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‘You’ve gone!’ he yelled to the rushing air. ‘Gone! The invisible men … That’s you and Kylie – both gone!’ The train was getting away from him. Cursing, he tried to kick more power from the labouring engines, but it was not there.
The train pulled away ahead, and he gave up trying. When he switched off the inertial beam, the wire rope was empty. Bodenland and Clift had indeed gone. He wound in the rope.
Larry’s feelings were mixed. He had had no opportunity to say anything about the quarrel with Kylie. His father had been too absorbed in this venture. His arrival had been taken for granted, to Larry’s mixed relief and disappointment. He had found Old John surrounded by vehicles and uniformed personnel from Bodenland Enterprises. The students were gone. Now the site of the two graves more resembled an armed camp than a dig.
Only now, as he headed back alone to the camp and another drink did it occur to Larry that perhaps his mother was feeling the same kind of anger with Joe as Kylie felt for him.
‘Ah, I’ll phone her in the morning, damn her,’ he said. He sensed Joe’s warmth for Kylie, and dreaded his rebuke.
Directly the beam was off them, the outside world disappeared. They clung to the train roof, and edged themselves carefully through an inspection hatch, to drop down into a small compartment.
Neither Bodenland nor Clift had any notions of what to expect. Such vague anticipations as they held were shaped by the fact that they were boarding what they had casually christened a ghost train.
There was no way in which they could have anticipated the horrific scene in which they found themselves. It defied the imagination – that is, the everyday imagination of waking life: yet it some way resembled a nightmare scene out of the writings of Edgar Allan Poe. Something in some horrible way prepared for.
They had lowered themselves into a claustrophobic little den lined with numbers of iron instruments carefully stowed in cabinets behind glass doors. Separately, scarcely a one would have been recognized for what it was by an innocent eye. Ranked together, they presented a meaning it was impossible to mistake. They were torture instruments – torture instruments of a primitive and brutal kind. Saws, presses, screws and spikes bristled behind their panes of glass, which gave back a melancholy reflection of the subdued light.
Most of the compartment was filled by a heavily scarred wooden table. Pressed against the top of the table by a complex system of bars was a naked man. Instinctively, the two men backed away from this terrifying prisoner.
His limbs were distorted by the pressure of the bars cutting into his flesh. The gag in his mouth was kept in place by a metal rod, against which his yellowed and fanglike teeth had closed.
His whole body colour was that of a drowned man. The limbs – where not flattened or swollen – were pallid, almost green, his cheeks and lips a livid white. Beyond the imprisoned wrists curled broken and bloody fingers.
His head had been shaved and was scarred, as by a carelessly wielded open razor. A purple line had been drawn round the equator of his head, above his eyebrows.
Bodenland and Clift took a moment to realize that the prisoner was living still. Dull though his eyes were, he made a stir, the fangs in the flattened mouth clicked as if ravenous against their containing bar, the limbs trembled, one oedematous foot twitched.
Clift started to retch.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘We should never have come.’
Bodenland would say nothing. They edged round the table. The fish gaze of the victim on the table followed them, eyeballs palely bulging.
Twisting an unfamiliar type of latch on the door, they moved out into a corridor. Bodenland covered his eyes and face with a broad hand.
‘I’m sorry I got you into this, Bernie.’
The corridor was even darker than the torture compartment. No sense of movement reached them, though every now and again the corridor swerved, challenging their balance, as if it was rounding a bend at speed.
No windows gave to the outside world. At intervals, glass doors led to compartments set on the left of the corridor as they progressed.
Inside these compartments, dark and dreary, sat immobile figures, their bodies half embedded in moulded seating. The whole ambience was of something antique and underground, such as a long forgotten Egyptian tomb, in which the spirits of the dead were confined. The mouldings of the heavy wooden doors, the elaborate panelling, all suggested another age: yet the tenebrous scene was interspersed by tiny glitters at every doorway, where a panel of indicators kept up a code of information.
The men moved down the corridor, and came to an unoccupied compartment, into which they hastened with some relief. They shut themselves in, but could find no lock for the door.
‘We didn’t come armed,’ Bodenland said, with regret.
When their eyes had adjusted to the dimness, they saw plush mummy-shaped recesses in which to sit. Once seated, they had in front of them a control touch-panel – electronic but clearly of another age, and made from a material fatty in appearance. Bodenland started to fiddle with the controls.
‘Joe – suppose you summon someone …’
‘We can’t just sit around like passengers.’
He began to stab systematically with his middle finger.
