't make fires. Bush fires don't stay in the same place. Which leaves only one possibility -- that fire's manmade."
Harding had already made the same deduction. Animals had often been seen Farside but this was the first evidence that there were people living in that strange place.
"Maybe the Wall--" he began.
"First thing I checked," said the nun. "It's still there."
"Perhaps we'd better check again," said Harding.
They went downstairs and into the garden and encountered the Wall where they expected to find it. Harding pressed his hand hard against it. The initial yielding and increasing resistance the harder he pushed felt no different, and the strange blackening effect wherever he applied pressure was exactly as it had always been.
"Of course, there's no reason why there shouldn't be people Farside," said Harding. "Homo Sapiens were certainly around 40,000 years ago."
"Except we've never seen them."
"They were thought to be nomadic. Perhaps they've just returned?"
Sister Mary nodded. "That makes sense. My worry was that the smoke would stop before you arrived, Mr Harding. I hope you don't think I've wasted your time. I know how busy you must be."
Harding assured her that she had done the right thing in calling him. He was about to thank her and return to his pony and trap, when they both saw the siamese cat breast the rise.
"Good heavens," the nun whispered. "I do believe that's Himmler." The strap nearly yanked Harding's head off when she grabbed his binoculars and peered through them. "Yes -- it is Himmler. His markings! And he's Farside!"
Harding retrieved the glasses and focussed them on the cat. It was stalking a rook -- not very skillfully because there was no cover and its tail was stuck straight up and quivering in excitement. It made a sudden dash. The rook was airborne before the cat got within pouching distance whereupon the thwarted hunter decided some concentrated washing was called for as though that was what it meant to do all along.
"Are you sure you know the cat?"
"I ought to," Sister Mary replied. "He belongs to Anne Taylor."
"Vikki Taylor's mother?"
"That's right. She swears that Himmler gets enough to eat, yet he comes around every morning even though their place is at least two kilometres away, bullying me to feed me. But there was no sign of him this morning. I thought he'd found himself another mug. Looks like he's found a hole in the Wall instead."
Harding declined the nun's offer of tea. She accompanied him back to his pony and trap, not speaking, sensing that the retired scientist had much on his mind. "Thank you for calling me, sister," he said, picking up the reins. "You certainly did the right thing. One thing, though. I think it would be best if you said nothing about this to anyone for the time being."
"How can you expect to keep it secret, Mr Harding? There're quite a few houses around here and several lanes. The entrance to that field next door opens onto the lane. Look -- see the Wall markers? Any number of people are sure to see that smoke and be curious."
Harding thanked her again and went on his way, heading the pony to Pentworth Lake.
Chapter 38.
HE ARRIVED SHORTLY BEFORE MIDDAY. The bathyscaphe had already arrived and was sitting on the pontoon that was now held in position in the centre of the lake by long lengths of rope that extended to the shore.
"They've had to sort out some winch cable problems, Mr Harding, so you've not missed anything." said the night watchman, helping Harding into an inflatable dingy and pushing it clear of the beach.
Harding was rowed out to the pontoon where Tony Selby and his four man crew made a pretence of piping him aboard. Harding shook hands with Selby and the crew, and apologized for being late.
"We're behind anyway, Bob," said Selby. "We've had some trouble making sure we've got enough steel cable. The stuff's a pig to splice. All fixed now, though. And we've got the pontoon positioned about a metre to one side of the anomaly on the echo-sounder."
Harding examined the yellow bathyscaphe. It was resting on several builders' scaffolding planks that had been laid across the rectangular opening in the centre of the pontoon. A big, old-fashioned manual winch had been bolted to the pontoon's main framework. The winch cable was threaded through a pulley block hanging from a the "I" beam above the bathyscaphe and was secured at several points to a robust-looking steel cable harness that the huge barrel-like swimming pool filter was sitting in. He had visited Selby's plant several times to see how work was progressing but this was the first time he had seen it completed. The principal modification was the porthole-hatch whose diameter provided just enough clearance for his shoulders. As expected, the glass fibre moulding that housed the round, clear acrylic porthole had been professionally carried out and had even been painted matching yellow.
The echo-sounder's screen was shaded by a parasol. The strange triangular anomaly that he had first seen with Mike Malone was centred precisely below the bathyscaphe. The depth was unchanged at 120-metres.
"We've filled the thing with rocks equal to the weight of the car batteries that you'll have aboard," Selby explained.
There were still tasks to be completed before the test dive could begin so Harding sat on the side of the pontoon where he wouldn't be in the way. An array of car sealed beam headlights was bolted into place above the hatch. They would not be needed on the test dive, of course, but Selby wanted everything in place so that any likely problems could be dealt with. One of the crew went around the circle of wing nuts that secured the porthole, giving each one a final half-turn tighten. The ballast sacks containing rocks were hung on the circle of quick-release hooks around the girth of the bathyscaphe, the cleats that secured the winch cable to the lifting harness were checked, and everything was ready.
On a word from Selby two of the crew grasped the winch's crank handles and took up the lifting cable's slack. Two further turns of the winch was enough to take the bathyscaphe's weight off the planks. The scaffolding towers that supported the "I" beam creaked but took the load.
"Looks good," said Selby, giving everything a final visual check. "Okay. Let's go.”
Harding jumped up and helped drag the planks clear so that the bathyscaphe was hanging above the surface of the lake.
"Okay. Start letting her down. Easy does it."
The men on the winch started turning the crank handles in the reverse direction. The locking pawl made a loud clanking as it rode over the teeth on the ratchet wheel. The water rose around the bathyscaphe, supporting its weight, easing the effort required by the men on the winch. They kept turning and the bathyscaphe disappeared, much to Selby's relief; it meant that his calculations were correct and that the thing was negatively buoyant.
The men manning the winch kept turning. The white paint on the cable that was the 10 metre marker disappeared
into the depths.
20 metres... 30 metres....
The amount of cable on the main drum diminished and the winch team kept turning.
"That's halfway," Selby called out as the 60 metre marker was swallowed by the lake.
A 100-metres was paid out when all six men felt the sudden jolt that travelled up the cable and was transmitted through the pontoon. Harding's first thought was that the cable had parted but two men on the winch were struggling to hold the crank handles in check.
"Her weight's shooting up!" yelled one of the winch men.
Selby darted forward and wound on the brake. The cable held but the scaffolding supporting the "I" beam was groaning alarmingly. Harding exchanged glances with the engineer. The unspoken thought that passed between them was that something had given way under pressure and the bathyscaphe was flooding. Fortunately there was adequate reserve buoyancy in the pontoon's floatation drums to enable the structure to cope with the increased load but the now rigid cable was another matter. Selby ordered the other two men to keep clear of it. He cautiously eased the brake off and ordered the winch men to bring the bathyscaphe up. The muscles stood out on their forearms as they turned the crank handle even though the winch's reduction gearing was handling most of the load.
After five minutes steady, sweated winching the 10 metre marker appeared and finally the top of the bathyscaphe was visible just below the surface. The pontoon dipped noticeably when just a metre of the bathyscaphe was raised above the surface. Selby jumped into the water and released the ballast sacks one by one. Dropping the tonne of rocks helped ease the load on the entire rig. He pulled on a face mask, grabbed a large ring spanner and dived down to unscrew the filter housing's drainage bung. He had to return to the surface twice to gulp down air before the task was complete.
"Okay," he said, handing the bung and the spanner to Harding. "Start lifting, but slowly -- give the water time to drain out."
The Silent Vulcan Page 17
