The Silent Vulcan

by James Follett

  The spyder rattled impatiently and pressed on towards the field's entrance with Ellen and Claire dutifully following, pulling off their outer clothes. Vikki tried to follow but Himmler had other ideas. He wriggled furiously, launched himself out of the girl's grasp, and darted a little way towards the clump of trees, stopping to test the air.

  "Himmler! Come here, you naughty cat! Himmler!" Vikki started after it, making reassuring noises, that Himmler, true to the perversity of his kind, pointedly ignored.

  The spyder moved fast. It circled around and placed itself between Vikki and the spinney that Himmler was now heading for. The machine rattled furiously.

  Vikki! The command exploded in her head like a roman candle. Please follow the monitor!

  The what?

  You call it the spyder. You must follow it!

  Ellen turned and walked back to Vikki. "For God's sake leave that stupid cat alone," she said. "And you're upsetting Rin Tin Tin."

  "He hasn't got his collar," Vikki protested. "He's too far from home."

  "He'll find his way back."

  Vikki ignored Ellen, the spyder, and the imperious commands. That she could resist the Visitors if she so wished further convinced her that she had made love to Dario of her own freewill. She plunged into the woods and pulled up short when she saw the Range Rover. One leap without checking if the side window was open and Himmler was in the vehicle.

  "Himmler!" Vikki called, her first thought being that the cat may have landed on a naked and angry courting couple. She dashed up to the vehicle, ready with profuse apologies, and tripped over Malone's body.

  Her cry bought Ellen and Claire running.

  Chapter 50.

  MALONE WAS THE first to recover full consciousness. Ellen and Claire helped him to his feet. He leaned against a tree. Vikki found two bottles of water in the back of the Range Rover where Himmler was gorging himself on the contents of ham sandwiches. An attempt to get Malone to drink resulted in him turning away and being violently sick. After that he was able to drink properly and started to feel better. David sat up and held his head. Ellen insisted that he should stand. Once on his feet, he too experienced waves of nausea and was sick. Vikki looked around for the spyder but it had gone. The voice that came to her was faint.

  They are unharmed, Vikki. The gas is regulated so that just the right amount is used but only in self defence against people -- to avoid discovery or capture. It is the Law.

  "So what happened?" Ellen asked when the two men were able to speak. Malone didn't reply but felt in his pocket. He walked unsteadily to where the spyder had attacked them, found the revolver, and returned to the group gathered around the Range Rover's open tailgate. Ellen and David were in a passionate embrace. He told himself that his pang of jealousy was unreasonable: the couple had been in a long-term relationship.

  "Makes two of us," said Malone thickly when David complained about his headache. Between them the two men explained what had happened.

  "You shot the spyder?" said Vikki, shocked.

  "I remember getting in one shot at it. It was self-defence. Why? Did I hit it?"

  "You certainly did," said Ellen, including Malone in her embrace. "I don't think it can fly now."

  Malone looked around. "Where is it?"

  "Gone," said Vikki.

  "It's worrying to think that we might've upset the Visitors," David remarked when they abandoned the search. "We don't need anymore enemies."

  "You think they're friends?" said Ellen cynically.

  "Their spyder could've killed us like it killed the foxhounds," Malone pointed out, taking a long swallow from the water bottle.

  "They understand," said Vikki quietly. "They say that the spyder is repairable and that we must return to the cave without it. One of you men must hide the entrance."

  "They're too bloody fond of giving orders if you ask me," Ellen declared.

  "Christ -- orders," Malone muttered, suddenly remembering his responsibilities. He grabbed the car's microphone and gave instructions for all units on Operation Cancer to stand down.

  "So what happened to you ladies?" David asked.

  Between them the three women gave an account of their Farside adventures. They were astonished when Malone said that he had seen the incident when the sabre tooth cat had nearly attacked Vikki. "And I wasn't the only one that saw it," he added, "There was Nelson Faraday with his bloody camcorder."

  "But we were naked," said Vikki, suddenly ashamed.

  "All three of us were," Ellen commented. She shook her head and gazed at the Farside sky. "We couldn't see anything of the real world. Nothing."