A lid shot up like an eyelid on the wall facing them, and a VDU lit. Colours flowed hectically, then a male face snapped into view, a heavy aquiline face that looked as if it had been kept in deep freeze. Seeming to press its nose against the glass screen, it opened its mouth and said, ‘Agents of Group 16, prepare to leave for —— Agents of Group 16.’
‘Where did he say?’ asked Clift.
‘Never heard of the place. How come we can’t see through this window?’ Bodenland ran his hand over a series of pressure plates. The window on his left hand turned transparent. It was barred, but permitted a distorted view of the outside world in tones of grey. With this view, a sense of movement returned; they could see what looked like uncultivated prairie flashing by.
And at the same time, phantasmal figures, looking much attenuated, drifted from the train, to land on a grass mound they were passing.
‘There go the agents of Group 16,’ commented Bodenland. ‘Whoever the hell they are.’
The train then appeared to gather speed again.
More investigation of the control panel brought forth from its socket a small terrestrial globe. A thread-thin trace light revealed what they could only believe was their course, heading north-west. But the continents were subtly changed. Florida had extended itself to enclose the Caribbean. Hudson Bay did not exist. Indications were that the train was now crossing what should have been the waters of Hudson Bay; all that could be seen were forests and undulating savannah lands.
Numerals flashed across the VDU. Clift pointed to them with some excitement. He seemed to have recovered from his shock of fear.
‘Read those figures, Joe. They could be calibrated in millions of years. They certainly aren’t speeds or latitudes.’
‘You think that’s where we are – or when we are? Not simply moving through distance, but some time before Hudson Bay was formed …’
‘Before Hudson Bay … and when the climate was milder … In a forgotten epoch of some early inter-glacial … Is it possible?’
Bodenland said, ‘So we’re travelling on – a time train! Bernard, what wonderful luck!’
Clift looked at him in surprise. ‘Luck? Who knows where we’re heading? More to the point, who controls the train?’
‘We’ll have to control the train, Bernie, old sport, that’s who.’
As he rose, a last group of zombie figures could be seen to leave the train, drifting like gossamer with outspread arms, to land safely among tall grasses and fade into night.
At which point, the train swerved suddenly eastwards, throwing Bodenland back into his seat. The thread indicator also turned eastwards, maintaining latitude. The electronic numbers on the screen diminished rapidly.
‘Well, that’s something,’ Clift said. ‘We’re coming nearer to the present instead of disappearing into the far past. If our theory’s right.’
‘Let’s move. There must be a cab or similar up front.’
As they rose, the aquiline face returned to their VDU.
‘Enemy agents boarded the train at Point 656. They must be terminated. Believed only two in number. They must be terminated. Group 3 also organize death-strikes against their nearest and dearest.’
‘Hell,’ said Clift. ‘You heard that. We have to get off this thing.’
‘You want to jump? I don’t like this either, but our best hope is to try and hijack the train, if that’s possible.’
‘And get ourselves killed?’
‘Let’s hope that won’t be necessary. Come on.’
He opened the door. The corridor appeared empty. After only a moment’s hesitation, he eased himself through the door. Clift followed.
Larry had bought himself a big white cowboy hat in Enterprise, after taking a few drinks in a bar. He drove in his hired car back to the Old John site.
The change in three days, since the news of the strange grave had been given to the world, was dramatic. There was no way in which the Bodenland security force could keep everyone away. As Bodenland had predicted, the world had descended on this quiet south-west corner of Utah. The media were there in force, not only from all over the States but from Europe, Japan, the Soviet Union, and elsewhere. Hustlers, hucksters, and plain sightseers rubbed shoulders. Big mobile diners had rolled in from St George and Cedar City, bars had been set up. It was like a gold rush. Chunks of plain rock were selling fast.
Temporary TV studios had been established, comfort stations, mobile chapels, all kinds of refreshment stalls and marquees. The actual digs were barricaded off and protected by state police.
Larry made his way through the thick traffic, yelling cheerfully to other drivers out of the window as he went. Once he had parked, he fought his way through to the trailer he had hired.
There Kylie was awaiting him, her fair hair capturing the sun.
She threw her arms round him. ‘I’ve been here all day. Where’ve you been?’
‘I was drowning my sorrows in Enterprise.’
‘You got a girl there?’
‘I ain’t that enterprising. Listen, Kylie, forgive me, sweet. I shouldn’t have walked out on you as I did, and I’ve felt bad ever since.’
She was happy to hear him say it.
‘We were both too hasty.’ She stuck her tongue in his mouth.
‘Come on the bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you how I feel about you. I’ve had three days here, kicking my heels and feeling bad.’
‘Bed later. I got in this morning with Mina. I flew to Dallas and she flew me here in her plane.’
‘That old Bandierante? It’ll fall to pieces in the air one day.’
‘Come and see her. She’s worried crazy about Joe. You’ll have to tell her – and me – exactly where he is and what happened.’
He made a face, but was in no mood to argue.
The Bandierante was the plane from which Mina Legrand liked to sky-dive. She had left it on an improvised landing field on the edge of the desert, five miles away. She had paid over the odds for a rusty old Chevvy in order to be mobile. They caught up with her in a mess of traffic on what had become Old John’s main street. Mina had climbed out of the car to argue more effectively with a cop trying to control the flow of automobiles, one of which had, perhaps inevitably, broken down.
She turned an angry face to her son.
‘And where have you been? What have you done with your father?’
He explained how Joe and Clift had disappeared in the inertial beam. There was every reason to believe that by that means they had managed to get aboard the train.
‘And where are they now?’ she snapped.
‘Look, lady,’ said the cop, ‘now it’s you holding up the traffic flow.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ she snapped.
‘I been here three days, Mom. Three days and three nights I waited in the desert by our flags,’ Larry said. ‘No sign of anything.’
‘You’re as big an idiot as your father.’
‘Gee, thanks, Mom. I’m not responsible. You’re responsible – you made the news announcement.’
‘When have you ever been responsible! What you think, Kylie?’
Ever tactful, Kylie advised her mother-in-law to take things easy, shower, and maybe do a little sky-diving, since she had her plane. Joe could surely look after himself.
‘Well, I’m just worried crazy,’ Mina said. ‘You’ll find me in the Moonlite Motel in Enterprise if you want me. I can’t face going back to Dallas.’
‘Dallas, anywhere, lady,’ said the cop. ‘Just get moving, will you, please?’
Mina jumped into the driving seat and accelerated sharply, bashing another automobile as she left.
The cop glared at Larry as if he was responsible.
‘Thanks for your help, officer,’ Larry said.
5 (#ulink_d088f071-cceb-51a1-bde0-96d9223707ae)
The institution stood in parkland, remote from the town. It was four storeys tall, all its windows were barred, and many whitewashed in addition. With its acres of slate roof, it presented a flinty and unyielding appearance.
If its front facade had a Piranesi-like grandeur, the rear of the building was meagre, cluttered with laundries, boiler-rooms, stores for coal and clinker, and a concrete exercise yard, like a prison. In contrast was the ruin of an old abbey standing some way behind the asylum. Only the ivy-clad tower, the greater part of a chapel, with apse and nave open to the winds, remained. The once grand structure had been destroyed by cannon-fire at the time of Cromwell. Nowadays, its crypt was occasionally used by the institution as a mortuary, particularly when – as not infrequently happened – an epidemic swept through the wards and cells.
At this time of year, in late summer, the ivy on the ruin was in flower, to be visited by bees, wasps and flies in great profusion. Inside the institution, where the prevailing colour was not green but white and grey, there was but one visitor, a ginger man stylishly dressed, with hat and cane.
This visitor followed Doctor Kindness down a long corridor, the chilly atmosphere and echoing flagstones of which had been expressly designed to emphasize the unyielding nature of the visible world. Dr Kindness smoked, and his visitor followed the smoke trail humbly.
‘It’s good of you to pay us a second visit,’ said Dr Kindness, in a way that suggested he meant the opposite of what he said. ‘Have you a special medical interest in the subject of venereal disease?’
‘Er – faith, no, sir. It’s just that I happen to be in the theatrical profession and am at present engaged in writing a novel, for which I need a little first-hand information. On the unhappy subject of … venereal disease …’
‘You’ve come to the right place.’
‘I hope so indeed.’ He shivered.
The doctor wore his habitual blood-stained coat. His visitor wore hairy green tweeds with a cloak flung over them, and tugged nervously at his beard as they proceeded.
During their progress, a lanky woman in a torn nightshirt rushed out from a door on their right hand. Her grey staring eyes were almost as wide as her open mouth, and she uttered a faint stuttering bird cry as she made what appeared to be a bid for freedom.
Freedom was as strictly forbidden as alcohol or fornication in this institution. Two husky young attendants ran after her, seized hold of her by her arms and emaciated body, and dragged her backwards, still stuttering, into the ward from which she had escaped. The door slammed.
By way of comment, Dr Kindness waved his meerschaum in the general direction of the ceiling, then thrust it back into his mouth and gripped it firmly between his teeth, as if minded to give a bite or two elsewhere.
They came to the end of the corridor. Dr Kindness halted in a military way.