  "Which is the real world?" Claire wondered. "This is," Malone replied. "And unfortunately Adrian Roscoe and his Bodian Brethren are still a part of it."

  "So you're going to return us to the cave?" said Vikki.

  Malone shook his head. "No, Vikki. I've got a better idea. He opened a door of the Range Rover. "There's room for everyone."

  Ten minutes later the Range Rover coasted silently to a standstill outside the two cottages knocked into one that was Vikki's home. Vikki was first out, clutching Himmler. She released him and stood looking at the darkened cottages, her heart pounding.

  She hadn't seen her beloved home since she had cycled to Ellen's shop for her morning job where she and Ellen had been arrested by Nelson Faraday on charges of witchcraft. A flickering light appeared inside the house in response to Malone's persistent rapping on the front door.

  "Who's that?" It was Anne Taylor's voice.

  "Mike Malone. Sorry to wake you at this hour, Mrs Taylor, but I've got an urgent delivery for you."

  "I'm sure you have. Isn't this a little sudden, Mr Malone?"

  "Open up please, Mrs Taylor."

  The bolts were slid back and the door opened. Vikki gave her mother no time to recover from the shock but threw herself into her arms. Their cries of joy quickly gave way to kisses, tears and an ecstatic mingling of blonde hair.

  For an hour worries were forgotten as the knocked-into-one cottages rang with recounted stories, breathless exclamations, repeated hugging by Vikki and Anne, with even Himmler coming in for his share of affection although he would've preferred a breakfast or two. Malone was happy at the obvious pleasure that David and Ellen showed over being reunited and accepted that the terrible events of the last month had probably strengthened the casual bond between them into something more enduring.

  An hour later Malone was sitting alone with his thoughts in Anne's modern but comfortable kitchen, its limed-oak doors and cupboards lit by several candles, listening to the excited chatter upstairs and the squeals of delight when Ellen and Claire discovered that Anne had a well-insulated tank with enough hot water left from the day's solar heating for showers. Anne compounded their pleasure when she parted with some of her precious stock of shampoo.

  The unspeakable torment that Adrian Roscoe and his deranged beliefs had inflicted on these decent people, and still intended to inflict given the chance, hardened the police officer's resolve to destroy Adrian Roscoe even if it meant coming to stark terms with Stauffenburg's dilemma.

  Then there was the sound of furniture being moved about, some more chatter, and then silence. Malone was drinking his third cup of tea when Anne entered, flushed and excited, her green eyes shining with a radiance that Malone had never seen before. Without warning, she sat herself on Malone's lap and gave him a kiss of such passion that even his customary phlegmatic demeanour took some time off. She jumped up, a little embarrassed at her impetuous gesture, and paced restlessly.

  "That was for bringing my Vikki back to me."

  Malone looked indignant.

  "Oh dear. Sorry, Mike. I've offended you."

  "Don't forget I brought Himmler back as well."

  The warmth of Anne's smile turned Malone's stomach to water. "There wasn't a reward for that damned cat," she replied. "David and Ellen are in my spare room. Claire's in with Vikki. They said to say goodnight to you -- they're all exhausted.
It suddenly hit them after their shower. They hope that you don't think they're being rude."

  "How could I after what they've been through?"

  Anne made fresh tea but couldn't settle. She went upstairs and was gone some time. Her expression was sombre when she returned. "I've just had a little chat with Vikki and Claire but they could hardly stay awake. Now they've both out like lights. Remember Benji? That huge cuddly bear I wanted you to give to Vikki? She's got him in bed with her, and that darned cat." She hesitated. "Are you sure they won't have to go back into hiding? It's the one thing that's preying on their minds."

  "Positive," said Malone emphatically.

  "Claire seems a nice girl. I've said that she can stay here as long as she wants to. She's terrified of Roscoe, but more scared of Faraday."

  Malone hesitated and began, "There's something you ought to know about her--"

  "That she's pregnant? Yes -- she told me. Vikki is, too."

  Malone was surprised. "She told you?"

  "Of course. She always was an honest, open girl."

  "She only believes she's pregnant," Malone pointed out.

  "She is. I've got a kit."

  There was a silence for a few moments because Malone was at a loss and Anne seemed disinclined to talk unless spoken to. "Has she told you the circumstances?" Malone asked at length.

  Anne nodded. "It seems my Vikki is more important to the Visitors than we imagined. So why didn't they do anything to save her when she was in real danger in Adrian Roscoe's clutches?"

  "From what little Vikki has been able to tell me, the problem for the Visitors is that she's always been in crowds. Their spyder has a self-defence mechanism -- some sort of nerve gas --as David and I found out tonight. It saw us as a threat and acted accordingly. The gas has to be carefully regulated and can only be used only against individuals posing a direct threat to itself. Which I suppose we were. Vikki says that the Visitors are governed by a strict code of ethics. They aren't allowed to harm people."

  "And what about the harm they caused Vikki with her new hand?"

  "I don't suppose they could've foreseen that," said Malone. "None of us could. They could not have seen providing her with a new, naturally grown hand as harming her."

  "Which doesn't explain why she's so important to them."

  "Communication," said Malone. "It seems that they can read our thoughts but Vikki is the only one who can answer them."

  "What have they got to communicate?"

  "Now you've got me. You seem to be taking it very well, Anne."

  "Nothing really matters so long as I've got my Vikki back." She paused and smiled wanly. "I daresay the realisation that I'll be a grandmother at 37 will hit me tomorrow."

  "We've got to talk about tomorrow," said Malone seriously. He sensed that she was about to suggest that it wait so he launched straight into an outline of his plan. She listened attentively, asked a few questions, but kept the most pertinent one until he had finished.

  "Is it dangerous?" "I'd be deceiving you and myself if I said that it wasn't. All I can promise is that I'll do everything in my power to keep the danger to the absolute minimum."

  "Have you mentioned this to Vikki and Ellen? Afterall, they're the ones who will be taking the risks -- being exposed to danger."

  Malone stood. "No. Which is why I must shoot off now to get some sleep and come back first thing to talk to them."

  "It would be sensible if you stayed here," said Anne.

  "Surely you've run out of bedrooms?"

  Anne gathered up the cups and saucers and took them to the sink. "I have," she said, her back to Malone. "But I've not run out of beds."

  There was a silence for a moment. Malone realised that he was embarrassed. He said hesitantly, "Much as I'd like to stay, Anne. I don't think it would be right. I can understand your being grateful for having Vikki returned to you but--"

  Anne turned to face him. "Oh, for God's sake acting the thick plod, Mike. Do I have to spell it out? I'm asking you to stay because I want you to stay."

  Chapter 51.

  SITTING ON THE PONTOON in middle of Pentworth Lake was the last place Roger Dayton wanted to be. But to refuse to splice Tony Selby's lengths of ropes together to make a bathyscaphe lifting rope would seem churlish and might attract suspicion if anything untoward happened. Not that anything would happen now. It was obvious that his depth-charge had leaked or the spring he had used in the hydrostatic fuse was too strong to overcome water pressure and so fire the detonator. It could be any of 101 things that had gone wrong.

  Tony Selby and his three-man crew watched in fascination as Dayton spliced the final length of rope. He enjoyed showing off his skill as he prised the heavy strands of manila hemp apart with a marlinespike, unravelled the strands and merged the two ends together, turning and plaiting the strands, interlacing them, tucking free ends deep into the rope so that they would be locked progressively tighter the greater the strain placed on the rope. Naturally he kept up a steady commentary, heaping abuse on those who didn't treat proper rope with proper respect.

  "Look at the state of it," he railed. "Bruised, scuffed, and whose idea was it to use a jubilee clip as whipping? Disgraceful bodging. Call yourself engineers?" He made some final tucks with the marlinespike. "Right -- test that."

  Having had Roger Dayton on the pontoon for over an hour `showing him the ropes', Tony Selby now knew how to tie more than a rudimentary clove hitch. How to tie a hangman's noose for Dayton's neck would've been welcome knowledge but he contained his annoyance and lashed the free end of the rope to the pontoon's structure. His two men on the winch turned the cranks to put the splice under tension. Dayton examined the splice as it tightened. The looseness in the strands pulled out and locked tight. There was no slippage. A little more tension and the the rope at the splice was reduced to the same size as the rest of the rope. A perfect 150 metre length of rope had been achieved by joining several shorter pieces together with no bulges and with hardly any use of whipping twine and seizing other than to strengthen abrasions. It was a remarkable demonstration of a disappearing craft.

  "That should do you, Mr Selby," said Dayton. "You could hang a bus from that."

  "Bloody marvellous," said Selby admiringly, inspecting the last splice.

  "Look after your rope and it'll look after you, Mr Selby. This is good rope. None of your manmade fibre rubbish. It'll last years with a little care."

  "We're very grateful, Mr Dayton."

  "Good. Glad to have been of service. If someone could row me ashore..."

  "But you must stay for the unmanned dive, Mr Dayton," Selby insisted. "Besides, I'd be happier having your amazing expertise on hand in case anything goes wrong. A lot of time and labour has gone into this thing. Mr Harding will be along soon. He's busy at Government House with final preparations for this evening's carnival, but I know he'll want to thank you personally."

  Selby's guess that Roger Dayton's ego would respond well to a little massaging proved correct; the yachtsman hesitated but agreed to stay. The unmanned test dive got off to a good start. The hemp rope was fully wound onto the winch's drum and threaded through the pulley block. It proved much easier to handle than the troublesome steel cable. The rack of lights was bolted in place on the bathyscaphe and all the equipment Bob Harding would be taking down into the depths -- tape recorder, camcorder, digital still picture camera and bottles of drinking water -- was placed aboard. There was a final test of the telephone, the porthole was closed, and everything was ready.

  Dayton helped drag the planks clear that the bathyscaphe was resting on. The winch turned and the bright yellow filter housing sank below the surface of the lake. The top remained visible until two metres of rope had been paid out and eventually it faded from sight as it dropped smoothly into the depths.

  The unmanned test dive was underway.

  The winch's pawl clanked over the rachet. No problems were encountered lowering the bathyscaphe to 50 metres -- 70 metres short of the depth needed to
reach the Silent Vulcan anomaly. Selby allowed the bathyscaphe to hang at 50 metres for five minutes, his hand resting lightly on the rope to detect any vibrations transmitted from the depths that would herald a catastrophic failure.

  "Okay," he said. "70 metres."

  The men turned the winch until the 70 metre marker on the rope passed over the pulley. They stopped turning when the marker was just above the surface. Selby waited, his hand on the rope again.

  "We'll give it five minutes," he decided.

  At the end of the five minutes the winchmen released the lock and reported that there was no apparent increase in load.

  "You can tell that just by looking at the rope," said Dayton caustically. "You really ought to learn to read your ropes, Mr Selby."

  "Okay. Let her down to 100 metres," Selby ordered.

  "Isn't the anomaly at 120 metres?" Dayton queried.

  "Our chairman wants a controlled descent with him on board for the last 20 metres," Selby replied.

  The 100 metre marker was a length of red ribbon wrapped around the rope. Lowering the bathyscaphe stopped and the winch was locked when the marker was touching the surface of the lake.

  "We'll leave it hanging for forty minutes," said Selby.

  "Why forty minutes?" Dayton wanted to know.

  "That's as long as Bob Harding will be able to stay down. The CO2 scrubber we've installed is only good for an hour. It can't handle a longer period. So forty minutes is the maximum safe period. Right -- time for tea."

  Vacuum flasks were opened and the men sat on the edge of the rectangular opening in the centre of the pontoon, drinking from mugs and plying Dayton with questions about his round-the-world voyage. He was a good talker and enjoyed spinning yarns. The number of sharks that had followed his yacht in the Red Sea increased with every telling.

  Tony Selby paid little attention but watched the red marker ribbon intently. He couldn't be certain but it seemed to him that the rope was describing a slow circle. He looked at his watch. After five minutes he was sure that the rope was indeed moving through a circle, taking just over a minute to complete a cycle. As near as he could judge, the circle the marker made on the surface was less than 20 centimetres diameter, but mentally extending that movement to what it would be 100 metres down caused the hairs to rise on the back on his neck.